“Everyone, gather here.” Twilight settled over the hillside. At Boran’s quiet command, the flock of sheep, which had been grazing lazily, began to move as one. They converged without the guidance of a barking dog or the prodding of a shepherd’s staff, moving in perfect, unnatural order. It was the work of magic. In his eighteen years, Boran had come to understand magic through three core principles. First, if you desired something strongly enough, you could achieve it by exchanging your magical power for the result. Second, giving that desire a voice—speaking it aloud—made the process easier and consumed less energy. And third, the more difficult the wish, the more power it demanded, until it became impossible altogether. What constituted ‘difficulty,’ however, was frustratingly vague. Magic could be astonishingly generous, granting a complex wish with ease, yet at other times it was inexplicably stingy, refusing even the simplest of requests. Just days ago, when he’d faced the leopard beast, the simple command to ‘stop’ had barely slowed the creature, a far easier task than willing it dead. And yet, he could command hundreds of ordinary sheep simultaneously without the slightest strain. On the other hand, imbuing a slingstone with enough power and speed to shatter the beast’s skull, and ensuring it struck true, had been laughably easy. Calculating the power consumed, Boran figured he could have repeated the attack a hundred times over. Lost in these thoughts as he herded the last of the sheep into their pen, a faint scent drifted to him on the evening breeze. It was blood. The smell was similar to the one he’d caught days ago when Nakri died, but his keen nose told him this wasn’t human. Nor was it sheep or leopard. Wolf? The scent was unmistakable, the same as the one he’d killed and butchered a year past. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a figure appeared, silhouetted against the setting sun. It was Batyr, a dead wolf slung over one shoulder, making his way toward the house. “Evening, Boran,” the man called out. “Mind if I stay the night? This wolf is for my lodging.” A wolf was a valuable prize. Its hide would fetch a good price in the village, and while the meat wasn't as tender as farm-raised stock, it was far from bad. It was more than fair payment for a single night’s shelter. Boran nodded. “There aren’t many wolves left around here. How far did you have to go for that one?” For the past few years, Boran had patrolled the area, eliminating any wolf packs he found. As a result, predators had all but vanished from the immediate vicinity. Besides, Boranis Rise itself was too desolate to support much wildlife to begin with. “Found it scouting near the Altan Sayan Range.” The Altan Sayan Range lay even farther west of Boranis Rise, which already felt like the edge of the world. The name was fitting; the peaks stretched up as if to pierce the heavens themselves. Some called it the World Wall, for it rose like an insurmountable wall. “It must have taken you days just to reach the foothills.” “With my stride, half a day was enough.” Boran wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew he could manage the same feat if he put his mind to it. He simply made a mental note that this wizard was no braggart and kept his guard up. A short while later, the two sat around a campfire in front of the house, sharing a dinner of wolf meat stew. Batyr looked up at the darkening sky and let out a low whistle. “The stars are incredibly bright out here.” “My mother used to say this hill is one of the highest places in the world, aside from the Altan Sayan Range, of course.” “And what a place that is. I saw it up close today, and I’m even more impressed. Not even a noble would have an easy time crossing it.” “I’ve heard that nobles possess godlike power. Can’t they simply leap over a mountain range?” “Not all of them, my friend. The heads of the great houses… they might as well be gods, it’s true.” Batyr went on to boast that he had once seen the head of House Samarkhan flatten a small hill with a mere wave of his hand. “Oh.” Hearing this, Boran felt a sudden, sharp twinge of shame. Sometimes, he’d entertained the foolish notion that his own power, so much greater than he’d once thought, might be on par with the nobility. Batyr’s story made it painfully clear just how insignificant his abilities truly were. “By the way,” Batyr said, changing the subject. “Doesn’t it get lonely, living out here all by yourself?” “Of course it does. But I’m used to it.” “Why not find a girl from the village to live with you?” “Who would want to spend her whole life herding sheep in a place like this?” “I’m sure there are plenty of young women who wouldn’t mind living with a handsome young man like yourself.” Boran managed an awkward smile at the jest. When he was a boy visiting the village, a few girls had followed him around, but all that ended after his mother died and he’d had his falling out with the elders. They’d likely all grown up and faced reality. Marrying him meant a lifetime of exile on this desolate hill. “Well, don’t be so grim about it. Who knows? You might meet a passing traveler, a young lady, and make a connection.” Considering Batyr was the only traveler to pass this way in eighteen years, it was a long shot. They exchanged a few more lighthearted remarks, then fell into a comfortable silence, watching the dancing flames of the campfire. It was Boran who finally broke it. “Why go to all this trouble?” “Hm?” “I don’t know what the village chief promised you, but with your skills, you could be making much more money in a much easier way.” In any town, a man like Batyr could simply settle in, declare himself its protector, and demand whatever wealth and women he wanted. Who would dare refuse him? It would be a hundred times more comfortable than trekking through the dust and staying in a shepherd’s hut just to hunt a single magical beast. A man who could journey to the Altan Sayan Range and back in a day certainly didn’t lack for ability. Besides, the villagers hardly deserved such loyalty. Batyr was only staying with Boran because the village had tried to charge him an outrageous price for a room. If Boran were in his shoes, he would have smashed a few buildings, taken what he was owed, and left. “They are pitiful people.” “In what way?” “They live every day trembling in fear on this remote frontier, with no wizard to protect them.” The old knight’s voice was gentle, as if he were teaching a son. While Boranis Rise was relatively safe due to its barrenness, the fertile lands beyond teemed with countless magical beasts that preyed on humans. He explained that it was the pride of a wizard, an inheritor of the gods’ power, to shield common folk from such creatures. Even though he no longer served a noble house, he couldn’t simply stand by and do nothing. This was a far cry from the stories Boran’s mother had told him. The nobles she spoke of were oppressors and exploiters, and their knights were nothing more than loyal dogs. Noticing Boran’s confused expression, the old knight smiled and handed him a bowl of sheep’s milk. “Well, not everyone thinks the way I do. If there are ten thousand people in the world, there are ten thousand ways of thinking.” The next morning, Boran cleaned the sheep pen with a simple wave of his hand, his mind replaying the previous night’s conversation. Pride. The word had left a deep impression on him. To think that a knight wasn’t just a slave bowing to a noble’s power, but someone who found meaning in protecting the common man. It didn’t make him want to seek out a lord and pledge his service, but it did soften his hardened perspective. Perhaps, if there were more people like Batyr, living under a noble’s rule might not be so bad after all. That aside, how am I going to tell him the beast is already dead? He’d planned to let Batyr search for a few days before giving up, but he didn’t want a good man like him wasting his time in this empty place. The problem was, he’d thrown the creature’s corpse into a deep ravine days ago. Dragging the rotting carcass back up would be a chore, and worse, the traces of his own magic on it would be obvious. It went without saying that if anyone came looking for a wizard in this area, Boran would be the prime suspect. Sighing, Boran gestured again. The accumulated sheep dung and urine in the pen flew into a neat pile in the backyard. Once it dried in the arid climate, it would make for excellent fuel. With his chores done, he had some time to spare. Maybe I should go look for the old man. If Batyr was traveling far again, finding him would be impossible. But Boran had overheard him say he planned to patrol closer to the hill today, which meant there was a chance. Boran focused his mind, his body lifting effortlessly until he floated just above the roof of his house. He then whispered the spell. “Human Detection.” His perception immediately exploded outward. His vision, normally limited to a hundred meters or so, sharpened until he could distinguish individual blades of grass kilometers away. His hearing and sense of smell amplified even further, allowing him to perceive the faint rustle of an insect’s legs and the tang of formic acid from a nearby anthill. Yet his mind filtered out the flood of useless information, focusing only on the presence of a human. There. He turned his head sharply as a sound reached him. With his enhanced sight, he saw Batyr. The old knight was panting, blood dripping from his forehead and a gash on his shoulder. Facing him, its body half-decayed, was the leopard beast Boran had killed days ago. It was on its feet, roaring. Who in the world would do something like this? Batyr gritted his teeth, staring at the undead horror. When living things died, their final moments were a desperate cling to life. The magic within them, the key to their power, would try to fulfill that final wish, forcibly reanimating the broken body. The result was an undead spirit. For this reason, it was standard practice for a hunter to either absorb or disperse the magic from a slain beast’s corpse. But whoever had killed this leopard was either ignorant of that rule or had deliberately ignored it. Given that a magical beast would instinctively devour a fallen foe to absorb its power, the culprit had to be a wizard. Judging by the hole in its skull, a wizard skilled with projectiles. “■■■■—!!” A deafening roar tore from the leopard’s rotting throat, a sound like a death rattle echoing across the empty sky. The comparison was frighteningly apt. “Take this!” Batyr shouted, thrusting his hands forward. A glowing arrow of light shot from his palms, an attack powerful enough to pierce steel plate. But the moment the arrow touched the shadows wreathing the leopard’s body, it simply dissolved, its light scattering into nothing. The magic protecting the creature was far stronger than his own. Having neutralized the attack, the leopard seemed to decide it would fight magic with magic. It melted into the ground, its form disappearing into the earth, only to rematerialize in the shadow behind Batyr an instant later. Batyr threw up his arms to defend himself, but the beast’s claws raked across his forearm, and a hot spray of blood erupted from the wound. If his body hadn’t been tempered with magic, the attack would have taken his arm, if not torn open his torso. For an ordinary man, it would have been instantly fatal. This… this is no mere knight’s foe. This would take a low-ranking noble, at the very least. It was said that undeath made a creature several times stronger, but if a skilled knight like himself could barely stand against it, it must have been a formidable beast even when it was alive. Who in the world could kill such a creature, only to leave it behind? And why? “Grrrr—” The undead spirit, as if certain its prey was cornered, began to circle him with a low, leisurely growl. The old knight, sensing death’s approach, gritted his teeth and prepared for one final, desperate counterattack. If he could pour all his remaining magic into his hands and strike the instant it lunged, there was a sliver of a chance… But before he could act on his desperate plan, a brilliant flash streaked in from the distance. It moved faster than sound, a silent blur that the ear couldn’t track. A round stone struck the undead spirit’s decayed head, and the skull exploded into a thousand fragments.

Chapter 2: The limits of a wish