Days turned into weeks, weeks slipped into months, and Arthur's world became a constantly moving landscape of dust, smoke, and brutality. About eight months had passed since the fall of his home, and the eight-year-old boy who had fled the Northwing mansion was slowly being rewritten. His pajamas had given way to worn leather and wool clothes, his once pale face now marked by the sun and biting wind. He was thinner, his muscles harder, his movements quieter, almost furtive.

The routine was a cycle of treacherous ambushes, swift plunder, and makeshift camps. Arthur participated in minor tasks – cleaning weapons, lighting fires, carrying burdens too heavy for his body. He observed. Everything. He mentally registered every affinity he perceived in the looters, the way mana manifested in each. Kragen, smelling of embers and with hardened skin, was a Fire and Earth Enhancer. Ragnar, the brute, a Fire Enhancer. Thorne, silent and fast, perhaps Wind, but with an almost disguised aura. At times, he caught himself trying to feel the group's mana pressure to calculate which Essence Scale Phase they might be in and the danger level of each. The looters' weaknesses and strengths, their fights over larger portions of meat, the brutal hierarchy dictated by strength and cunning. His childish mind, forced to mature, analyzed everything, cataloging every habit, every vice, every weak point.

The mercenaries had their rituals. Before a raid, they would spit on the ground and draw shapeless symbols on it. Afterward, they would paint the faces of the dead with ash. And the war cries – guttural shouts that gave him goosebumps – were a constant reminder that he was a pawn, not a member. To them, he was "Little Mouse," or "Whistle," derogatory nicknames he accepted in silence, but which, internally, he felt would one day become ironic. His place was on the periphery, to observe and learn. And when he was alone, under the faded moonlight or the dense shadow of a tree, he would touch Louis's opal ring, twirling it on his finger, a silent mantra of revenge. At times, he tried to recall his mother's voice, her warmth. "Mom..." he would whisper to the wind, but the sound died in his throat. He could no longer remember her voice clearly. The loss was still an abyss.

Life was hard, but Arthur resisted. And his affinity for Wind, his best-kept secret, was his silent companion, as he feared what might happen if they discovered he possessed a mana core. He practiced his abilities in secret, away from curious eyes. Small gusts of air to light a fire faster, to move a dry leaf towards an insect, to feel the current moving through the forest. A subtle, chilling sensation at the nape of his neck, a slight shiver in his ear, his skin tingling with mana. This was the essence of his affinity. Everything indicated that, despite their brute force and general contempt, he was a potential Arcanist, someone with the ease to expel and shape mana externally. It was a cruel irony: a gift of delicacy for someone living in brutality.

It was on a gray morning, when the air was thick and the mist crept along the ground, that Kragen's band decided to hunt "Iron Snout." The Giant Boar was a local legend, an enormous and ancient beast, scarred by past battles and with a blind eye – a wounded predator, guided by pain and instinct. Its eyes, red with fury, resembled Arthur's in his worst nightmares. The animal's brutality, its stubbornness to survive, seemed to mirror what he himself was becoming.

The action was swift and savage. Iron Snout burst from the mist like a mountain of fury and tusks, its paws crushing the leaf-covered ground. Kragen D'Elijah charged first, a Fire and Earth Enhancer, his body stiffened by mana, his axe emitting a reddish glow as it cut the air. Zul and Kael, reckless brutes, tried to flank, their blades singing. The Enhancers moved with surprising speed, their sword strikes fortified with mana, tearing the air with dry snaps that Arthur could barely keep up with. It was a dance of death and power, a battle where mana was not just a gift, but the very extension of will. Wind-imbued arrows whizzed through the trees, and the ground trembled with the boar's charges, which seemed covered by an aura of fury. The forest was a chaos of shouts, grunts, and the incessant clang of metal and magic.

Zul, blinded by the euphoria of the hunt, charged recklessly. Kragen growled an order, but it was too late. In an instant, Arthur saw his opportunity. A slight tremor at the nape of his neck. He channeled mana. Not a strong gust, but a subtle breath of Wind, directed not at the boar, but at Zul. The dust and dry leaves around Zul suddenly rose, blinding him for a split second. He stumbled, and the Boar, taking advantage of the flaw, charged with blind fury, its tusks tearing the man's chest. Zul fell, without time to scream.

The chaos intensified. Kael, furious at his companion's death, attempted a desperate maneuver, but his aim was impaired. An archer from the band prepared a vital arrow. Arthur's skin tingled. With an almost imperceptible pulse of mana, he deflected the archer's arrow by a hair's breadth, making it embed in a tree instead of the boar. Iron Snout charged again, crushing Kael against a tree trunk, a wet, heavy sound.

No one saw the magic, but the sequence of "luck" in Kragen's attacks (who managed to land crucial blows after the deaths) and the "misfortunes" of Zul and Kael created a strange tension among the survivors. Thorne, the Cold Gaze, whose eyes seemed to see beyond flesh, felt the subtle breeze that seemed to appear from nowhere, and his gaze lingered on Arthur for an instant longer than usual, a silent distrust.

Kragen, oblivious to the subtlety, roared in triumph. He had brought down the boar, the hero of the hunt, without realizing the small hands that had manipulated fate.

During the brutal butchering of the Giant Boar – the cracking of bones, the gushing of blood, the strong smell of meat – the looters chattered about the beast's value.

"Those mana tusks from Iron Snout... Old Gondrik in Sinoparis would pay a fortune for them," Ragnar grumbled, as he pulled out a tusk with effort. "That crazy old man. Collects every piece of creature with mana. To him, 'dead things' have a value that even living people don't."

Arthur absorbed every word. Sinoparis. A place where magic was valued, where "dead things" could have value. Where perhaps knowledge was not a joke. A beacon.

The threat of the Upthere, however, was real. On a subsequent journey, Arthur and the band sighted, in the distance, silver and dark blue banners, the colors of the Upthere. Well-equipped patrols, marching with a discipline that contrasted violently with the ragged savagery of the looters. Kragen and his band avoided the confrontation, hiding among the trees. "They weren't monsters. Arthur thought. They were men. Like my father. Like James. Like me. Just colder. And that's why... they won." Their organization, their calculated ruthlessness, were more terrifying than the chaotic brutality of the looters. It was the cruelty he needed to learn to fight.

Rage grew in Arthur. Vengeance against Ragnar (and by extension, against the Upthere) drove him. Louis's ring was his totem, touched in moments of reflection, a constant reminder of his purpose. He yearned for knowledge, for strength. Sinoparis became the next step. He just needed an opportunity.