The rustling started soft.
Then came the stomping.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Getting louder.
A tree crashed down sixty seven feet to the left. Another one fell to the right, massive trunk slamming into the forest floor hard enough that John felt the impact through his horse. The animal beneath him shifted nervously, ears pinned back.
But whatever was making those trees fall didn't emerge into the clearing. It kept moving, circling, hidden behind the tree line. Stalking them.
The lord turned slowly, tracking the sound. His jaw clenched.
Another tree down. Then another. The thing was running a perimeter around them, just out of sight, and every circle brought it closer. John could hear the breathing now, deep and wet, the kind of sound that came from lungs the size of barrels.
"Show yourself, coward," the lord hissed.
More circling. More trees falling. The lord's pretty face twisted into something ugly.
"Fine. I'd rather sacrifice a few months now than spill my blood later."
He released his sword and dropped to one knee. His hands came together in front of his chest, fingers interlaced in a specific pattern that looked ritualistic.
Then he started praying.
"Oh Cumulous, Demigod of Thunder, Master of the Storm's Fury, He Who Walks Between Lightning and Sky, Bearer of the Celestial Wrath, Keeper of the Crackling Heavens, Most Glorious in Battle, Most Terrible in Anger, I beseech thee in this moment of tribulation to grant unto me but a fraction of thy magnificent power, that I might smite mine enemies and emerge victorious from this confrontation with the beast that circles me even now in these woods, and in exchange for this divine blessing I offer unto thee two months of my mortal lifespan, taken from the end of my days, freely given as payment for the strength I request, let thy power flow into my sword that it might become an instrument of thy will and strike down this creature with the force of heaven itself, I ask this humbly and with full knowledge of the price, oh great Cumulous, accept my offering and grant me thy blessing that..."
John's eyes glazed over. The prayer just kept going. Clause after clause, honorific after honorific, the kind of overwrought religious language that would make a priest blush.
The circling continued. Faster now. Impatient.
The lord's voice grew strained, rushing through the words, and then he stopped mid sentence.
"On second thought." He sucked in a breath. "Put the power in me instead of the sword."
The air changed.
It didn't shimmer or glow or do any of the visual effects John had been expecting. It just got heavier somehow, pressing down on everything, and the young lord's body started changing.
Muscle bloomed across his frame like time lapse footage of a flower growing. His arms thickened, shoulders broadened, chest expanded. Twenty five pounds of pure muscle materialized in the span of three seconds, transforming his lean build into something that belonged on a statue. The compression clothing stretched tight across newly enlarged muscles.
The lord stood, and even his posture had changed. More weight behind it. More presence.
He faced the circling sounds and wound up his right arm. Drew it back slow, chambering it like a boxer preparing the knockout blow. Every muscle in his enhanced body coiled tight.
Waiting.
The forest went silent.
Then the bear exploded into the clearing.
Ten feet tall. Easily. Maybe more. Its head was the size of a beer keg and its paws could palm a grown man's torso. Brown fur matted with old blood and forest debris. Eyes that held the kind of fury that comes from being the undisputed apex predator for probably its entire life.
It charged straight at the lord, covering ground impossibly fast for something that big.
The lord's grin was feral.
"SMITE!"
His fist shot forward and connected with the bear's skull mid charge.
The sound was wrong. Not a thud or a crack but a wet explosion that made John's stomach turn, like that one time he watched devil man crybaby on a whim.
The bear's entire upper body just ceased being solid. Head, neck, shoulders, all of it converted instantly into paste and bone fragments and a spray of blood that painted the clearing red.
The massive corpse, now headless and ruined, slid forward from momentum and crashed into the dirt five feet from where the lord stood.
John couldn't breathe.
His horse was screaming, rearing back, and it took everything he had to stay in the saddle. The younger kid had fallen off entirely. Spud was fighting to control his own mount.
But John barely noticed. His brain had short circuited trying to process what he'd just witnessed.
That was magic. Real magic. Divine power traded for lifespan, channeled into flesh, used to turn a ten foot bear into chunky salsa with a single punch. The implications crashed through his mind one after another.
Gods were real. They granted power in exchange for offerings. Lifespan was currency. The prayer was the contract. Which meant magic in this world wasn't just about talent or mana pools, it was transactional. You could theoretically access divine power if you knew the right words and had something to trade.
But that prayer. That insanely long, convoluted prayer. It had taken at least two minutes to recite, probably closer to three. In combat, that was an eternity. An enemy with a sword could close distance and kill you ten times over while you were busy asking Cumulous the Thunder Demigod for assistance.
Which raised questions. Fascinating questions.
Could someone who spoke faster access more power? If prayer speed was the bottleneck, then theoretically Eminem would be the strongest warrior in this world just by virtue of being able to rap the invocation in thirty seconds instead of three minutes. Or what about the drawn sigils, like the pocket dimension spell? Could an artist with quick hands outpace a slow speaker? Were there optimization strategies, shortened prayers, abbreviated contracts?
So many unanswered questions. So many variables to consider.
The lord dropped to his knees.
His enhanced muscles deflated like balloons. Not gradually, but all at once, the borrowed mass evaporating into steam that rose from his skin in thick clouds. The compression clothing hung loose again. His face looked gaunt, hollowed out, like he'd aged five years in five seconds.
The steam smelled wrong. Burnt and organic. It made John think of overcooked meat.
The lord swayed, catching himself with one hand on the ground. His breathing came in ragged gasps.
"Food," he croaked. His voice was barely heard. "Food. Now."w