Larin worked quickly, his hands steady despite the exhaustion gnawing at his body. His weapons were beyond repair. The Whispering Carbine, once his most trusted companion, was scorched and dented, its mana circuits barely functional. His machete, bent and chipped beyond recognition, was now nothing more than a relic of past battles. He had to replace them.
He began with the bow. Guns were too noisy, too extravagant. He required something that worked in silence, something that would not betray his position. A bow was the best option. However, it was more than just a weapon. It had to be a part of himself, an extension of his will.
He searched the surrounding land, his senses stretched through the Sinlung Resonance to seek out the appropriate materials. He found himself at a grove where the Ironbark trees stood, their ancient trunks dark and knotted. He pressed a hand against one of them, feeling the slow pulse of mana within its fibers. It was strong, flexible, perfect for the bow's frame.
With meticulous care, he cut a share of the wood, saying his gratitude to the tree for stealing its strength. He went in search of Whispervine, a scarce, fibrous vine that tightly stretches. The strands were ideal for the bowstring: taut but flexible.
He sat there through the night, forming the bow from the wood and chiseling in the limbs, carving those runes into intricate designs, stiffening the grip. The Whispervine strands took him some time to properly weave them into a string, but after he attached it, he felt that the bow vibrated with energy.
Then, he made a dao, a sword with a very slightly curved, blunt-tipped edge. That was the ideal sword his ancestors used. He gathered Obsidian Shardstone from a nearby rock formation; the edges of it were naturally sharp and quite hard. The handle was carved from the same Ironbark as the bow, wrapped in mana-threaded cloth for grip. He infused the blade with a minor reinforcement spell so that it would not break under pressure.
The final addition was a gourd. A simple thing, but crucial. He hollowed out a strong Sandroot Gourd, lining the inside with Verdant Wax to preserve its contents. Inside, he placed his Sinlung Mix, a concoction of herbs known for invoking Sinlung's will. It could be used in rituals, emergency healing, or even enhancing spells when needed.
By the time he finished, dawn was breaking, the sky painted in streaks of deep orange and pale gold. Larin wiped sweat from his brow and exhaled slowly. His new weapons felt right in his hands, balanced, ready.
Oakenna approached, her usual serene expression softer than usual. "You've worked all night."
Larin nodded, adjusting the straps on his pack. "No time to waste."
She studied him for a moment before offering a rare smile. "You are determined. But do not rush toward death."
Larin smirked. "I don't plan to."
They exchanged their goodbyes, he pressed a tele-rune into Oakenna's palm. "Use it. If you need anything. More so to update me, please."
"I will."
And with that, he took off.
Larin moved through the trees, each step carrying him forward with practiced ease. He used [Gliding Step], pushing himself to cast the spell without magic circles, forcing his body to memorize the technique. It was slower, more draining, but necessary. If he wanted to master spellcasting without circles, he had to commit it to instinct.
The land was eerily silent. It wasn't the stillness of untouched wilderness but rather the silence that precedes a storm. As if the earth itself prepared for what was about to unfold, birds were mute, and the wind held its breath and pushed against his skin. War had marred this place, and it felt the blood soon to be shed.
And by dusk, he made the rim of Fogspine Pass. The familiar land revolted against him. This was it; where the whole had started. Where Gunan and Voro had perished. Where war had finally set its fangs in him.
He did not hesitate for a breath before pressing on.
The thought nagged at him—what had happened to the warship he had taken down? He had never seen its remains. It should have left a massive wreck in the landscape. His curiosity overpowered his hesitation, and he changed course, heading toward where he believed it had crashed.
The wreckage was not far.
The warship had left a deep crater, twice his height and stretching wider than a section of Tlangthar's Great Square. The sheer destruction should have been raw and exposed, but instead, the land had already begun to reclaim it. Vines and moss crept along the shattered hull, trees stretched their roots toward the twisted metal as if eager to bury the remnants of battle. Sinlung had moved quickly here, swallowing the remains of war with eerie speed.
Larin leapt down into the crater, his boots crunching against debris. The ship had been looted, its inner workings dismantled. No doubt the War Council had salvaged what they could. Still, he combed through the remains, checking for anything overlooked.
A broken insignia caught his eye.
It was unmistakably Auquan. The symbol of House Seafoam.
His gut twisted. He had known it, had suspected it, but seeing the proof with his own eyes felt like being doused in ice water.
House Seafoam had been complicit in this.
Myrith. Lysara.
Had they known? Had they been a part of it?
His fingers clenched around the insignia before he forced himself to release it. Now was not the time for doubts. He had a mission.
He scaled the crater's edge and set off again.
His next destination: the Border Fort.
He moved faster now, driven by a new urgency. Kirat's forces were advancing, and the fort needed every defender it could get. He would offer his skills, his knowledge. He would do what he had to.
As he traveled, his mind worked through everything he had seen. The warship, the insignia, the way Sinlung had devoured the wreckage. The land was resisting, just as the people were. Nature did not bend easily, and neither did Xiaxo.
Halfway through his journey, he met several people. Moving in groups of 50-100 and sometimes even more, people were carrying what they could. They had huge makeshift backpacks carrying their valuables with cages for their jungle fowl and xiaxoan warthogs, they were rugged, Velvet Mithun pulled carts which carried important family momentoes and shrines.
Larin dropped by to check up on them and their situation.