Her enthusiasm deflated, however, when the owner, a kindly old gnome with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, informed her they were out of stock.
He peered at his inventory list, muttering about supply chain issues and the recent surge in popularity magic literature. "But," he offered, his eyes twinkling, "I believe 'Pages & Parchment' over on Spinner's Lane might have a copy. And there's always 'Inkwell & Quill' om the opposite side of Central Street."
Against the gnome's advice – he'd seen the determined glint in her eye and suspected a wild goose chase – Sarah set off. Spinner's Lane was a winding, cobblestoned alleyway, and "Pages & Parchment" turned out to be a cramped, chaotic shop overflowing with scrolls and tomes.
After a frantic search, she emerged empty-handed, the scent of dust and disappointment clinging to her. "Inkwell & Quill" proved equally fruitless. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet, as Sarah trudged back to "The Book Nook," a gnawing frustration building inside her.
Defeated, she returned to the gnome, who greeted her with a sympathetic smile. "No luck, eh? I rather suspected as much." Sarah sighed. "I'll just order it," she said, resigned. It felt strangely old-fashioned, placing an order in this age of instant magical communication, but even on Ciria, some things still required patience. The gnome, Barnaby, chuckled. "Good choice. It'll should be here by the end of next week."
With the Runic Formations issue situation resolved, at least for now, Sarah turned her attention back to her training. The evening found her in the glade, a small clearing just outside the city walls, where she was practicing her combat skills against a goblin. Days of relentless practice had honed her reflexes and instincts.
Her "boostsled stats," as she jokingly called them – a combination of magically enhanced speed, strength, and stamina – felt less like an augmentation and more like a natural extension of herself. She moved with a fluid grace, her movements a blur of motion as she dispatched goblin after goblin. Each blow a testament to her dedication.
The mana manipulation books she’d picked up earlier, Mana and How to Move It and Shaping Mana, lay waiting in her ring. She'd delve into their secrets soon, eager to understand the essence of mana and, more importantly, how to channel it, specifically without her death element, into something… More explosive.
The thought of finally casting a fireball, a staple of every aspiring mage’s repertoire, flickered in her mind, a spark of anticipation the guttural cries of dying goblins.
Death's Epiphany, the latest Unique Skill earned through her latest title, "Necromancing Till I Die," remained stubbornly dormant. Its description promised a stat absorption effect, a tantalizing boost to her already formidable abilities. Yet, despite the grim moniker, it hadn't absorbed a single stat point.
The skill boasted a measly 10% success rate, a figure Sarah had since mentally dismissed as overly optimistic. Perhaps it was a matter of prey? Goblins, the staple of her recent extermination efforts, were hardly known for their robust stat pools. Maybe Death's Epiphany required a more… Substantial offering.
The thought was still swirling in her mind when the ambush occurred. In a rare patch of the landscape where a few yellow trees dared to reach for the sky, three figures materialized from the shadows. At first glance, Sarah’s battle-honed instincts registered them as more goblins.
They were swathed in rough, homespun cloth from head to toe, effectively obscuring any distinguishing features. This lack of exposed skin, a detail she’d subconsciously cataloged, triggered her pre-emptive strike. Years of military training, sharpened by days of relentless vigilance, screamed danger.
The first ambusher went down before he even knew what hit him. He was right behind Sarah when she spun, a whirlwind of controlled violence. Her right hook connected with a sickening crunch, a spray of crimson and white marking the violent end of his assault. Teeth, dislodged and grotesque, tumbled onto the dusty ground.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through Sarah. Finally, she thought, a real test. She'd sparred with colleagues, simulated scenarios, honed her skills against training dummies. Now she'd had to go through that all over again and was at the last hurdle. These were real opponents, driven by real malice. A thrill, dark and exhilarating, sparked within her. Until she used (Identify).
A flicker of confusion creased her brow. The lower-level Cultist, thirteen, was flagged as slightly dangerous, while the level fifteen was deemed not dangerous. What twisted logic was that? Was it to do with skills? Class? Some unseen buff? She didn't have time to decipher the system’s quirks.
The fact that both cultists outleveled her gave Sarah pause, but her own stats, inflated by her hard-to-read titles, whispered promises of parity. Combine that with her rigorous military training, the lingering high from her previous encounter, and a potent cocktail of confidence, and the system's assessments seemed correct. She didn't understand the underlying algorithm, but the danger ratings felt instinctively right.
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The first Cultist lunged. He brandished a crude, serrated knife, its edge jagged and dull, more suited for butchering livestock than ritual sacrifice. He charged with a feral snarl, spittle flying from his lips, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
Sarah found the attack… Odd. He moved more like a goblin than a follower of some dark, mystical cult. His posture was hunched, his movements jerky and unpredictable, lacking any semblance of training or discipline.
Weren't cultists supposed to be spellcasters, weavers of dark magic, whispering arcane incantations and summoning eldritch horrors? This brutish, almost primal aggression seemed incongruous, a jarring note in the symphony of villainy she’d expected. It was a puzzle she’d have to solve later, assuming she survived this encounter.
A swift side step, a practiced disarming technique involving a sharp twist of the wrist, and a wounded cultist later, his pride more than his body, Sarah assessed the remaining opponents. The first one was... potentially dead. The second lay groaning on the ground, clutching his now-useless knife, his snarl replaced by whimpers.
The third Cultist, level thirteen, was definitely a mage. The wand in his hand, crafted from what looked like polished bone and etched with glowing runes, pulsed with barely contained power. He was the one the system classified as "slightly dangerous," a designation that had Sarah’s hackles raised despite her initial amusement at the first cultist’s clumsy attack. He stood back, away from the melee, his eyes fixed on Sarah, a flicker of something that might have been fear, or perhaps just concentration, in their depths.
Sarah watched as mana, an almost visible energy, gathered around his wand. She saw it coalescing in shimmering motes, like tiny stars trapped in an invisible net, as a notification rang in her mind. She was too absorbed to read it. The air around the wand shimmered, distorting the light, as if a heat haze was rising from it. The motes of mana swirled faster, brighter, converging on the tip of the wand.
Too distracted by the sheer, breathtaking beauty of magic being cast before her very eyes – the intricate dance of energy, the subtle shifts in the air, the sheer wonder of it – Sarah all but missed her opportunity to dodge. She was so captivated by the spectacle that the warning bells in her mind were almost drowned out by her fascination.
The fireball erupted from the wand with a roar, a blazing sphere of energy. Sarah barely leapt out of the way, the heat of the passing fireball singeing the edge of her clothes and leaving a faint smell of burnt hair in the air. The ground where she had been standing moments before was now scorched black.
The near miss, the searing heat that had brushed against her, jolted Sarah back to brutal reality. This wasn’t some staged performance; it was a desperate, chaotic fight for survival. And this bizarre collection of cultists, however ragtag and disorganized, was clearly dangerous. They had to be taken seriously.
Even as she regained her footing, a part of her was still captivated. Magic in Ciria had been a rare and fleeting thing in her experience. Ariel’s dismissals of unruly trial challengers came to mind, bursts of controlled power, but this… this was raw, untamed. The fireball, a blazing orange sphere that had split the air, instantly claimed the top spot on her personal “Cool as Fuck” list.
It was so captivating that she almost missed the second one. A man casually hurling fireballs was not an everyday occurrence, even in a world where magic was supposed to exist. It was mesmerizing.
The novelty, however, began to wear thin. Either the cultist’s aim was atrocious, even for someone in a supposed state of magical fervor, or he’d simply exhausted his mana reserves. The fireballs stopped coming, and with their cessation, logic crashed back into Sarah’s mind. Why? Why were they attacking her? Did they somehow know she was a Necromancer? No. She’d been meticulous in concealing her class.
Frustration simmered. She needed answers, and she was going to get them. The cultist whose pride she’d wounded more than his flesh was still sprawled on the ground, the crude knife protruding from his shoulder. He hadn't dared to remove it. Probably for the best, she thought grimly.
The other cultist, the one who’d been so free with the fire, was caught in a whirlwind of indecision. He fidgeted, the knife clutched in his trembling hand. Should he charge, a pathetic goblin imitation, or flee?
Sarah decided for him. My turn.
Exploding forward with a speed she wouldn’t have believed possible just days ago, Sarah channeled (Form of the Necromancer). The surge of dark energy coursing through her veins amplified her strength. She felt a thrill, a dangerous exhilaration, as her attack power surged by 75%.
Her roundhouse kick was a blur, a symphony of deadly grace and raw power. It connected with the cultist’s jaw with a sickening crack. He didn’t just fly backwards; he was launched, a human projectile disappearing into the twilight like poorly rendered villains from everyone's favourite Sunday morning cartoon.
Sarah stood there, momentarily stunned by the sheer force of her own attack. The wounded cultist stared, silent, his whimpering ceased, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief. The dead cultist, of course, remained eloquently silent. They had attacked her, ambushed her without provocation. And now, she wanted answers.
She stalked towards the remaining cultist, her shadow falling over him like a storm cloud. He shrank under her gaze, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. He fell to his knees, bowing his head in abject terror.
"Please," he whimpered, his voice cracking. "Please, have mercy."
Sarah stopped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The surge of power was fading, leaving her feeling strangely empty. She looked down at the cowering figure, the fear radiating from him in waves.
"Mercy?" she echoed, her voice low and dangerous. "You attacked me. You tried to kill me."
He nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face. "We… We thought you were… someone else?"
"Someone else?" Sarah’s eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"The… The Seeker," he stammered. "He told us she would be coming. A… A powerful sorceress. We were supposed to… To stop her."
That's me, right?
The Seeker. The name was unfamiliar. But the implication was clear. They’d attacked her. Even if they thought she was someone else, someone they feared. Someone they were actively hunting. The pieces clicked into place. This wasn’t a random attack; it wasn't a case of mistaken identity. The Cultist just wasn't clever enough to make up a lie on the spot. But that didn’t excuse his actions.
Sarah took a deep breath, trying to control the rage that still simmered within her. "Tell me everything," she said, her voice hard. "Everything you know about... The Seeker. And everything you know about why you were ordered to kill her and who have the order." The cultist, his face pale and streaked with tears, began to talk. And as he spoke, Sarah knew that this was just the beginning. This was far bigger than a simple ambush. She had stumbled into something dangerous, something that reached far beyond these three pathetic little men. And the answers she'd sought were far more terrifying than she could ever imagine.