Chapter  10 

It was far—far to the northeast. Days beyond even what his maps had marked. A city on the southeastern edge of the continent, so distant that the trip would take half a month by sea, even with favorable winds.

And this wasn’t a direct route. It was a trade vessel—stopping at several ports along the way.

“Even better.”

It reminded him of Earth—like taking a freighter from United States , stopping at ports in China, maybe Vietnam, before arriving somewhere in Southeast Australia . In a world without the internet, without photos or passports, how could anyone possibly trace him?

“It’s far enough to disappear.”

Better still—the ship departed at dawn.

Curtis agreed on the fare with the captain immediately. A deal struck, a road secured.

With nothing left to do, he wandered the city one last time—but it held no charm. Familiar. Empty. Tired.

He ate alone. Then returned to his inn. And, as always, he practiced.

[Waterflow Manipulation – Lv. 13]
[Progress to Next Level: 23%]

Another level gained.
He smiled to himself, then lay on the bed.

Sleep didn’t come quickly.

Not from worry—no, Curtis had already let go. If anything, he felt too energized. His body, unused to rest after so much training, refused to relax.

Eventually, sometime near midnight, he drifted off.

But something stirred.

His eyes snapped open.

…?

Why had he woken?

It was still dark. Not a sliver of light through the shutters. He didn’t need to use the washroom. He couldn’t remember a dream.

Click.

The sound was soft. Subtle.

But unmistakable.

A key. In the lock.

Curtis froze.

He’d locked the door. And the key was on him.

So then—who…?

Creeeaaak…

The door opened slowly. Then closed again.

Perhaps the innkeeper had a spare key.

But any innkeeper who entered their guest’s room in the dead of night without knocking… was no innkeeper.

Whether the key had been stolen or forced made no difference.

The figure crept forward—toward the bed.

Moonlight spilled in through the narrow window, outlining a black silhouette creeping toward him.

And in that instant—

Curtis moved.

He lunged upright and hurled the waterskin from his bedside table.

Thud!

It hit—but did no harm.
The figure moved like a phantom—snapping up his dagger and cleaving the waterskin in midair.

Leather tore. Water burst in a splash.

The figure kicked the ruined skin aside. Then surged forward, grabbing Curtis by the throat.

“Ghk—!”

He couldn’t even scream.

Pressure clamped down on his windpipe, cutting air and voice alike. The assassin sneered, face half-lit by silver moonlight.

“If you’d just kept sleeping, this would’ve been easier. But nooo, had to make it messy—”

He never finished.

His head jerked violently, snapping backward with a grotesque crack.

His neck broke instantly—his body crumpling like cloth.

Water soaked the back of his head. A trail of damp ran down his collar.

Curtis sat up, coughing hard, clutching at his bruised throat.

“Cough… cough…”

His breath returned in ragged gulps.

Then, between gasps, he swore—quietly.

“Bastard…”

The corpse lay still.

Curtis stared down at it—at the man who had crept into his room with a dagger and murder in his eyes.

It was the first time he’d killed a man.

The Invisible Hand and the First Reckoning

The art of Waterflow Manipulation—if such a crude phrase could capture its nature—was not simply magic.

It was the sensation of weaving the unseen threads of water around him. As if he possessed a phantom hand, reaching out to mold liquid as one might mold clay, or breath.

The simplest application: to gather water into a shape.
The more complex: to forge it into tools of intent—shields, blades, projectiles.
To push.
To pull.
To grip or shatter.

Zerion had favored such techniques—sculpting liquid into spears, whips, and blades. He wielded them like extensions of himself.

“To be fair… I only ever saw him use water that way. Maybe he knew more, but if he did, he practiced it in private. And I—his servant—was never meant to see.”

Curtis  had only witnessed combat from the sidelines. And in battle, Zerion had preferred simplicity—a spear of water hurled with precision.

Even replicating that basic spell had proven difficult for Curtis .

If not for his unnaturally rapid growth in mastery—level after level ascending in mere days—he might have died without resistance during the ambush in the inn.

“I was lucky…”

It wasn’t easy to focus when a hand was crushing your windpipe.

In truth, he hadn’t aimed precisely. His blow had missed the back of the head and struck the neck—accidentally hitting a more fatal point.

If it had missed further…
If the assassin had crushed his throat a moment earlier…

“Zerion would never have let them get that close. He’d have pulled the moisture from the air itself, without touching a waterskin.”

That was magic Curtis  couldn’t even feel, let alone use. His grasp of ambient moisture was still zero—perhaps due to his low level.

“I’ve barely been a mage for a week… expecting more is absurd.”

But even so, his progress was undeniable.

He was growing. Rapidly.

And for now, that was enough.

He turned at last to the corpse still lying on the floor.

Was the man truly dead?

Or merely playing possum?

Cautiously, Curtis  focused—listening. A breath. Faint. Nearly gone.

“So… what now?”

Let him die?

Finish him?

The logic was simple. This man had come to kill him. He deserved no mercy.

And yet Curtis  hesitated.

He’d seen people die. Robbers. Bandits. Even assassins—Zerion had shown no remorse when defending himself.

But Curtis  had never killed with his own hands.

He had not yet grown numb to death.

Fortunately, the decision was made for him.

The faint breathing… stopped.

And in that exact moment—

“Ugh—!”

A wave of dizziness swept over Curtis , sudden and staggering.
Like the wave of clarity that sometimes struck during a level-up—but stronger. Sharper. Denser.