The first three days of travel were little more than walking and breathing.
Richard did not rush, only matching Ryn's pace,
halting him whenever his power surged too wildly.
"Don't force it."
"Listen to your own breath."
By the third night, Ryn leaned against a jagged rock.
Sweat had dried into a bitter crust,
but the wounds that should have ached only felt tight, almost inert.
He stared at his palms.
A faint warmth pulsed beneath his skin—
fragile, elusive, but undeniably there.
On the fourth and fifth days, Ryn began to grasp it.
Not completely.
Not steadily.
But enough to summon it without harming himself.
His breathing found a steady rhythm,
his movements became economical, deliberate.
And that day, the world around him shifted.
The low, tangled forest thinned and vanished,
leaving jagged stone cliffs in its place.
The wind cut like a knife, dry and biting, carrying the scent of barren heights.
Every step was a challenge, the path treacherous, unforgiving.
No shelter, no comfort, no village to hide in.
"We've left the Eastern lands,"
Richard said, his eyes scanning the vertical cliffs that loomed ahead.
"From here on, there will be nothing but this harsh land.
No one will find us. No one will help."
Ryn nodded.
Every sense alert, every nerve straining.
This was a road of isolation,
where mistakes could mean death.
The first Calami cave gaped open in the middle of the cliff,
its entrance perched high above.
Inside, the hollow stretched into a vast chamber,
and the intermittent sound of something breathing echoed back at them.
"A small cave," Richard said, as if commenting on the weather.
"Two levels. About two hundred of them."
Ryn swallowed hard.
Two hundred… not a small number.
"You take the lead. I'll watch," Richard said.
He produced a necklace with a pale white stone shaped like a teardrop.
"Auroral Tear," he explained.
"It will shine… only when you stand in the darkness."
"Go."
Descending layer by layer felt like walking into the belly of some enormous beast.
Growls grew louder, the scent of blood thickened,
the numbers increasing exactly as Richard had said—about a hundred per level.
Ryn stumbled, scratched, and was slammed around,
but each time he fell, he rose faster than before.
Not because of his body—
but because of his heart.
At the innermost chamber, an unnatural silence awaited.
No scent of the Calami.
No growls.
Only bodies littered across the stone floor—human, animal, female.
Some still breathing.
Some pregnant.
Some just given birth.
And some… utterly still.
No sound.
No eyes.
No consciousness.
Ryn stood frozen,
his sword heavier than ever.
"This is the Womb Chamber,"
"And they… are their vessels."
"They reproduce rapidly. One week of gestation,
one month to reach maturity, and the vessels can endure for months…
until death claims them."
He raised his hand.
A soft light rose from the ground.
Countless spirits gradually appeared, turning toward them.
No words—only bows, as if offering thanks.
Ryn felt his chest tighten.
He clenched his fists, unsure whether to pray or apologize.
The spirits floated upward,
vanishing into the cave ceiling and out into the sky.
"Release… has no single form," Richard said.
"Some are burned. Some buried. Some left for the cave to collapse."
Afterwards, they explored the cave, destroyed the Womb Chamber, and sealed the entrance.
Standing outside, feeling the wind on their faces, Ryn drew a deep breath—
steady, unshaken.
He said nothing.
Richard asked nothing.
But both understood perfectly:
this was not the last cave,
and Ryn… was changing, little by little.
Ryn held out the Auroral Tear to return it to Richard,
but Richard did not take it.
He shook his head slightly, then said:
"It's not mine. It's a gift from Elder Edrin's niece (Edrin Vale, the village chief).
She asked me to give it to you before we set out on our journey."
Ryn stared at the Auroral Tear for a moment,
then carefully placed it into his bag.
On the eighth day, Ryn awoke before any call.
No tension.
No lingering pain.
He rose and stretched,
his breathing in perfect rhythm, effortless.
The power that once surged unevenly now flowed calmly,
as if it had always been part of his body.
Richard watched quietly,
then nodded once.
"Set."
Not praise.
A confirmation.
After that, training changed.
No caves.
No growls.
No blood.
Richard slowed their pace, stopping often.
"Listen," he said,
closing his eyes.
Ryn obeyed.
At first, he heard only the wind, the leaves, the sound of his own footsteps.
"Not enough," Richard said.
They sat in silence for a long while,
until Ryn could start distinguishing which sounds belonged,
and which should not exist.
"If the forest is silent," Richard said, eyes still closed,
"be alert."
Ryn frowned.
"Silent… is that bad?"
Richard opened his eyes and looked around.
"The forest is never silent.
If it is… everything has already fled."
He taught him to read the wind,
the scent of the earth,
the faint trace of blood—too little or too strong.
"Scents that shouldn't be here usually arrive before things that shouldn't,"
Richard said.
Ryn began to understand that survival
did not start when the sword was drawn.
It began long before—before even the first strike.
On the eighth day, no enemies appeared,
yet Ryn felt as if the entire world were speaking to him.
The wind showed him the way.
The scents warned of danger.
Silence… spoke of death.
And Richard stood beside him,
letting him learn on his own.
From the morning of the ninth day, Richard no longer led the way.
"You lead," he said, a single word, then stepped back.
Ryn nodded without question.
He slowed his pace,
feet lighter on the earth, breathing steady.
He listened.
Not just to his own steps,
but to the snapping of branches,
the wind whistling through the cliffs,
the wings of birds fleeing faster than normal.
By the tenth day, he began to smell it.
Not the Calami he knew—
not the stench of the herd,
not the sharp bite of the smaller ones.
This scent was heavy, oppressive,
pressing down on the air around him.
Ryn stopped abruptly,
raising his hand.
Richard halted too, asking nothing.
"Calami…" Ryn whispered.
"But not like any I've faced before."
Richard stepped closer, inhaling slowly.
"Good," he said.
"You're beginning to tell them apart."
He glanced toward the unusually silent forest to the left.
"Calami Mauler," he said casually.
"The bear Calami."
Ryn swallowed hard.
"About three meters tall. Thick hide. Muscles like iron. Steel will not bite into that hide."
Richard looked him directly in the eyes.
"If you see one, do not fight."
Ryn nodded without hesitation.
Richard continued,
"It's not your time yet."
He turned, leading them along the cliffside, taking a detour that would last several more hours.
All the while, the scent followed intermittently,
gradually fading.
Ryn did not look back.
He began to understand: survival did not mean winning every fight.
It meant knowing which battles should never be started.