Snow fell on the valley in repeated gusts.

Sorath stood inside a well-insulated Guard House built into the town wall by the eastern gate. He sipped hot vanilla green tea in front of a triple-glazed window. Only an imbecile would go out there alone in this weather, and Sorath was trying to keep his imbecilic episodes to a minimum. There were two options: find a support to party with (and share the bounties) or wait for spring.

On the couch, a young Town Guard thought, Who does he think he is? I should kick him to the curb… but this is nice tea. Eh, he can stay till the snow passes.

Mother had said the Chef profession would always come in handy. As usual, she had been right.

Sorath asked, “Are you new to Greenwood?”

“Transfered last Monday from Cherrywood,” he drawled honestly, feeling relaxed. “What about you? You’re a Chef here, yes?”

“I am.”

The stilted answer put him on alert. “Where do you work?” he asked conversationally.

“For Lord Hyera.”

He mostly believed it, thanks to the tea. “Like his personal Chef?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you buying ingredients just then?”

Sorath nodded, his eyes narrowing as snowfall intensified into a weak blizzard. Frost gathered on the glass. Levitating hunks of toothy ice roamed paddocks. Elementals.

The Guard was thinking, …paid enough to afford his own Chef. This where my tribute gold is going. Goddamn it.

A smirk tugged Sorath’s lips, and his own mana abruptly surged from his heart. The gods wrote to him.

Skill Advancement: Telepathy (Intermediate 8)

Passive Effect: You are able to sense mana within a 180 stride range, including the feelings and verbalized thoughts of living things

Intermediate Bonus: You are able to selectively block mana from your sense

Three more advancements for Advanced 1. How lovely.

Sorath wanted to feel excitement, but this single skill had been the cause of so many troubles. A bad memory from Tutorial School had to be pulled back into the depths. He was a circus freak to be laughed at, a monster to be feared, and now a tool to be used by ruling hands. Sometimes he wished he weren’t the first psionic. A mentor would’ve been nice to have while growing up. Even a sibling with the same affinity. Or a close companion. A lover.

The Guard loudly whistled. “Did you hear me?”

“What?”

“We’re out of—”

Teal lightning flashed, and Sorath saw a grinning horned face in the clouds. The window shook in the lagging boom. Mana that chilled to the bone leaked through the walls. Lightning flashed brighter, blinding. As his eyes recovered, he saw a shining chunk of misty ice fall from the heavens. Uprooted trees went flying in the impact near the town boundary, mist washing through farms and pooling against the town wall. Ice Elemental Warriors spawned.

Today, the gods were truly bored.

The Guard ran to the door, slammed it open. Freezing air blew in. Bells clamored over shouting men before the door slammed back shut. The secondary lock slid into place by itself, as if Mother’s ghost were here and she wanted to keep Sorath safe inside—away from the fun. Calmly, he unlocked it and jogged into the fray on slick ground.

By the tenth step his fingers were numb. By the twentieth his throat and lungs hurt. Ice coated his cheeks. Unable to see five strides into the mist, he let his eyelids laze and relied on Telepathy. Men and women stood atop the town wall, loosing arrows and mana bolts against the incoming elemental fighters. Nine of out ten projectiles missed, more than one dealing friendly-fire damage to Blademasters and Knights dueling melee elementals.

And a terrified cow died in agony.

“Healer!” a woman shouted. “I need a healer!” She was dragging an unconscious man to the gate.

Sorath Backstabbed to the pair, offered a health potion. “Here.”

She snatched it with shaking fingers, poured it into her husband’s mouth. His legs were broken. A broken ice spear, still imbued, stuck out of his stomach. Cuts on his arms exposed pearly bone. He would’ve bled to death if his wounds weren’t frozen. The potion took effect. Wounds thawed and stitched together in meaty weaves. Bones pieced together. She ripped out the spear, blood squirting and freezing mid-air.

The healing magic waned. “Potion,” she barked.

He passed her one. He had plenty—taken from Royal Guard stalls.

“Healer!” a man yelled from ahead.

“Healer!” someone younger screamed.

“Healer!”

“Healer!”

The calls were continuous, and Priests and Shamans attended to them, gold bursts and shining emerald groves going off left, right, and center.

Sorath Backstabbed to an unattended Guard. “Here.”

He too snatched it wordlessly, then started pulling ice arrows from a Farmer’s chest slowly one at a time. Star-shaped holes in internal organs filled. Skin regrew from the edges like flowing honey. After the third arrow, the Farmer groaned awake, begging, “My cattle. Please. Save my cattle.”

“Don’t speak,” the Guard said, motioning for a potion.

Sorath tossed one and sprinted ahead, preemptively dodging enemy and friendly projectiles as they entered Telepathy’s range. He Backstabbed to an Ice Warrior. Psycha-Cres. His wrist flicked. Crackling indigo bifurcated the construct hip to hip and severed the right wrist. Its scimitar shattered under his boot.

But the Ice Warrior’s top half pulled itself forward on one hand, soulless. Cracks spread from its knuckles. Fingers broke.

Then a dozen soft pops went off.

From ahead, Lord Hyera shouted with an enhanced voice, “Mortars!”

Screeching whistles descended in pitch, following eggs of dense mana. The ground shook in each explosion. Dirt clouds further obstructed vision.

One person’s terrified mana became emotionless, and a woman at their side screeched, “Healer!”

The last egg was still whistling when more pops went off. Five hurtled toward Sorath.

Leaping sideways, he dodged a blast and yanked a man out of the way with Telekinesis. His teeth vibrated in the fallout. His ears rang. He stumbled into a wonky run, missed an arrow by a finger length. His ankle was sprained, throbbing. His own health bar appeared, a sliver missing. He bit off a vial’s cork, sucked out strawberry and watermelon goodness, sickly sweet. Soothing mana rushed down his arteries. Pain evaporated as his health bar faded away.

“Healer!” the same woman cried louder, carrying a dead teenage girl that was missing an arm and had matching fiery hair. “Healer!” Her distress blotted out everyone else’s. “Healer!” She slipped on ice. The corpse’s neck broke and so did her spirit. She fell onto her knees, sobbing.

Fewer pops went off.

Sorath ran past a barn and didn’t look at the bodies inside. Not one animal was alive, and he didn’t care. The cattle weren’t his goal. These injured people weren’t his goal. There were too many to help, too many downed with each mortar blast. He had to remind himself that he was risking his life on this battlefield for one reason alone.

Loot!

It had been years since the last event. Far too long. The gods had been slacking off.

As an egg was a second from landing on him, he Backstabbed to an Ice Warrior, slashed its glowing core for a heart, and ran on.

A dying Knight passed his boots, and he threw a health potion, then doubled-back, realizing the Knight’s multifaceted mana was Isen’s. The world stopped for Sorath. Whistles quieted. A hundred minds fuzzed.

“Shit,” he spat under his breath, knelt, and heaved on the ruined face plate. Blood was in Isen’s ears. His nose, teeth, and jaw were broken. His skull was dented. Sorath emptied a vial down his throat, and mana flowed to his head. Bones shifted back into place. Fractures mended. Another vial sprang the jelly in his head back into proper shape.

Pop. One Ice Mortar left. The mist started to thin.

Isen groaned awake, eyelids fluttering. “Sor—”

“Got to go.” Sorath bolted for the impact site, his muscles burning, his stamina nearing depletion. He reached into his pouch… and found only empty flasks. He came to a skidding halt on gravel. Palms on knees, he fought for air.

A larger Ice Warrior that slipped through his attention chopped with a greatsword.

He rolled left. A sharp stone cut his cheekbone. Blood dribbled into his mouth.

The Ice Warrior smoothly stepped into a diagonal uppercut.

Hexus. Awkwardly Sorath parried, but the brief contact of metal on ice was enough to inflict Fragility and Temporal Lethargy. Telenka. He grabbed the Ice Warrior’s chest and squeezed. Ice shattered like abysmal-quality glass. Muscles in his neck painfully twisted as he shielded his face a split second too late, a deep ache in his left eye. He uncorked a vial and drank, imagining the gods were watching this with glee in their eyes.

A pop was supposed to go off but didn’t.

The mist suddenly dispersed, and at the town boundary, a golden light beam punched a hole into the clouds—from a Legendary Loot Gem drop.

Event cleared.

The lucky Blademaster in dragonhide cheered, holding the pineapple-sized sapphire up for all these injured people and dead animals to see. Lord Hyera was one of few people who cheered as well.

Sorath slumped onto his back, rolled downhill into a ditch. Snowflakes landed on his face, and he let it pile on while his stamina gradually refilled, and even when he was re-energized, he stayed lying as a corpse for endless minutes while life carried on without him. Minutes became hours. Hours became days. Eventually, he accepted the Legendary Loot Gem wasn’t his.

He bemoaned, Maybe if I left Isen to die, I could’ve made it. That, and stocking up on stamina potions since I can afford some now. I also wasted so much time giving out health potions. Lessons learned, I guess. Maybe next time… whenever the next random event will be, which will probably take years again and won’t even drop a Legendary.

And mentioning Isen… He was already up and marching.

“What do you want?” Sorath croaked.

“I think you may have saved my life, Sorath,” he said in a genuine sombre voice.

“I did. Your skull had a big dent. Your mana was fading. You probably had a minute or less left.”

“I see. For that, I can never fully repay you, but I hope you can accept this as a token of my gratitude.”

Sorath’s eyes creaked open, then he was instantly standing straight. Telenka. The Legendary Loot Gem darted into his arms. Its cool, watery mana mixed with his own. It was real. It wasn’t a prank. “How did you get it? It must’ve cost a million gold at least.”

Isen’s usual arrogance returned. “I called in some long-overdue family favors, and with skilled negotiation, the trade was easily arranged. It may’ve included my manasteeds, just letting you know.”

“Fascinating, but thank you. Now, some privacy, please.”

“Oh, alright,” Isen chuckled and marched off to help the wounded.

Sorath grabbed a special vial from his pouch just for this special occasion. A highly-viscous, silvery, sparkling liquid wobbled inside—High-Quality Luck Potion. He had saved years worth of gold from weekly allowances and the odd job for this. He removed the cork and swallowed in one gulp. It was tasteless. An indescribable sensation swam in his stomach.

No going back now. I’ve waited all my life for one of these. Here goes…

He fed the gem a bucket of mana. The gem flashed with the same teal as the lightning earlier. The weight on his arms lightened many fold. Blackish-blue silky fabric, unnaturally cool to the touch, was folded into a neat square. He shook it out, finding a very ordinary-looking hooded cloak with a circular runic symbol on the back. This better be good. “Unveil,” he commanded.

[Binds on Equip] Vetara’s Embrace

It is said this frigid fiber hooded cloak was crafted by Vetara as a prize.

Durability: 1000/1000

+5 Dexterity

+10 Vitality

+20 Intelligence

+3 Wisdom

Mild Climate: Shifts your body temperature toward a comfortable range

Shadows: Shrouds your body in subtle darkness

Imperishable: Increases this item’s durability. May also improve its defensive properties.

Set Effect (6 Pieces): Runic Echo

Flawless. Absolutely flawless.

Sorath pouched his High-Quality Hooded Silk Cloak, then accepted Vetara’s Embrace. Its latent mana reacted with his own, the frigid fibers binding to his soul. The Mild Climate enchantment flooded him with a fair amount of heat, less than he had imagined, but a fair amount that defrosted his numb fingers and ears. The darkness shroud was very subtle, and his mind was noticeably less-foggy, arguably the most important change.

He was ready to take on Scarlett Freya. It only cost Greenwood a couple of lives and not too many cattle, chicken, and sheep.

Sorath rattled awake with cold sweat dripping from his chin. Immediately, his hand grabbed a fistful of his cloak. His matte-black High-Quality Silk Cloak that he had crafted before graduation and not Vetara’s Embrace. Rummaging through his soul inventory, the only other cloak he found was the bagged slimy cloak from yesterday. No luck potions either.

Just a dream.

An ultra-vivid dream akin to his nightmares of his mother’s death five years ago. Except this one had been far more detailed, more lucid. He would swear it had actually happened if it weren’t for his cloak and…

“Unveil class skills,” he mouthed in the divine language. On total darkness, Indigo letters and numbers were written. His pulse thudded at his temples. His eyes flicked down the list.

[Passive] Telepathy (Intermediate 7)

Yes, undoubtedly, that had been a dream. None of it had happened, but was it a vision of times to come? Were ice elemental men going to lay siege to Greenwood? That was unheard of. There wasn’t one record in the history tomes of elementals taking humanoid forms. But Ice Mortar attacks? That was a real possibility. Exceedingly rare, but a possibility nonetheless.

And Isen, that piss-haired pile of ogre dung, had traded away his precious, precious manasteeds for a Legendary Loot Gem to give away. To Sorath Adanell of all people. The Isen that Sorath (and a lot of other people) knew very well would never do that. Wealth was everything to the Lothar family. They were the exact opposite of generous even if someone saved their eldest son’s life.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be elemental men; it was going to be Freya’s bandits. Or maybe the vision had just been a dream and nothing more—his mind conjuring wild wish fulfillment fantasies. Finding a Legendary Loot Gem was one of his greatest desires since childhood. Wearing a cloak like Vetara’s Embrace, he could single-handedly bring destruction to Freya’s gang. He could start his own faction with the whole set.

And another inconsistency. Health Potions of all qualities were expensive. The Royal Guards at their food and potion stores hadn’t allowed him more than five low-quality vials.

The more Sorath replayed the dream in his head, the more farcical it seemed.

Massaging pressure points on his face, he took steady breaths for a solid minute. Mana settled in his gut. He stretched his neck, joints cracking. He felt his way out of this bushy crevice. The moon was out, big and hook-like. The breeze was warmer. The cold snap had passed, but a harsh winter was on its way.

Downhill, nocturnal animals were having a fun night. Owls, moles, rabbits, a fox, and rats. Always plenty of rats, wherever life flourished. A starving owl swooped down and clawed one for dinner, feeling a tad sleepy; its bedtime was soon, possibly dawn in two to four hours. A different owl confirmed the time.

Not risking another sleep-in, Sorath scarfed down a serving of hardbread and cabbages and bear meat, then resumed his journey southward—to location seven, the nearest known scouting outpost at forty leagues. Fifteen leagues remaining.

Moonlight shimmered on a pond. Sorath leaped across a stream, mentally glancing at nocturnal fish. Their minds were simple. Eat. Sleep. Be careful of danger. Like rats but less cowardly.

The gods wrote to him, mana billowing in his chest.

Skill Advancement: Telepathy (Intermediate 8)

Passive Effect: You are able to sense mana within a 180 stride range, including the feelings and verbalized thoughts of living things

Intermediate Bonus: You are able to selectively block mana from your sense

Goosebumps warred up and down his body. He stood unmoving, tried to rationally hand-wave this away: on average, Telepathy’s advancements had been once every… nine or so months since he had naturally learned the skill as a five-year-old. It had been fifteen months since the last advancement, so this wasn’t unexpected, and the jelly in his head (the part in charge of crafting dreams) knew it. To say this was proof that the dream had been a vision was a wide faithful leap.

No, I don’t need to run back to Greenwood with tidings of imminent doom. They’ll laugh in my face—like they did when I told them about my visions of Mother. I don’t even have a skill for seeing the future, which says a lot. Maybe all my so-call visions were just coincidence.

Teachers at the School of Adventuring taught the most plausible and simplest explanation was usually the correct one. Their teachings hadn’t led Sorath astray so far. He nodded to himself and refocused on his mission, his new duty. People were counting on him, whether they knew it or not, whether they liked him or not. He was doing this for them, Cyesten’s innocents. That’s what he wanted to believe.

Sorath wrote a journal entry, putting this bizarre episode to rest.