Chapter Twenty-Six: The Wizard’s Remains

Vaid examined the attire of the skeleton; the robe retained at least sixty percent of its original form, and the tall boots seemed crafted from plant materials. Beyond that, Vaid noticed a jade-green ring on the skeleton’s index finger. The style was cohesive, not a patchwork of mismatched pieces. Golden threads traced wreaths and birds across the robe, the patterns distinctive, their lines simple yet beautiful—designs that even a farmer would find pleasing.

Vaid kept Mia from approaching, instead carefully observing the area around the skeleton. The entire space was deeply concealed, nestled between massive thorns and earth. It lay in a windless hollow, shielded from sand and storm by the thorny forest outside. At the skeleton’s feet, a thin layer of sand had accumulated over time, its surface smooth, with rings of folds sketching the movement of the wind. No footprints or other marks could be found upon the sand, no signs of anything stirring there, and Vaid sensed no soul-fire from the skeleton. This was, he concluded, merely a corpse, not an animated skeleton.

Mia’s gaze was not fixed on the bones, but rather on the glowing moss. The moss emitted a faint white luminescence, gently lighting the dark corner, and magic gathered upon it. Could Mia feed on the magic of this moss? It seemed so, for this moss appeared to be a supernatural plant favored by spirits. Its name and properties were unknown to Vaid, who had little research into the mystical realm—such things were beyond the reach of a baker. If only he were more learned, perhaps he could discern the moss’s habitat and find a way to cultivate it. If he could clear a plot and plant this luminous moss, Mia would never lack for nourishment.

He decided to collect a little to see if it could be grown at home. Nodding to himself, Vaid relaxed his vigilance and led Mia to the skeleton’s side.

“Eat just a little, don’t overdo it,” he conveyed his thoughts to her.

Even if it couldn’t be cultivated, some moss could be left behind; there was no need to uproot it all. Its presence here meant it could grow in this corner—leave the roots, and they could be harvested again someday.

Mia nodded and floated above the moss. As she siphoned its magical energy, the glow dimmed. All was calm, but suddenly Vaid noticed the skeleton’s finger twitch.

He reached out swiftly and pulled the little spirit back. He could see the traces of magic flowing—the moss darkened even faster, chaotic currents converging toward the skeleton’s shell. Mia’s feeding had triggered some mechanism.

What should have been only decayed bone now stirred to life; its fingers and skull began to move, joints bending, and its hand grasped a nearly rotten wooden staff.

That staff had been hidden beneath the moss—no, more accurately, the moss had grown from it. Vaid saw a cracked gem embedded at the tip. This was not merely a stick, but a magical staff.

So, this was the remains of a mage.

Realizing this, Vaid swung his melon-shaped hammer. The heavy weapon whistled through the air, aimed straight at the mage’s skull. He showed no mercy—it was no theater performance, and there was no need to wait for the skeleton to stand, strike a pose, recite its lines, and prepare its spell before acting.

In the real world, there are no moments of invincibility for shouting a transformation.

He assumed the creature an enemy; to deal with enemies, one must strike first, delivering a fatal blow when they are weakest.

He felt the impact, though not upon bone. He saw the ring on the mage’s finger flash, and a transparent barrier blocked his hammer. The shield was composed of orderly hexagons, possessing a geometric beauty.

It was a piece of jewelry storing energy, capable of conjuring a magical barrier.

The melon hammer bounced back, force rebounding into Vaid’s arm. He was surprised, but did not hesitate. One failed blow meant another attempt.

In battle, hesitation is the greatest taboo.

Hesitate, and you are defeated.

Defeat means death.

Vaid had experienced death two hundred and sixteen times in dreams; his fight against Swen’s residual image had taught him that opportunities vanish in an instant.

He doubted that weathered magical ring could forever withstand his assault.

He tossed the little spirit backward, gripped the hammer with both hands, leaped up, and brought it crashing down like driving a stake.

The barrier flashed again, deflecting the hammer. But this time, the force did not rebound fully—the revived mage’s remains were struck by the reaction, toppling sideways to the ground.

Vaid swung the hammer fiercely, attacking with force. The barrier flickered a third time, once more blocking his blow.

But on the fourth strike, nothing impeded him.

Vaid smashed the mage’s skull, bone splintering, teeth scattering. Not yet finished, he shattered the shoulder joints, ensuring the staff tumbled away.

The dead, awakened suddenly, died once more.

The battered bones ceased movement. The entire process was swift; Mia, who had been thrown aside, had only just regained her balance when it was over.

Still confused, she floated over, puffed her cheeks, and bumped her forehead against Vaid’s palm. She seemed a little angry—her meal interrupted, her mood soured. Vaid patted her head, and she quickly tossed aside the incident, reconciling with him.

“Go ahead and eat, it should be fine now.”

Mia rubbed against his palm and floated above the mage’s remains. Oddly, this creature did not resemble an undead; though Vaid had smashed its skull, no soul-fire seeped from its bones.

He did not understand how it had suddenly moved, perhaps some lingering magic.

Vaid crouched and removed the magic ring from the finger for inspection. Before he could examine it closely, he saw a glowing green flame drift from the mage’s remains.

Mia was drawing a fragmentary soul from the corpse.

The soul was feeble as a breeze; if Swen’s soul was a blazing wildfire, then this mage’s remnant was but a spark struck from a match—not even a candle flame, merely a spark.

Mia swallowed the tiny spark and the magic lingering in the bones.

Vaid’s mind flashed with fragments—he glimpsed the mage’s memories, the moments of his death.

A young voice uttered something in an unknown language. The mage sat in the shadowy corner, placed his staff down, scattered seeds from his pocket upon it, and released his magic.

He made himself the bed for the seeds to grow, as if this were hope and vitality.

Though Vaid did not understand the final words, he remembered the syllables—they sounded like a blessing. The mage’s withering hand gently stroked the growing moss as one would caress a child.

He sliced open his wrist, watering it with his own blood.

Thus, in this desolate wasteland, a corner sprouted green shoots and glowed with gentle light.