The Legendary Mage (Alavin)

Alavin did not drive him away; instead, he sat near the waterfall, drawing in the Restoration Aether of the world and adjusting his spirit and condition. The night passed without incident, and the group did not return.

Come morning, Alavin approached the vines, frowning at the sleeping figure within. He looked like a youth, not old, but covered in wounds as if he had suffered greatly. Alavin took out two Elixir Herbs and a set of clean clothes from his pack, placing them beside the youth. The youth awoke with a start, but without panic or disarray.

"I mean no harm. These are for you." Alavin pointed to the Elixir Herbs and clothes on the ground, then stepped back and left the valley.

The youth stared at the Elixir Herbs and clothes, his expression slightly dazed.

Alavin departed the valley, stealthily making his way through the damp, dense forest, continuing on his journey. He was not string enough, and any misstep could spell doom, so he avoided danger whenever possible, especially avoiding Magi-Monsters. It was crucial to return to Griffin's Roost, which was relatively safer.

By noon, however, Alavin stopped by a stream, looking back at the forest. The figure from the previous night was stumbling after him-it was the youth.

Alavin exhaled with resignation. "I'm sorry, but that's all the help I can offer. I'm only a Novice Mage and have my own troubles. Following me won't do you any good."

The youth stood in the gloomy shadows, silent. His disheveled appearance and cold demeanor gave off an odd vibe.

"Farewell, until we meet again," Alavin said, about to turn away, then remembered something. He took out his Dawnedge Blade and approached the youth. "Let's see if I can unlock those shackles."

The youth raised his hands, the shackles appearing heavy as they caused his hands to tremble slightly. Alavin, with sword in hand, probed and positioned a few times, searching for the right spot. The ancient blade cut at an angle, its clang resonating and sparks flying, yet the shackles remained unscathed, marked only by a faint scratch.

He couldn't believe it. What material were these shackles made of? His Dawnedge Blade could slice through iron as if it were mud, sharp beyond compare, and his own strength was formidable. How could it not sever them?

The youth's hollow gaze trembled slightly as he fixed his eyes on the fine scratch.

"I'll try again," Alavin said, pulling the boy aside to place the shackles on a moss-covered stone. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and raised the Dawnedge Blade high above his head. The blade quivered lightly, its sword's energy piercingly cold, as a heavy silent aura of the sword's intent spread around them.

"Clang!"

Alavin's sword came down with a strike that echoed through the old forest, leaving another mark, yet the shackles showed no sign of breaking, only trembling slightly.

"I'll try again!"

Alavin struck five more times. Though the shackles didn't break, he began to understand their toughness and felt more certain. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, his gaze focusing narrowly, and he used Earthtorrent Greatblade for a mighty overhead blow.

He struck with all his might, holding nothing back.

Clang! Sparks scattered! Yet again, the shackles bore only a shallow trace, hardly different from before.

They were so hard! Was such strength necessary just to bind a child?

These weren't mere chains; they could serve as a defensive weapon.

Alavin tapped the shackles, which seemed unremarkable, yet remained unyielding. He tried three more times with Earthtorrent Greatblade, to no avail, and his hands began to ache with a sore, stinging pain. The boy hung his head, his hollow eyes staring at the marks on the shackles.

"I'm truly sorry," Alavin shrugged. There was something odd about this person, these shackles, this whole situation. He decided to let it go, content that he had tried his best. His own power was simply insufficient.

The boy opened his mouth, but his voice was muffled and unclear.

"What's that?"

"Sword." The youth lifted his eyes, peering through his tangled hair at the Dawnedge Blade Alavin was sheathing.

"My sword?"

"Sword... lend me..." The boy raised his frail right hand.

"That I cannot do," Alavin refused. The Dawnedge Blade was his most treasured weapon, a gift from the old man, not something to be lent to a stranger.

The youth grabbed Alavin's arm in a swift motion. His hand was withered and slightly yellow, yet surprisingly strong. Behind his tousled hair, those eyes shook faintly. "Lend me... just for a while..."