Chapter 120
The guards moved,
Three of them, all at the Iron stage, their Mana dense. Their weapons were drawn: a club wrapped in worn leather, a short sword with notches along the blade, a pair of brass knuckles that gleamed in the dim light of the slave house.
Aris's Ore Senses painted them in sharp relief: the flicker of killing intent, the subtle shift of weight, the way their Mana synchronized not quite coordinated, but experienced.
The first guard—the one with the short sword—was faster than the others. His blade came in a low arc, aimed at Aris's legs, meant to cripple rather than kill. But the angle was wrong. Aris's Ore Senses caught it a heartbeat before the strike—a feint. The real attack was coming high.
[Wind Spell: Swift Edge]
The blade blurred, wind mana coating the steel, reducing drag. At the last moment, the guard twisted his wrist, redirecting the cut toward Aris's throat.
Aris leaned back. The blade passed close enough to draw a thin line of blood across his chin. He felt the sting, tasted copper. His Ore Senses screamed warnings—the second guard was already moving.
[Earth Spell: Crushing Weight]
The club glowed faintly brown, its mass multiplied by earth mana. The guard swung it in a horizontal arc, not at Aris's body, but at the space where he would have to dodge. Cutting off escape. Forcing him into the third guard's reach.
Aris dropped low. The club passed over his head, the wind from its passage whipping his hair. But the guard was already adjusting, reversing his swing, bringing the club down in a brutal overhead strike.
Aris rolled, and the club shattered the stone floor where he had been, sending shards of rock flying. One caught his arm, opening a shallow cut which he ignored.
The third guard—the one with the brass knuckles—attacked from his blind side.
[Lightning Spell: Static Charge]
Electricity crackled across his knuckles, the mana enhancing his strikes, numbing whatever they touched. The guard didn't telegraph his attack. He simply stepped into Aris's space and threw a compact, economical punch aimed at the kidney.
Aris twisted. The blow glanced off his hip instead of landing solid, but the lightning still jumped through him, making his leg spasm. He stumbled.
The first guard was there immediately, short sword thrusting toward his chest.
Aris threw himself sideways, the blade slicing through his coat and opening a shallow gash across his ribs. He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up with his hand on his sword hilt.
They're good, he thought.
The three guards spread out, circling. They didn't rush. They didn't need to. They had him trapped in a triangle of steel and magic, and they were waiting for him to make a mistake.
The club-wielder spoke. "You should have stayed at your city, boy."
Aris said nothing. His Ore Senses tracked each of them—the flicker of their auras, the tension in their muscles, the way their breathing synchronized
He moved.
[Mana Spell: Mana Step]
Mana exploded beneath his foot, propelling him not at the nearest guard, but at the wall. He hit it feet-first, pushed off, changed direction mid-air.
The guards reacted—the sword-wielder raising his blade, the club-writer swinging, the knuckle-user pivoting. But they had been expecting him to attack.
Aris landed behind the sword-wielder, his own blade finally clearing its sheath.
[Mana Spell: Mana Enhancement]
Mana flooded his muscles as he swung. The guard twisted at the last moment, the edge catching his shoulder instead of his neck. Blood sprayed. The man grunted but didn't fall—he had taken worse and kept fighting.
He spun, short sword slashing wildly. Aris parried, the impact jarring his arm, but the guard was already retreating, putting distance between them.
The club came from the side.
Aris raised his blade to block. The impact was like being hit by a falling tree. His arms screamed. His feet left the ground. He crashed into a wooden support pillar, the breath driven from his lungs.
The knuckle-user was on him before he could recover, brass knuckles driving toward his face.
Aris dropped. The fist punched through the pillar behind him, splinters exploding outward. He drove his knee into the guard's stomach.
[Mana Spell: Mana Burst]
A wild explosion of mana from his knee. The guard doubled over, but his aura didn't flicker—he had weathered worse. He brought his other fist down toward Aris's head.
Aris caught the wrist and his muscles strained. The guard was stronger, as the fist inched closer.
The sword-wielder was circling, blade raised. The club-wielder was already swinging.
Too many, Aris thought. I can't—
[Ore Senses: Full Extension]
His awareness exploded outward. He felt everything—the sweat on the knuckle-user's brow, the micro-shifts in the sword-wielder's weight, the exact trajectory of the descending club. Time seemed to slow.
He let go of the wrist.
The knuckle-user's fist, suddenly unopposed, swung past Aris's head. Aris used the momentum to roll sideways, under the club's arc, and came up behind the club-wielder.
His blade found the back of the man's knee.
[Mana Spell: Mana Reinforcement]
The edge bit deep. The guard's leg buckled. He went down with a roar of pain.
One.
The sword-wielder was already there, his blade thrusting toward Aris's chest. Aris parried—barely—the force of the impact spinning him sideways. The guard pressed his advantage, short sword becoming a blur of steel and wind.
Ting-ting-TING!
Each block sent shocks through Aris's arms. His hands were going numb. The guard was faster than him, stronger, more experienced. He was driving Aris back step by step.
The knuckle-user had recovered. He circled to Aris's blind side, brass knuckles crackling.
Aris made a decision.
He let the sword-wielder's next strike through.
The blade cut across his forearm, opening a deep gash. But the guard had overcommitted, his weight too far forward. Aris stepped into his space, inside his guard, and drove the pommel of his sword into the man's throat.
The guard choked. His eyes went wide, stumbled back, hands clutching his neck, his sword clattering to the floor.
Two.
The knuckle-user attacked.
[Lightning Spell: Shock Touch]
His fist drove toward Aris's chest, electricity arcing from the brass knuckles. Aris couldn't dodge. He couldn't block. He took the hit.
The lightning exploded through him. His muscles seized and his vision went white. He felt his heart stutter, felt the mana in his core destabilize.
He did not fall.
He grabbed the guard's wrist with his remaining strength and pulled. The man stumbled forward, off-balance. Aris drove his forehead into the guard's face.
[Mana Spell: Mana Reinforcement]
Bone cracked as blood sprayed from the forehead. The guard's aura flickered wildly—then went dark as he collapsed.
Three.
Aris stood in the center of the ruined room, his chest heaving, his arms bleeding, his body screaming. His Ore Senses swept the space. The guards were down unconscious or dead.
The building groaned.
His Ore Senses reached out, finding the owner—the man in fine clothes, his aura bright with fear—slipping through a door at the back of the room. He was escaping.
Aris let him go.
The slaves were in their cages, dozens of them, their auras flickering with terror and desperate hope. He moved to the first cage, his legs unsteady. The lock was simple to remove, as his sword flashed, and the lock fell.
"Go," he said.
They stared at him for a moment before, one by one, moved out of the building.
He moved to the next cage. The next lock. The next. Behind him, the building groaned again. A section of the wall crumbled, revealing the dark earth beyond.
His arm was bleeding freely now, the gash from the sword-wielder's blade deep and wide. He pressed his hand against it, felt the warmth of his own blood.
Keep moving.
The last cage was empty.
The woman was not here.
Aris focused on his Ore Senses stretching and searching to finding the owner's aura. He was outside now, running through the tunnels of the black market. Aris followed.
He caught him at the entrance to the slave house. The owner was gasping, his fine clothes torn, his hair disheveled. He looked up as Aris approached, and his aura flickered with despair.
"Please," he said. "I'll give you anything—money, information. Just—"
"Where is she?" Aris asked.
The owner's mouth opened and closed. His aura flickered again—fear, yes, but also calculation. He was weighing his options, measuring his chances.
"She was bought," he said finally. "Yesterday, By a noble."
Aris was silent.
"Lord Halden Voss," the owner continued, the words tumbling out. "His estate is north of the city, near the border. He saw her in the market, thought she was beautiful and paid three times what she was worth."
Aris studied him. His Ore Senses read the man's aura—no lies, only fear and desperation.
He stood in there, the weight of the city above him, blood dripping from his arm onto the stone floor.
The world was built on elements. Seven base elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Lightning, Yang, and Yin. From these came others—Ice from Water and Wind, Lava from Fire and Earth, Storm from Lightning and Wind. The combinations were endless, the possibilities vast. Every cultivator who reached a certain level chose an element by their affinity. They built their spells around it, their techniques, their identities.
But the Pure elements—Yang and Yin—were different.
No one could truly use them directly. A cultivator might have an affinity for Light, which was a branch of Yang, or for Shadow, which was a branch of Yin. But the pure essence of Yang—creation, life, the fundamental force of expansion—was beyond mortal reach. The same for Yin—destruction, death, the force of contraction. People could only touch the edges of these elements, drawing on the fragments that had filtered down through the bloodlines of ancient clans.
Aris had none of this.
No affinity for Fire, for Water, for Earth, for Wind, for Lightning. No connection to Yang or Yin or even Mana like how Lucas has affinity for Mana.
He had no affinity for any element or Mana.
He can use Mana just like everyone else but never to the level of Lucas or using the spells which Lucas's use.
What he had was Ora.
Ora was different because Ora was will.
There were three aspects to it, though only one was known to the world. The first was Ore Senses—the ability to perceive auras, emotions, intent, the very fabric of the soul. This was what Aris had mastered, what let him see without eyes, what let him track a woman beneath a city.
The other two were unknown. No one in this world had discovered them. No one had even guessed they existed.
Ore Enhancement—the ability to harden will, to turn it into armor, to strengthen the body and weapons beyond what mana alone could achieve.
And King Ore—the rarest of the three—the power to overwhelm others with will alone, to bend their intentions, to break their spirits without lifting a finger.
Aris had not mastered these. He did not know if they existed.
He looked at the owner.
"Take me to him," Aris said.
The owner's eyes widened. "I can't—he'll kill me—"
Aris's hand moved to his sword.
The owner swallowed. "Fine, Fine, I'll take you."
Above, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. The slaves were scattered—some had run, some had hidden, some stood in small groups, uncertain, afraid. Aris did not stay to help them. He had done what he could.