CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Blessed be the Fog

The days after my return blurred together, a haze of unfamiliar walls and half-remembered rules. The butler—gray-haired and stiff as ever—followed me like a shadow, his pinched face growing tighter each time I fumbled. He'd spent a lot of time drilling manners into me before I left, lessons about how a Blackthorn should carry himself in public. I was next in line after Tarin, after all, and appearances mattered more than I could wrap my head around. Now, he muttered under his breath, annoyed that I'd forgotten everything—how to hold a fork, how to sit straight, how to not smear gravy across the table like a beast.

I didn't get why it was such a big deal. My mind library, that strange place in my head, wasn't helping either. Out in the fog, it had shifted fast—memories, habits, even parts of who I was—molding me to survive among claw and fang. Table manners? Pointless out there, so it had let them fade, buried under instincts and fragments of a life I barely recognized now. I kept waiting for it to adapt again, to soak up this new world of polished floors and stern looks, but it didn't budge. Then I realized—it wasn't the library stalling. It was me. I didn't see the point.

Still, I tried to focus, to care about relearning it all. But my thoughts drifted—away from the butler's lectures, away from the mansion's stone walls, back to Elina, Meris, and Jharim. My first family. The ones I wasn't allowed to see. Lirien had ordered me secluded here, locked inside the Blackthorn estate until I could pass as civilized again. I missed them—Meris's friendship, Jharim's rough lessons in the forge and Elina's teachings, but above all, the warmth of a true family.

Word of my return had spread fast. People noticed the strange boy walking beside Lirien that first day—barefoot, cloaked in Hazeveil, eyes too old for thirteen. Whispers turned to chatter, and soon the district buzzed with it. Some wanted to talk family alliances, others hinted at marriages, all eager to snag a piece of the lost Blackthorn son. It was too much, too soon. Lirien decided I'd stay put until I could hold a knife without looking like I'd stab the table instead of the meat.

Tarin took it on himself to help. He sat across from me at dinner, patient but firm, showing me how to eat like I belonged here. "You've got to keep your elbows off the table," he said, pointing at my arm like it was a crime. "Hold the knife higher—use the serrated edge to cut, not tear. And don't shove the whole piece in your mouth." I fumbled through it, the fork awkward in my grip. A few servants lingered nearby, their lips twitching with amusement, though they stayed quiet. They knew better than to gossip about what happened in these walls.

"How can you forget how to eat?" Tarin asked, leaning back as I finished. The table was a wreck—food scattered, plate streaked. I'd tried, but it was a mess anyway.

"I didn't forget how to eat," I said, wiping my hands on the napkin like he'd shown me. "Just… not like this." Their way felt wrong—slow, fussy. Out in the fog, I'd torn into meat with my hands, gulping it down before something bigger snatched it away. Cutting everything into tiny bites, picking at it with metal sticks—it took forever. Hours, even, and I was still hungry after. The servants kept bringing more, but the chef looked worn out, his apron sagging. I sighed. Didn't matter. Back in my room, I'd pull meat from my storage ring—tough, mana imbued stuff that actually filled me up.

That ring was one discovery I hadn't forgotten. I remembered finding it, the way it hummed against my skin, holding more than I'd ever expected. But if they doubted Kara and Hazeveil were real, they'd never believe in the ring either. I'd show them soon—during the artifact test. My plan was brewing: hunt beasts in the fog again, use what I'd learned. A few more days wouldn't change much. The test was coming, and I'd make it count.

I needed to tell Lirien and the others about the ring, the artifacts, my ideas. But hunting alone in the fog? They'd balk at that. So I'd play it smart—just like they were forcing the council's hand to name me Artifact Holder, I'd force Lirien's approval too. The beasts' cores in my ring were worth a fortune—enough to flood the family with credits, maybe beyond. We were a small society, scraping by, but food shouldn't be a fight. The fog had plenty if we took it right. I wanted to share it, not hoard it like some miser.

The training grounds were already booked—right in the district's center, open and wide. Lirien had planned the test as a public move, thinking a crowd would push the council to grant the title. But she didn't need to try so hard. Rumors had taken off the day I got back. The lost boy—street rat turned Blackthorn, son of the Chainrunners' Captain—vanished into the fog, presumed dead, then walked out years later. By the next morning, everyone knew the grounds were reserved. Public or not, people would show up. Lirien couldn't stop it now.

I didn't fully get it, though. Sure, the Chainrunners needed funding, volunteers, better gear, but weren't we all fighting for the same thing? Freedom from the fog? They should back us because it made sense, not because I carried some title. Still, I trusted Kara, trusted Lirien and Tarin. They knew politics, how to work the district. I'd be their hand in the fog; they'd be mine here. It was a deal I could live with.

"Look," Tarin said, snapping me out of it as the servants cleared the table, "we've got a week until the testing. I don't mind shadowing you, fixing your manners, but it's cutting into my training." His hands rested on the wood—scraped, bruised, fresh cuts from hours with a blade.

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. He'd been at it nonstop, and I was grateful he'd stuck with me anyway.

He didn't reply right away, just looked at me, his expression hard to read.

[Kara]

[I believe he wants your help in training.]

"Help in training?" I blurted, the words slipping out before I could catch them. Kara's voice had popped up unannounced, and I still couldn't keep quiet when she did.

Tarin's brow creased, his head tilting. He knew I wasn't talking to him.

[Kara]

[Indeed, his reactions and wording suggest he wants you to offer a hand in his training.]

I glanced at him, then back to Kara in my head. "But what can I do? I don't know swords—just daggers, throwing spears, my fists."

[Kara]

[I believe he's after your experience fighting in the fog. Not skills, but what you've faced.]

That clicked. Tarin had trained with masters his whole life—better than me with weapons, no doubt. But the fog? Most of them hadn't seen it like I had. Lirien was too busy to spar with him, and the Chainrunners he'd trained with hadn't lived it the way I did. He wanted that raw edge, and it hit me, he thought I had something worth learning. It felt good, strange as it was.

Tarin watched me, unfazed now by my muttering. He was getting used to it—my "imaginary friends" and just waited, patient.

"It'd be my honor," I said, looking him in the eye. "Though I doubt I've got much to teach you. You probably know way more about weapons than I do."

"True," he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "But survival? You've got that covered. You don't see it yet—living in the fog for years, coming back. That's legend stuff, Omen. Trust me."

…

The training rooms in the Blackthorn estate sprawled wide and high, their stone walls smoothed by years of sweat and steel. That day, Tarin led me in, trailed by a handful of district training masters—lean, scarred men who'd come to sharpen him into something deadly. They turned as I entered, eyes narrowing with amusement, rumors of my return now solid in front of them. I caught their stares, steady and measuring, but didn't flinch.

Tarin waved them off. "He's training me today," he said, his voice cutting through their murmurs. The masters exchanged looks—skeptical, maybe a little curious—especially as I bent to tug off my boots. The cold floor hit my bare feet, solid and familiar, spreading my awareness out like ripples on water. It steadied me, a comfort I'd leaned on in the fog. Tarin didn't care; he shot a sharp glance at the gawkers, silencing their smirks.

He picked up a wooden sword, one-handed and worn smooth, then handed me another. "Thank you," I said, taking it. The weight felt off—longer than the daggers I knew, clumsy in my grip. I figured it'd be practice for me too. Tarin stood ready, his stance loose, waiting. Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"What should we do first?" he asked, breaking it.

"I've got no blade techniques to teach," I said, meeting his eyes. "I can only fight—if that's what you want." He nodded, like he'd expected it, and raised his sword. The move was clean, practiced—a stance he'd drilled a thousand times, strong and sure.

I lifted mine, defensive, as he lunged. His strike came steady, precise, but slow. Too slow. My mind flickered back to the bridge in the fog, dodging claws from every angle, barely shifting to survive. This? This was nothing. No threat, no stakes. I watched his sword arc toward me and shifted effortlessly, barely moving from where I stood.

He kept coming, swing after swing, wood cutting air. I dodged each one, barely thinking—my body moved on its own, mana humming through me, senses sharp enough to hear his breath hitch. He couldn't touch me. Hours dragged on, and I didn't swing back, just let him tire himself out. He'd pause, catch his wind, then start again. I couldn't see how this helped him. The fog's rules—life or death, kill or be killed—didn't live here. This was play, not survival.

Could I push him harder? Break something, make him feel the edge of death? I imagined it—his ribs cracking under my fist, his blood on the floor. He wouldn't get back up. Not like me. The thought stopped me cold. I couldn't risk permanently injuring him or worse, killing him

By the end, Tarin slumped, chest heaving, sword dangling. "How'd you dodge all that?" he asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated. Not a single hit had landed.

I shrugged. "It's not a fair fight." Mana coursed through me, an onyx core forged in fog deeper than he could dream—speed, strength, senses beyond human. Tarin was good, a prodigy shaped by masters, but he was still just flesh and bone. Could he ever reach what I had? The fog's rules were brutal but fair—kill, grow, survive. Maybe there was a way for him too, a core of his own. But I let the idea drop; it wasn't worth chasing now, not with how little I understood about it.

I gave him what advice I could—small tweaks to his footing, his swing. He wasn't bad, just slow against me. The next day, I watched him spar the masters. He moved like water, fluid and sharp—a weapon honed for the fog, destined for Lirien's Dawnbreak Bow. I tried bow practice too, fumbling with the string, arrows veering wide. He outclassed me there, grinning with pride, and I couldn't help but feel a flicker of it too.

The week vanished, and testing day arrived. Light streaked through the fog overhead—brighter than usual, cutting the gloom that clung to the wards above the training grounds, a wide, open stretch near the district's heart. Tall buildings rose around it, polished stone gleaming faintly under the diffused glow, their edges worn but proud. Voices echoed off the walls—kids darting through alleys, the murmurs of people on the road. The city pulsed, alive and loud, a stark shift from the fog's dead hush beyond the barriers.

The grounds themselves were rougher—packed dirt scarred from years of boots and blades. Wooden targets stood scattered across one end, splintered and patched, next to creaky training rigs half-broken from use. It was reserved for me today, no one else pounding the earth. But it wasn't empty. People pressed in—Chainrunners in patched cloaks, City Guard with dented helms, noble families I couldn't name, and workers who came to watch. No walls blocked their view; the space sprawled open, inviting the crowd.

They weren't just here to see artifacts. For years, rumors had bounced around—Omen, the Captain's adopted kid, lost to the fog, probably dead. Word from District 99 and whispers from 100 claimed I'd survived, but most didn't buy it. No child could last out there. Now they pushed forward, muttering to each other, pointing my way, trying to figure out if I was the same boy who'd left. Their stares pressed against me, sharp and heavy, and I glanced around, hoping to spot Elina, Meris, or Jharim somewhere in the mix, but there were too many faces, all jumbled together.

Lirien stood nearby, calm as stone. My artifacts didn't look like much. Hazeveil draped over me, tattered and dark, drew more stares—less noble, more eerie. "Go all out," she said. "The targets can take it. Show them everything—this is still an evaluation."

I started simple. "Fire arrows at me," I called to a guard, who notched dull testing arrows. I raised my bracers, and a shield flared—solid, shimmering—blocking each shot. The crowd hushed, then buzzed as the shield disappeared from the air, waiting for the recharge.

Lirien shouted, loud enough for all to hear, "The Shardbound Bracers—wielded by District 2's last Captain!" Confirmation sparked gasps, nods, a few claps. She beamed—she'd snagged a legacy artifact for the Blackthorns. I scanned for my first family, but the faces blurred together, too many to pick out.

The Gauntlets came next. No records knew them, a mystery even here. We measured their passive pull—kinetic energy soaking in as a master swung at me with a padded staff, tools ticking off the force. Then the active power. "One shot," I warned. "It has a twelve-hour recharge." The gauntlets thrummed, heavy with weeks of stored energy. I braced, ready to unleash it, the crowd leaning in, hungry for a taste of its power.

I eyed the line of wooden targets ahead, weathered and splintered, with the crowd huddled about fifty meters back. I turned to Lirien. "Might I choose another target?"

She squinted at me, suspicious, but nodded. "Go ahead." I strode past the archery field toward a long concrete wall, thick and gray, built to block projectiles, even those from artifacts. A few curious onlookers trailed me, their boots scuffing the dirt, whispers buzzing like flies.

The Gauntlets of the Starving Maw hugged my hands—jet-black, fingerless, unremarkable from a distance. No one here had records of Voidweave, the strange material woven into them. They didn't know what was coming. I faced the wall, the crowd falling silent, barely noticing the artifact. For a heartbeat, I pictured a cyclops towering over me, its club raised—then shook it off. The runes flared red, bright and angry, as I triggered the ability. I reared back and punched, throwing every ounce of strength into it.

The wall didn't just crack—it exploded. Concrete shattered like dry bread, chunks flying outward, dust choking the air. I'd aimed away from the crowd, and good thing—debris sprayed wide, but none reached them. Beyond the wall, a building loomed, twenty meters off. Cracks spidered across its front, stone groaning as the facade buckled and fell in a slow, crumbling heap. I froze, expecting the whole thing to collapse, but its pillars held, stubborn and still. The noise—a deep, rolling boom—ripped through the district, loud enough to rattle windows blocks away.

People flooded in, drawn by the sound, district citizens that weren't present, kids peering from alleys, guards jogging up in clanking armor. I spotted Norman Highrow, Captain of the Guard, pushing through, his Artifact Holder badge glinting like Lirien's. The crowd swelled, faces wide with shock, craning to see what I'd done.

Lirien ran to me, her calm shattered, eyes scanning me head to toe. "Are you hurt?" she asked, waving healers over, their bags clinking with tools.

I stepped back, confused. "Why would I be hurt?"

She stared, like she was piecing something together. "You just punched through a wall thick enough to take a battering ram. And the force carried on, cracking a building half a block away. Your arm should be mush."

She had a point. The gauntlets absorbed kinetic energy and unleashed it—we'd measured that, but all that power had surged through me. It was the hardest hit I'd ever thrown, and pain had flared, sharp and quick. But my life magic patched it up fast, bones knitting before I could blink. I hadn't even thought about the risk—hadn't needed to in the fog. Now they'd see it, I wasn't just leaning on artifacts. Mana lived in me too.

Lirien's eyes narrowed, catching it, but she didn't say a word—not with so many watching. Why hide it, though? Sure, whatever enhanced the Captains was rare, guarded tight, but me wielding mana? I could've shouted it. Still, her silence held me back. I wouldn't spill it without her permission.

Instead, I turned to her, raising my voice over the stunned quiet. "I've got one more artifact. More valuable than the others. It's called the Obsidian Vault or just Storage Ring."

Her jaw tightened, surprise flickering across her face. She didn't know it existed, but the name clicked for her—storage. "This ring," I said, lifting my hand to show the ring on my finger, "holds over five tons of resources, equipment, almost anything."

Dain perked up nearby, eyes gleaming, he handled Chainrunner logistics, knew what that meant. But doubt shadowed his face, same as the crowd's. Five tons? No one had heard of an artifact like that. Lower districts must've buried the secret deep. I'd expected the skepticism—my sanity was already in question.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—half scoffing, half waiting. The gauntlets had stunned them, but this? Too wild to swallow. I'd prove it. The ring brimmed with beast carcasses—dozens I'd slain, stacked in its void. I stepped into the open stretch of the grounds, dirt crunching under my bare feet, and traced the retrieval rune in the air with my ringed finger. A hum pulsed, then beasts spilled out—gray hides, twisted limbs, claws glinting even in death.

One by one, they hit the ground—shaggy diremaws with jaws like traps, shoggoths oozing black sludge, razor-backed things no one had names for. The pile grew, a grotesque heap of fur and scales, nearly five tons by the end. Screams broke out—sharp, raw—people stumbling back, some frozen, eyes huge. Most had never seen a fog beast, just heard tales whispered over ale. Now they faced them, dead but real, stench rolling off in waves. A woman shrieked, clutching her kid; a guard gripped his spear tighter, face pale. Nobles muttered, hands on fancy hilts, while Chainrunners stared, grim and still—awed, maybe, but terrified too.

I turned to the district, voice steady. "We've been chained to the wards too long. The fog's not our enemy—it provides everything we need."

Some might think my words were foul. I'd once said the fog spoke to me, and now I was praising it, strange talk when everyone saw the fog as their greatest enemy. The crowd's noise swelled around me—gasps and murmurs cutting through my voice as they stared at the beasts I'd dumped in front of them, terrified to see fog creatures up close for the first time. Monsters straight out of nightmares.

Then I stepped up, voice firm, and spoke my final words. Mana surged into them, raw and heavy, amplifying my voice until it rolled over the crowd's noise like a wave, forcing silence with a power they couldn't ignore. "The fog shall not be feared, but welcomed—welcome its challenges, its rules, and there will be much more from where this came from. Blessed be the fog."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.