Orel watched from the warmth of a rented cabin as the previously snow-filled landscape had changed slightly from middle Alanland. Though snow still covered most of the ground, it would no longer be enough to reach his ankles, and the tundra before him was bumpier than before, but not from snow but mounds. However, the whistling wind picked up snow and whisked it along the ground like whipped cream. It carved its own paths and flowed between forests like a river. Though the place was far away from the nearest city, it did not bother the trio.

Norman merely glanced at the frozen hell and added a few more firewood to the fireplace. "Sorry to say it, but this will be my last visit to this place."

"None taken, friend. That weather is a monster of its own." Ándras lay on the couch, hugging his sweater.

"How is the research?" Orel turned to Norman.

"I asked people, but everyone's just either obsessed or upset about the festival." Norman poked at the fire with a metal rod. "Some like the tourism it brings, but others don't like making their culture into a commercial."

"Have you heard about the mages?"

"No, not much. Asking too many questions will only lead them to us." Norman stood up. "On the other hand, how about a training session?"

"Ooh, count me in!" Ándras sprung up.

"Sure. What's today's lesson?" Orel asked.

"Sparring," Norman said, picking up his jacket.

"Sparring, as in fighting?" Orel raised an eyebrow, looking for his outer clothes.

"That's right." Norman walked up to the back door.

The three stood around the small backyard, where the only difference between wilderness and it was the amount of snow and a couple of pieces of furniture.

"So, how is this going down?" Ándras asked.

"Ándras, you know how to use pierce?" Norman asked.

"Yes, of course." He nodded.

"Then this is only for Orel, but you can watch along." Norman turned to the forest. "We are going there."

"Okay." Orel wasn't sure what was happening.

After reaching the treeline, Norman turned and stretched his hands wide apart. "Hit me, Orel."

"Wait, really?"

"Well, to the stomach, preferably." Norman shrugged.

Orel stepped forth. He clenched his fist yet could not muster the will.

"It's fine," Norman said.

"Okay." Orel punched him through the thick layers of clothes.

Norman stood still, blinking his eyes. "Wow, I didn't think you would hit me so soon."

"Are you alright?" Orel asked.

"Yes, just fine. I coated the point of impact with mana. This is one of the first two techniques of magic: Ward." Norman tapped his chest. "Now, let me show you the second technique."

Norman marched next to a tall and wide tree. He took off his mittens, gripped his fist, and punched it right in the middle. A loud thump, and the whole tree rumbled. Norman took his fist off to put on his mitten, revealing a fist-sized depression reaching the inner wood. Orel's eyes stretched wide open as he was sure Norman would only hurt himself.

"This is called Pierce. As the name suggests, the primary purpose is to go through one's defenses and deliver a devastating blow. The difference to Ward is the direction of mana. Ward protects you from inside while Pierce lets it out." Norman explained as he realized his fingers were sticky with resin.

"When can I use it? Orel asked.

"You should have enough mana, but it needs a lot of concentration while still learning."

"I'll give it a try." Orel stepped toward another tree. "So, how does it work?"

"Just some gather mana into your fist and let lit out as you hit it."

"Okay." Orel clenched his fist. He closed his eyes and felt the magic in his veins. Slowly yet surely, it built up in his arm until the muscles felt tense like stone.

"Here I go!" Orel opened his eyes and punched.

Orel's fist made a slight thud, yet it did not leave even a scratch. That was until he took his fist off. At that moment, the tree rumbled, and bark blasted off from the other side.

Norman walked over and observed the results. "I see. You released it late."

"Late?" Orel looked at his hand.

"See; usually, you release mana as you land a hit, like hitting the cork off a bottle." Norman struck the air. "But since you're still learning basics, you couldn't gather enough mana for it to happen. Still, you kept concentrating, so your body kept building it up. And just now, when you stopped concentrating, it all burst out." He jabbed the air again. "Simply put, you plugged your low-pressure hose and released all the built-up pressure."

"That's not a very complimenting comparison." Orel frowned. "But is it dangerous?"

"It's just a side-effect of your mana flow and lack of training. It's not wrong, per se. You can safely use it until you get the hang of it. Mages tend to conserve mana, only using Ward during the initial impact, so your secondary strike could catch them off guard. Though, I wouldn't recommend getting too close to them."

"Can I try?" Ándras raised his hand.

"Right." Norman turned. "Go ahead. I've been waiting to take a look at your magic."

"Here it goes." Ándras spun his arm around.

Norman smiled, for he had not seen many pyromancers. It was a dangerous path, and many mages would end up burning themselves in the process. It took time to adjust one's output and defenses until both were strong enough to produce a spell yet keep the user safe. The most dangerous part was just as they learned to make flames but not control them.

As Ándras' fist hit the tree, it burst into flames. Not just the tree but Ándras himself. The fire quickly climbed up his arm, catching his clothes on fire. Before Orel or Norman could react, the man was encased in flames, blindly swinging around as the burning tree fell. Norman's heart sank. It was only his second, yet an unofficial student and they were already burning away.

"Ándras!" Norman yelled with teary eyes.

"Use the snow!" Orel said.

Ándras dropped and rolled in the snow. Orel and Norman helped by picking some up and throwing it at him. Unlike normal flames, they stuck to Ándras' skin and burned with his magic. After some grueling moments, the fire finally died, leaving Ándras' steaming body lying on the ground. Norman could not dare to look at what was left of him.

"Ándras, say something!" Norman dropped beside his charred body.

"...My..." Ándras mumbled with chapped lips.

"Yes?" Norman leaned closer.

"My sweater!" He jumped back to his feet, bawling his eyes out. "Gifted by my friends, yet foolish me burned it!"

Ándras stood tall, with only his skin covered in ash and burned fiber. Norman's eyes bulged. After rubbing his eyes, he took some snow and rubbed it on him. The skin was unburnt, if only dirty.

"What the hells?" Norman could not find words.

"He is...fine?" Orel tilted his head. "Oh, did he use Ward?"

Norman's jaw swung loose. "I-It can't be. A mystic mutation like that can't be. A blessing in this day and age? A grand spell? How-" His eyes darted around. "What are you?"

"That is something I want to get sorted," Ándras said.

"How long have you been able to do that?" Norman asked.

"I can't recall anything before the cavern, but I remember awakening from the ice and dropping from the roof of it."

"Hmm." Norman pondered. "Ándras, lend your hand."

"Hmm?" Ándras, though confused, did as told.

Norman gripped Ándras' finger and bent it over, cracking the joints.

"Aah!" Ándras squirmed.

Norman let go with a cold, emotionless face.

"Norman, what are you doing?" Orel stepped back.

Norman observed the finger with a contorted grimace. "Watch."

As Ándras opened his fist, the finger was back in place without any bruising or injury. It bent back and forth like before.

"Perfect healing," Norman's eyebrows twitched. "No, nothing like that exists, not with mortals."

"You could have warned me!" Ándras stretched the finger around.

"Would you have allowed me?" Norman shook his head. "No, sorry, I was too in my research mode. By the way, you could have spent more time on ice than you realize, Ándras."

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"That accent of yours, it's not from here, not even this continent."

"Then where?" Orel asked.

"Zabad," Norman said. "I've heard it in old films. That's a top-notch golden age accent."

"So he's from Zabad?" Orel asked.

"Well, I don't know if it would be better to say he was from Zabad."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say that my great-grandfather talked like that, or so I've heard."

"I am immortal?" Ándras pointed. "Well, I did survive being frozen." He thought back.

"No. As the word is, a mortal can't be immortal. There's nothing on this earth to make you live indefinitely."

"Then what about Ándras?" Orel asked.

Norman carefully traced from the scar on Ándras' chest to his confused yellow eyes. "If I were you, I wouldn't want to know what it cost to have such a body."

"I want to know." Ándras touched his chest. "Old scars bother me not one bit."

"You might say that now." Norman chuckled. "Well, I am no judge. Do as you wish. The lesson's over. Let's go inside. I'm freezing solid here." He turned toward the house.

"Sure," Orel said.

"But I wanted to spar." Ándras moped.

"Maybe next time." Norman sighed.

That night, the three went to bed, or at least two, as Norman was kept awake by Ándras' relentless snoring. On the other hand, Orel slept like a baby, as he was used to snoring, thanks to uncle Deras' room being right next to his. What he saw in his dream, however, was something odd.

He was alone in the dark, with no paths, lights, or help. The only thing with him was a distant echo calling for him.

"What do you seek?" An echoing voice asked.

Before Orel could answer, the sky lit up with waving colors of green and purple, like a canvas fluttering in the air. Cold yet clear air blew softly along a flat white hoarfrost field. An enormous figure rose from behind a line of snowy mountains with their eyes set on Orel in the far reaches of the horizon's edge.

Orel woke with a cold sweat and out of breath. Soon, his breaths slowed down, and he decided to grab something to drink before heading back to sleep. Coming to the kitchen, Orel looked over to the large window spanning an entire wall. He glanced at the time. It was midnight, though one could only tell the difference with a clock. It was pitch dark, or should have been, but Orel spotted a bundle of lights in the distance. He looked closer, and they appeared in pairs, slowly but surely coming closer.

Not really understanding why but knowing it would be trouble, Orel rushed to Norman's room and knocked on the door.

"Norman!" Orel shouted, banging on the door. "There are some lights outside!"

"Ugh, Orel... You don't need to wake me up for those fox fires!" Norman groaned.

"No, I think they're headlights!"

"Headlights?" Norman stumbled from his bed and barged out of the room in pajamas.

"I'll wake up Ándras, too," Orel said.

"It's no use." Norman tugged him by the shoulder with a defeated face. "I already tried, but that hog won't wake up until the roof falls on him."

The two sneaked into the kitchen and checked the window together. Five cars approached their lonely cabin from the darkness of the night.

"What do you think they're here for?" Orel asked.

"What do you think? To send their best regards?"

"What should we do? Who are those people?"

"Let's ask what their deal is." Norman put on some clothes.

"You sure?"

"Well, you got any better ideas? Besides, I don't want to be the one to start a fight. It won't end well in court."

The cars stopped near the house, three in the front yard and two around the back. From each popped shadowy figures in dark blue coveralls.

"Convicts? What are these people doing here?" Norman noticed the clothes. He stepped outside, where a gang of six waited for him.

"So, what brings you guys here?"

One of the men stepped forth, smoking a long cigarette, making up for his short height. "Get out. NOW."

"Did you happen to come across these two men dressed in black? One shorter than the other, wearing an eye patch?" Norman gestured the height and eye patch with his hands.

The man walked forth and punched him in the guts. As Norman fell to the ground, he kicked him on his side. The others joined in until there was nothing but the constant, terrifically rhythmic sound of a man getting beaten up.

"Norman!" Orel yelled, watching from the window. He ran to the door, hands clenched into fists. He was tense with fear, yet his arms were tenser, and so was his face.

Yet, as he barged outside, it was not Norman on the ground but most of the men while the rest cowered in fear.

"You didn't answer my question." Norman stepped forth.

One of the men charged forth, yelling something in Aleian. He hit Norman straight to his face, yet Norman did not move a muscle. The man's face was utterly appalled.

Norman punched the man in return and knocked him out. "Watch out, Orel. It's dangerous here."

"How did you-" Orel shook his head.

"Ward and Pierce, Orel." Norman sniffed.

"You just let them beat you up?"

"Well, there was a lot of them." Norman smudged off some blood from his nose. "Back to the point, how about you start talking so no one gets hurt?"

The rest of the men glanced between Norman and the men lying beside him, yet said nothing.

"Fuck this; I'm out!" One of the men ran to one of the cars, still running with headlights on. As he passed it from the front, a dark figure manifested from his shadow. With a jagged blade in its bony hands, it pressed against the man's neck.

Something shot past Orel's head. It made the blade fling out of the specter's hand onto the snow, dissipating into nothingness. Orel looked behind him; Norman was standing there, holding a coin between his fingers.

Another man charged Norman with a wrench. Norman blocked with his hand, yet it still hurt. Orel had plenty of questions, but there was no time.

Orel came in and punched the man. The man grunted but fell back as Orel's mana poured in. The man recovered yet stepped back as Orel readied his fists. The teeth-gritting desperation in the man's eyes confused him.

The third pulled a gun and pointed it at Norman with shaky hands. "This is it! He said, cocking the gun.

Orel snapped from his confusion and jumped between them. "Don't! You don't need to do this!"

"Orel, don't!" Norman yelled.

The man's stiff face softened for a moment as he noticed Orel.

"Why are you doing this?" Orel asked.

The man's hand shook violently, yet he steadied it with his other arm.

"Why?"

The man corrected his aim yet couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He took down the gun, mumbling something to himself, and dropped to his knees.

Orel watched as the man's face drowned in hopelessness and his eyes filled with tears. "Helen, Olli." The last words were unintelligible but spoken with honesty.

With long black nails, a skeletal, shadowy hand grasped the man from behind. The man turned his head and saw a hooded abyss staring him down. While his attention was elsewhere, the shadow lifted his other hand that had a shard, jagged blade in its grasp.

"No!" Orel gasped.

"You guys make me sick." He said with a vein growing on his forehead.

The shadow lifted its head. Though the diamond head lacked any eyes, it was all too obvious it was staring at Norman with a wide grin while Norman himself had nothing to say. He shot a coin through the shadow's head without warning. It recoiled and returned to being the man's shadow once again.

"Thank you." The man prayed as he ran off.

"Get out of here." Norman turned himself away.

"What was that?" Orel asked, watching the man flee with his car.

"A spell. Most likely conjuration." Norman grimaced. "You see what I meant when I said those mages don't value human life?"

"Wait, what about Ándras?" Orel realized.

"You talking about me?" Ándras walked out, yawning.

"Um, are you alright?" Norman asked.

"Yeah, but some henchmen tried to rob me."

"Where are they now?" Norman looked inside.

"I threw them out after teaching them a lesson they won't forget." Ándras pointed. "Who were these guys, anyway?"

"I guess those were the escapees from the news. Those two, they really would break out criminals and force them to do their bidding?" Norman's face was sour with anger.

"Those bastards. Such underhanded tactics." Ándras crossed his hands.

Norman made a deep sigh. "Sorry, it's my fault. Those two won't back down if they're ready to do this."

"I'm sick of this." Orel stomped his feet.

"Orel?" Norman lifted his head.

"I'm tired of running away. I'm tired of being chased. I don't want to do that anymore."

"Are you giving up?" Ándras asked.

"No, I don't want more people to get hurt. If no one is going to stop them, then I will."

Ah, I see." Norman brushed his goatee. "You want to stop that festival, don't you?"

"I don't want more beautiful snow to get dirty because of them. No more innocent people getting hurt or used by them. I never want to see their ugly faces here again."

"You want to go there, ruin their day, spoil their fun, piss in their cereal?" Norman grinned. "That sounds too fun to pass."

"Well, count me in." Ándras crossed his hands. "Anyone who stands against my friends will get a piece of me as well."

"How can we win, Norman?" Orel asked.

"Oh, Orel, you still have much to learn about magic. "Norman shook his head with a smile. "Here's another lesson about magic: You can level the playing field with a good strategy, a great surprise, or a cunning trick."

"And how will we do that?"

"I'll make the strategy; you will do the trick."

"And I'll be the surprise?" Ándras asked.

"Exactly. We can take those two down with these and then find that realm."

"Sounds like a plan." Orel reached his hand out. "Are you with me?"

"Do you need to ask?" Ándras put his hand on top.

"Norman?" Orel looked up.

"After all this? I was just about ready to do it myself." Norman put his hand on the pile. "Let's begin the Voyager's first unofficial quest!"

"Sure." Orel nodded. "For Voyagers!"

"For Voyagers!" The three lifted their hands.