After the incident with my father—and an undeniably embarrassing scolding from my mother—the days that followed passed by without much change. The only real difference lay in the knowledge I had received: some from Miss Mary and the rest from my mother. As the days continued, I found both my power and my sense of self steadily growing.
The most fascinating part of each day was when I had the chance to train with my essence. By now, I had learned four spells, each one unique and demanding in its own way. Naming them made it easier to remember and connect with them, so I gave each one a name of its own.
The first spell I ever created was Light Bolt. It holds a special place in my heart because of how easily I can cast it now. It was the first step into a larger world. The second spell is Central Sight. This one enhances my senses, allowing me to perceive essence energy itself. The first time I activated it, I was nearly overwhelmed. I discovered that essence wasn't just in living beings—it was everywhere. The sheer presence of it was almost too much to process, so I don't activate the spell very often. It's powerful, but not something I can comfortably use without preparation.
My third spell is Magnes Shield, a defensive spell that forms a barrier made entirely out of concentrated essence energy. It's saved me more than once during training, and I'm becoming more proficient with it every day. Then, there's the most recent and perhaps the most difficult spell I've learned so far: Arcane Ray. This one wasn't self-taught. I learned it from a book, one of many kept in the vast library within our home. Unlike the other spells, this one required me to compress and control my essence in a way I had never done before. It sounded simple on paper, but in reality, it was far more complicated than I had imagined. I struggled with it at first and eventually had to seek help from my mother, Lenea.
To my surprise, my mother was quite adept at casting spells—far more controlled and precise than my father. Her guidance was essential in helping me successfully cast Arcane Ray for the first time. Her calm presence and deep understanding of essence manipulation made her a far better teacher in that regard. My father had always been more chaotic, less refined in his approach.
Elren, while knowledgeable, was less helpful when it came to direct guidance. He reminded me more of a walking encyclopedia than an actual mentor. He provided the basics, sure—but beyond that, he offered little personal help. Still, his information had its place, and I appreciated it for what it was.
So here I am now—my power growing, my spells becoming more refined, and the world of essence slowly unfolding before me, piece by piece.
Beyond all I've come to understand about essence, I've also uncovered a fair amount about the Kingdom of Liria, the closest nation to Vender Village. Liria is a nation known far and wide for its diplomatic nature and refined sensibilities. Unlike many of its neighbors, Liria favors negotiation, trade alliances, and cultural exchange over displays of military strength or conquest. Its influence stems not from the force of arms but from its mastery of commerce, culture, and diplomacy.
The kingdom's political structure is an intriguing blend of monarchy and mercantile power. At the heart of its governance lies the Merchant Council—a powerful body composed of the wealthiest and most influential traders, guildmasters, and financiers in the realm. Their authority often rivals that of the monarch, creating a dynamic balance of power. Decisions that shape the kingdom's economy, foreign trade agreements, and internal policy are frequently swayed not by royal decree alone but through the influence and consensus of this Council.
Despite this, the monarchy still holds significant sway. The current ruler of Liria is King Alvian Theros, a sovereign well-regarded for his wisdom and charisma. He is often praised for maintaining a peaceful coexistence between the royal lineage and the ever-expanding influence of the merchant class. His reign has seen relative prosperity, and under his guidance, Liria has become a beacon of stability and culture.
Culturally, Liria thrives in ways few other nations can rival. The kingdom is renowned for its vibrant artistic community, where painters, sculptors, playwrights, and musicians are not only celebrated but often patronized by wealthy merchants and nobility alike. The streets of its major cities are alive with color and movement, from elaborate murals and bustling galleries to the captivating sounds of music and performance that spill from every open plaza.
Perhaps most enchanting are Liria's festivals. Held frequently throughout the year, these celebrations are colorful, energetic, and deeply rooted in both tradition and innovation. During these events, the streets transform into stages for dancers, fire-breathers, illusionists, and magical performers. Each festival has its own unique theme and origin, yet all share a sense of unity and wonder that captivates citizens and travelers alike. It's during these times that the true spirit of Liria—its joy, creativity, and hospitality—shines brightest.
Trade, as one would expect from a nation ruled in part by merchants, is at the core of Lirian life. Exotic bazaars wind through the cities like veins of commerce, brimming with rare goods, spices, silks, and curiosities brought from every corner of the world. One could spend an entire day wandering the stalls and still find something new with each turn. Here, deals are struck over cups of spiced tea, fortunes are made, and reputations are earned. These markets aren't just centers of commerce—they are places where cultures meet, stories are shared, and ideas are exchanged.
As I continued to learn more about the world surrounding Vender Village, I also began to understand how time is measured here. Interestingly, it follows a system almost identical to that of Earth. A single day is divided into 24 hours, and the calendar consists of 12 months per year. The only notable difference is the current year: it is 5023 in this world. Whether this count began with a significant historical event or a calendar reset is still unclear to me, but it gives an impression of a long and possibly rich historical record.
Currency, much to my surprise, is simpler than I initially imagined. The standard form of money used throughout the known world is a coin called the cerda. What makes this currency straightforward is its reliance on material to determine value. So far, I've encountered cerda made of copper, silver, and gold. Each material represents a clear tier of worth, with copper cerda being the least valuable and gold cerda the most. It's quite possible that coins made of rarer or enchanted materials exist and carry even greater value, but for now, gold stands at the top of the standard currency hierarchy.
This simplicity makes transactions relatively easy to understand, even across regions. Prices may vary from place to place, but the intrinsic value of the materials helps maintain a form of consistency that transcends borders.
Elyon was packing a small bag, carefully placing inside it pieces of dried meat, string, and a few other necessities. His movements were deliberate but quick—he wanted to be ready.
"I think that's all for the hunt," he thought, tightening the bag's flap. "I should go see if Dad is ready or not."
He fastened the bag around his waist and stepped out of his room into the living area. There, he found his father seated near the hearth, polishing a steel sword with a calm, practiced focus. The blade gleamed faintly in the light, each movement of the cloth across it methodical and full of quiet purpose.
As Elyon entered, his father glanced up and turned his head toward him.
"You ready, son?" Richard asked, his voice steady.
Elyon gave a small nod in response.
"Alright then, let's go," said Richard, rising to his feet. He slid the polished sword into the hilt at his side, adjusted it slightly, and started toward the door.
Elyon followed without hesitation as they stepped out of the house and into the open air, making their way toward the forest that bordered their village. The morning was cool, with just a whisper of wind moving through the grass.
As they walked side by side, Elyon's mind drifted. "Today, my father said we were going on a hunt," he thought to himself. "It's a bit unexpected, especially knowing how much my mother tries to keep me out of danger. Still... this is something I've been looking forward to. This surely is going to go well... I hope."
Before long, their boots crunched against the dried leaves and twigs scattered along the edge of the woods. They had reached Drywood Forest.
Drywood Forest stood quiet, yet alive, its tall, leafless trees swaying gently in the morning breeze. The sun filtered weakly through the thinning canopy, casting long, shifting shadows across the ground. Despite the name, the forest wasn't completely dead—here and there, clusters of evergreens provided patches of color, and the rustling underbrush hinted at small creatures darting about unseen.
Richard took the lead, his eyes sharp and focused. He moved with quiet confidence, each step avoiding twigs or dry leaves that might snap beneath his boots. Elyon followed close behind, trying to mimic his father's movements as best he could. Every few steps, Richard would glance over his shoulder to check Elyon's posture, sometimes correcting him with a simple hand gesture or a barely audible word.
"Stay low," Richard whispered at one point. "You move like a squirrel."
Elyon gave a slight nod, though deep down, a retort stirred in his mind. And you move like an old man who needs crutches, he thought, barely resisting the urge to smirk. He didn't dare say it out loud, of course—not unless he wanted a lecture that lasted longer than the hunt itself.
They moved on, slipping through the underbrush in silence. The deeper they went into Drywood, the thicker the trees grew, their gnarled roots curling above the forest floor like ancient, frozen serpents. Eventually, they passed beneath a crumbling stone archway—its edges worn smooth by time and covered in creeping moss. Vines dangled from the upper stones, swaying gently with the wind. Elyon made a mental note of the landmark. It was easy to get lost in Drywood, and anything that stood out could mean the difference between finding your way home or wandering in circles for hours.
After several minutes of quiet, Richard suddenly lifted a hand, signaling for Elyon to stop. Elyon obeyed immediately, freezing in place. He glanced at his father, then followed his gaze toward a clearing just ahead.
That's when he saw them.
Two wolves—only they weren't normal wolves. Not even close.
They stood low to the ground, alert and still. Their fur was dark charcoal-gray, but it wasn't flat or dull. It shimmered faintly, threaded with ember-like streaks that pulsed with a soft, molten glow. The streaks lit up slowly, fading and flaring like the last coals in a dying fire. Their eyes burned with a deep, molten orange, and when one of them let out a low growl, Elyon saw wisps of smoke curl out from between its bared teeth. Even more striking were their paw prints—wherever they stepped, the ground sizzled faintly, leaving behind scorched impressions in the dry leaves and soil.
Elyon's breath caught in his throat. These were no ordinary forest beasts.
Richard crouched down beside him, lowering his voice to just above a breath. "Those are Emberfangs," he said, his eyes never leaving the wolves. "Born in volcanoes—but they migrate to colder regions during specific times of the year."
Elyon nodded, still watching in awe. The Emberfangs hadn't noticed them yet—or if they had, they weren't showing any signs of aggression.
"They're not usually hostile unless provoked," Richard continued. "If you don't mess with them, they won't mess with you."
He paused, his tone growing just a little more serious.
"Well… that's true for the most part."
Elyon swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how loud his own heartbeat felt. He looked again at the wolves, who had now turned slightly, sniffing the air. The light in their fur flared a little brighter, casting flickering shadows across the trees.
Emberfangs, Elyon repeated silently in his mind. He had only ever read the name once, in one of Elren's old bestiaries—but seeing them in the flesh was something else entirely.
The tension in the air was thick. Neither Richard nor Elyon moved a muscle. The wolves lingered for a moment longer, then slowly turned and padded away, disappearing into the brush, their glowing trails fading with them.
Only when they were completely out of sight did Richard finally rise from his crouch.
"Come on," he said, glancing down at Elyon. "Let's keep moving. Carefully."
Elyon nodded again and followed, his mind still racing from what he'd just seen.
But them they heared a
Roar