I sat on one of the wooden pews near the back, head bowed, hands clenched tightly around the same two objects as before—a sprig of Bryndrel’s lightning lichen in one hand, a dull, lifeless stick in the other. It had been two days. Two days of trying. Two days of nothing.

  It should work. It should. Bryndrel made it sound simple, almost natural—like breathing. I’d pictured it, over and over. I closed my eyes, tuning out the murmuring voices around me, the distant shuffle of boots on stone. I imagined it again—the current traveling from the lichen, soaking into my skin, threading itself through my body like veins of lightning, then flowing out into the stick.

  Nothing.

  Damn it.

  I ground my teeth, staring hard at the lichen, willing it to do something.

  A hand clapped down on my shoulder.

  “Hey, Max! What’s up?”

  I flinched, nearly dropping the lichen and stick as my focus shattered. My head jerked up to see Dan looking down at me, completely oblivious to how badly I wanted to scream.

  I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Dan,” I muttered. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  Dan either didn’t notice my frustration or ignored it. He plopped down beside me on the pew, leaning back casually. “Yeah, I figured.” He nudged my arm with his elbow. “What are you even doing?”

  I clenched my jaw. “Alchemy.”

  Dan squinted at the lichen in my hand. “Alchemy? You mean, like… turning stuff into gold?”

  “No, Dan.” I sighed. “I’m trying to transfer essence.”

  Dan raised an eyebrow. “Right. That thing you mentioned the other day?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So, is it working?”

  I pressed my lips into a thin line. “No.”

  Dan nodded sagely, as if he understood. He didn’t. “Huh. Well, I mean, it can’t be that hard, right? Have you tried—”

  “Yes, Dan.”

  He blinked at my sharp tone, finally catching on to my irritation. “Oh. Uh. Alright, then.”

  I let out a slow breath, trying to shove down the frustration boiling in my chest. Dan wasn’t trying to be annoying. He was just… Dan.

  “Why are you even here?” I asked, massaging my temples.

  Dan shrugged. “Wanted to see how you were doing. You’ve been sitting here for hours.”

  I had. Ever since the army left yesterday morning, the church had become more crowded, nobody wanted to stay outside anymore. More displaced families, more people looking for answers, for safety. And me? I was sitting in the middle of it all, trying and failing to transfer essence from a piece of lichen to a stupid stick.

  Is this my limit? Is it actually impossible for me to learn this magic? That would explain why I’ve made exactly zero progress.

  All the fantasy and supernatural chaos around us had me believing—hoping—that I could be more. That I could become something more. A wizard, an alchemist, someone with actual power. It would have been a dream come true. But after two days of trying and failing, all I felt was doubt clawing at the edges of my mind.

  Was I just fooling myself?

  Would I always be a nobody? Just an ordinary human, stuck struggling through this new world with nothing but luck and stubbornness keeping me alive?

  Maybe I wasn’t made for this.

  Maybe.

  I let out a slow breath, trying to push away the frustration weighing down on me. My fingers clenched around the lichen and the useless stick before I finally sighed.

  Maybe I just needed some fresh air. I’d been sitting here too long, stewing in my own thoughts.

  “I need to go outside for a bit.”

  Pushing myself to my feet, I stretched my stiff limbs and quietly made my way out of the church. The air inside had grown thick and stifling with the press of too many bodies, hushed conversations blending into a constant murmur that never fully faded. I needed space. Somewhere quiet.

  I stepped through the heavy wooden doors and into the cool autumn afternoon, the air carrying the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. I took a deep breath, letting it settle in my lungs as I descended the stone steps of the church. My feet carried me toward one of the worn wooden benches near the edge of the yard, just far enough from the church doors to be alone with my thoughts.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  As I sat, my gaze drifted across the open space before me, to the remnants of the military’s presence. The ground was scarred with deep tire tracks, cutting through the dirt and gravel where armored vehicles had once been parked. Scattered patches of blackened earth marked where campfires had burned, now nothing more than ashen circles surrounded by stray boot prints. Just yesterday morning, the place had been teeming with soldiers. Now, it was empty. They were gone. They had at least some direction, some plans, some certainty. I had none of that. All I had was this useless piece of lichen, this stupid stick, and the gnawing frustration that refused to leave me alone.

  I had seen magic with my own eyes. I had witnessed forces beyond human understanding. I knew this was real—it had to be. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I was failing.

  Was I just not good enough?

  No. No, I refused to believe that.

  I wasn’t going to just sit here and accept my own failure. I grabbed the lichen and the stick once more. I couldn’t do the alchemy while calm and focused? Fine. If calm wasn’t working, maybe rage would.

  I closed my eyes and pictured it again. But this time, I didn’t try to be careful. I didn’t try to be patient. I let the frustration surge through me, let the failure, the doubt, the sheer fury at my own incompetence fill every inch of my being.

  The world had changed, had thrown me headfirst into a storm of magic and monsters, and I refused to be powerless in it. I refused to be nothing.

  I was going to make this work.

  I forced the image into my mind. The lightning, crackling and alive, twisting through me like a raging storm. I imagined it not flowing but exploding through me—pouring from the lichen, tearing through my veins, surging into the stick with the fury of a thunderclap.

  For a moment, there was nothing.

  Then, everything happened at once.

  A blinding flash of white-hot energy ripped through my body, burning, setting my nerves alight with pure electricity. I barely had time to gasp before the power detonated outward, shooting into the stick in my hand like a lightning bolt from the sky.

  A deafening crack split the air as the stick exploded, splinters and jagged shards flying in all directions. The force of it slammed into me like a punch to the chest, sending me sprawling backward off the bench, my vision swimming with stars.

  I tried to get back up, but something was wrong, my right arm did not want to support my weight. I looked down and saw a stump of a hand, poking into the muddy ground. Everything past my wrist was a mangled, smoking ruin—flesh charred black, bones exposed in jagged, unnatural angles. Blood poured freely, a deep crimson soaking into the dirt beneath me.

  The pain slammed into me fully now, white-hot and merciless. My vision blurred, my breaths came in sharp, panicked gasps.

  I couldn’t even scream.

  I was dimly aware of voices—shouting, footsteps pounding against the dirt—but they felt distant, like echoes from another world.

  “Max? Max!” A sharp voice cut through the haze, pulling me back to the present.

  Boots skidded against gravel. Someone dropped to their knees beside me.

  “Oh, hell—Kate, help me!”

  Samantha. I recognized the voice even through the pounding in my skull. She grasped my shoulders, steadying me as my body trembled violently.

  “Shit, what happened to his arm?” Kate’s voice was tight with alarm.

  I tried to speak, to force out some kind of explanation, but the only sound that escaped my lips was a ragged, gasping wheeze. The pain was too much. Too raw.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Samantha snapped. “We have to move him—now.”

  Kate cursed under her breath but nodded.

  Strong arms hooked under my shoulders while another set grasped my legs. A groan tore from my throat as they lifted me, jostling the ruined mess of my arm. My vision dimmed, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might black out completely.

  “Stay with us, Max,” Samantha muttered. “You’re gonna be fine, just hang on.”

  The world rocked as they carried me, my head lolling weakly to the side. I caught glimpses of the churchyard, the concerned stares of people gathered near the doors, their whispers a dull hum in the background.

  The inside of the church passed by in a blur. Thinking back on it now I remember hearing my parents, all shocked and everything, asking what happened. Someone told someone to get me to the priest.

  I was barely aware of being lowered onto something, a chair maybe, probably. My body sagged against the wood, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The pain was all-consuming now, burning through my veins like liquid fire.

  A new presence knelt beside me. “Easy now,” a calm, steady voice murmured. “Let me see.” It was the priest, Jackson.

  He reached out, his hands hovering over my ruined arm, his fingers trembling slightly before steadying. His expression was grave, but his voice remained gentle.

  “This will hurt,” he warned, his eyes meeting mine.

  I barely managed a nod. My whole body shuddered with pain, sweat soaking my clothes. Jackson exhaled, then pressed his palm lightly over the smoking remains of my wrist.

  “Holy light, guide my hands,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A golden glow flickered to life beneath his fingertips, warm and soft at first, like the first rays of morning sun breaking through the dark. “Mend what is broken, restore what is lost.”

  I dared to look.

  Before my eyes, the shredded, charred remains of my arm were changing. The ruined flesh mended, knitting itself back together in slow, deliberate waves of golden light. Muscle reformed, tendons realigned, skin stretched back into place. It didn’t happen all at once—it was a slow, agonizing process—but the impossible was happening.

  When the last tendrils of golden light faded, Jackson swayed slightly, exhaling a long breath. Sweat lined his brow, his shoulders trembling with exhaustion. But he met my gaze with quiet certainty.

  I lifted my hand, flexing my fingers. Whole. Unscarred.

  Samantha let out a shaky breath beside me, her hands hovering near my newly healed arm like she wasn’t sure whether to touch it or not.

  Kate, on the other hand, had no hesitation. She grabbed my hand, turning it over, inspecting the smooth skin with something close to disbelief. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “That’s… that’s insane.” She pressed her fingers against my palm, as if checking to make sure it was real. Then, abruptly, she smacked my shoulder—hard.

  I hissed, more out of surprise than pain. “Ow! What the hell, Kate?”

  “That’s for scaring the crap out of us!” She pointed an accusing finger at me, her brows furrowed in frustration. “It sounded like a gunshot outside, everyone got panicked immediately.”

  I had been reckless.

  I took a slow breath, forcing my voice past the tightness in my throat. “I—I’m sorry.” My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but I meant it. I looked at each of them, feeling the burn of shame creeping up my spine. “I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I just wanted it to work.”

  I had let my frustration blind me, let my desperation push me into recklessness. And it had nearly cost me my life.