After the fight with the troll, the world shrank to the size of the grimy ceiling in Zeno’s hut.

  I lay on the straw mattress, trying not to breathe too deeply. Every expansion of my ribcage sent a sharp, stabbing jolt through my side. Zeno had patched me up with his magic—I remembered only a strange greenish haze and the nauseating crunch of bones sliding back into place—but healing wasn’t instant absolution. Magic had merely “stitched” the edges together. The rest, my body had to finish on its own.

  And it was doing a terrible job.

  “Lie still,” Zeno’s voice came from the hearth. “If you get up now, your ribs will turn back into a puzzle. I pulled more rot and clotted blood out of you than most grown men carry in their whole bodies.”

  I tried to respond, but only a dry rasp escaped my throat. A gray veil hung over my vision.

  “Biological degradation: 38%. Localized inflammation. Energy deficit.”

  My internal analyst kept generating reports, ignoring the fact that I had nearly died.

  Zeno walked over and sat on a stool, studying me with undisguised curiosity.

  “Yesterday, when you fought that mountain of meat… your magic was strange. You called it ‘Will to Live’?”

  I closed my eyes, cursing my weakness from the day before. On the way back, staggering with the carcass and half-delirious from pain, I must have told the old man more than I should have.

  Why did I even tell him about the skill? Damn the delirium and the backlash.

  “It’s… just a survival mechanism,” I forced out. “The body reacts faster than conscious thought. It optimizes processes.”

  “Optimizes?” Zeno snorted. “You nearly burned yourself out from the inside. Your flesh is a vessel, boy. Pour an ocean into it through a funnel, and it bursts. Don’t you dare use that again until your bones harden.”

  He left, and I was alone with the ringing in my ears.

  It took three days before I could sit up without nearly blacking out. The bone plates I’d stripped from the wolf lay in a heap in the corner—my “project” waiting to continue—but right now I was weaker than a newborn kitten.

  On the fourth day, a new problem arrived.

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  I heard them before Zeno did. Acoustic sensitivity, sharpened by the background hum of [Will to Live], caught the rhythmic clang of metal on metal and the heavy tread of shod boots. Two miles out. Maybe less.

  “We have visitors,” I whispered, trying to slide off the mattress.

  “Stay put,” Zeno snapped, grabbing his staff. “Hunters. They’re looking for ‘anomalies.’ After the microwave you set off inside that troll, the forest’s radiating like a mana cesspit. They won’t ignore it.”

  I stood anyway, bracing against the wall. The pain in my side was dull, but manageable.

  Option one: remain hidden inside. Detection probability—70%. Zeno won’t be able to mask my signature if they’re carrying search artifacts.

  “I need to go into the woods,” I said. “If they find a ‘gifted’ child whose mana operates through physical laws, they’ll dissect both of us.”

  I stepped outside, barely moving my legs. The air was cold; it helped keep me conscious. I focused. I didn’t need sparks. I needed silence.

  I activated [Will to Live] at minimal output—just enough to accelerate cognition.

  Interference. Acoustic counterphase.

  Each step I took was accompanied by a micro-pulse of mana that canceled out the sound of my foot touching dry leaves. I moved like a shadow, slowly circling the hut and slipping into a dense patch of brambles.

  They appeared ten minutes later. Two of them. Their armor glinted dully, the Order’s emblem stamped across their chests. In their hands—search rods that twitched nervously, pointing toward the hut.

  “There was a significant discharge here,” one of the hunters said, his voice dry and emotionless. “Old man, seen anything unusual?”

  Zeno stood in the doorway, looking like nothing more than a senile forest hermit.

  “Nothing but my gout, gentlemen. As for discharges… a troll died nearby the other day. Rotting now. Might be your ‘background noise.’”

  I lay in the bushes, barely breathing. One of the hunters turned in my direction. His gaze swept across the ferns. My heart began to pound harder, and [Will to Live] instantly reacted, trying to accelerate me for a sprint.

  No. Stop.

  If I bolted now, the surge of energy would expose me. My ribs wouldn’t survive the movement anyway. I forced myself to slow down. Redirected a fraction of power toward suppressing my heartbeat and lowering my body temperature.

  The hunter stepped within five paces. I could see every scratch on his bracers. I could see the indicator trembling on his rod.

  “All clear,” he called to his partner. “Signal’s diffused. Probably residual radiation from the beast.”

  They left as quickly as they’d come. When the sound of their horses finally faded, I collapsed face-first into the moss. My body trembled, and a thin stream of blood trickled from my nose again.

  Zeno approached a minute later and unceremoniously flipped me onto my back.

  “Alive?” For the first time, something like respect edged into his voice. “You hid right under their noses, using mana as a dampener. Idiotic idea. But it worked.”

  “Plan… minimum energy… maximum effect,” I rasped, fighting not to black out.

  “Get inside. You’ve still got a troll to butcher once your ribs finish knitting. We need that bone armor. The world’s getting tighter—and soon your formulas won’t be enough.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Today, I survived not because I was strong.

  But because I knew how to calculate—and when to keep my mouth shut.

  Zeno was right. The skill [Will to Live] isn’t a gift.

  It’s a cursed line of credit—one I repay with my own health.

  And next time, the price may be more than I can afford.