Chronicles of the Untalented

"Oh, is that so? Well, you'd better hurry then," Silas muttered, his voice still a bit hoarse.

He and Cassian walked through the vast, echoing halls of the cathedral. Their footsteps bounced off the stone floor, swallowed by the eerie quiet of the sanctuary.

At the altar, a priest sat kneeling in silent prayer. After a moment, he turned and looked up at them. His eyes settled on Cass with calm warmth—but when he saw Silas, something colder flickered across his expression.

"You're here," the priest said softly, "and I see you've brought Silas as well. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to perform an exorcism on him after... the incident. But now that you're both here, let's proceed. Just to be safe."

Before Silas could even react, a mannequin-like figure emerged from behind him and seized his shoulder.

A white-hot agony exploded through his bones. His entire body convulsed as if molten metal had been poured into his veins. He screamed—loud, ragged, primal.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished.

He collapsed to his knees, soaked in sweat and gasping for air. The mannequin disappeared without a trace.

Cass helped him to his feet and gave him a quick nod before parting ways. He had to proceed with his effigy refinement, while Silas—exhausted and frayed—needed rest.

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Silas made his way home through the narrow, lifeless streets. The night never ended in this world, only grew deeper. Lanterns flickered against the dark fog like dying stars.

He couldn't help but think of Cassian—how lucky he was. To be gifted in the Light Path, of all things.

In a world plagued by horrors, where monstrous creatures roamed and the sun never rose, light was the most precious thing of all. Cass had already been granted early access to refine his effigy—a sign that the elders wanted him to rise. Perhaps even to become the next city commander.

Silas clenched his jaw.

The Light Path wasn't just powerful—it was efficient. A novice of the Light Path could take on a pack of hellhounds alone. It offered both deadly offense and solid defense. Meanwhile, Silas… had nothing.

Still, he couldn't ignore the importance of the other paths. Without the Earth Path, for example, this dying city would've long starved. Earth path users could manipulate soil and stone, making farming in a dead world barely possible.

He recalled how this world's power system worked:

You don't choose your path. The path chooses you. Talent is absolute. Trying to walk a path you lack talent in is suicide.

To use magic, one must forge an effigy—a vessel crafted from rare magical materials, specific to a single path. To activate it, you must split your soul and bind it to the effigy. From then on, you channel your magic through it—and through it alone.

Paths cannot be changed. Effigies cannot be remade.

And knowledge is everything. Magic is not just raw power—it is research, understanding, and enlightenment.

There are five known levels of mastery:

Novice – The beginner. Basic spells, weak but useful.

Learner – Offers real combat utility. Healing, damage, or support depending on the path.

Apprentice – Rare. This level marks true power. Most military leaders are at this rank.

Student – A misnamed monster. Only one appears every few centuries. Their dominance over their path is absolute; even threats that could end civilization are child's play to them.

Scholar – A myth. No one has ever reached it. It is theory only whispered.

And then there's the matter of the paths themselves.

Darkness is the most common path, but it's weak in combat. Its users specialize in scouting, stealth, and tracking.

Its opposite, Light, is the most valued. Even a novice can take down beasts that would destroy entire squads. It is a path of survival—and dominance.

Silas exhaled.

He had no path. No power.

Just the memory of a life he didn't belong to anymore, and a world that had tried to reject him from the start.

As he opened the creaking door to his home, he slipped inside without a word. He didn't bother calling out to anyone. He simply stumbled to his room, collapsed onto the bed, and let sleep drag him under.

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