Rotten Marsh presented itself in all its wretched ugliness. The settlement huddled at the very edge of a crimson bog. Houses here weren't constructed—they were more like structures cobbled together from whatever could be dragged out of the mire: blackened oak trunks, fragments of stone columns buried under thick layers of slate-gray moss, and scraps of coarse, poorly cured hide.
Instead of streets, a network of rickety wooden walkways stretched between structures hoisted on crooked stilts. Beneath them, thick mud squelched and bubbled.
I walked unhurriedly, keeping my face hidden in the shadow of my deep hood. My gray cloak was splattered with roadside mire, but I knew my gait gave me away as an outsider regardless. The locals—lean, with earth-colored faces and sunken eyes—moved in short, twitchy dashes, as if expecting a knife in the back at any second. They followed me with lingering stares.
The settlement's main square—the only patch of relatively solid ground, paved with cracked slabs—was teeming with people. And not just people. Dead center stood three massive wagons of dark wood, hitched to enormous, heavily breathing oxen. The air around the carts smelled less of swamp rot and more of the sharp, bitter aroma of burnt sulfur.
"Black Alchemists," I exhaled. "Grim merchants who dared to cross these accursed lands."
They were stuck. And I spotted the reason immediately.
The only exit from Rotten Marsh to the northern highway led through a narrow gorge between two rocky outcroppings. Blocking this passage was a cyclopean granite slab—a primitive but incredibly heavy portcullis gate. The slab was supposed to slide up deep stone grooves via a system of thick ship ropes and wooden winches. But right now, the ropes sagged, and the slab itself seemed permanently rooted in the earth.
I approached. The soil beneath the right section of the gate had subsided due to the spring swamp waters. The slab had tilted by a mere couple of degrees, but for a multi-ton granite block, that was more than enough. It was hopelessly jammed in its grooves. The static friction had become insurmountable for the muscle power of both men and oxen.
Two men stood by the gate. One—a stout, sweating man in rich but greasy clothes—was clearly the local headman. The second was a tall, thin figure wrapped in a multi-layered black robe. His face was concealed by a ghastly leather mask with a long beak stuffed with herbs and incense.
"I told you, Master Mortis," the headman babbled in a reedy voice, nervously clutching the hem of his shirt. "The marsh won't let go! The stone has wedged itself deep into the crag. My men pulled until their tendons nearly snapped, they broke three ropes! Wait for the ground to dry out, or find another way."
"There is no other way through the Dead Forest," the alchemist’s voice sounded muffled behind his mask. "Our cargo brooks no delay. Potions ruin, reagents lose potency. If you do not raise these gates by sundown, I will order my men to burn this settlement to ash. Simply to clear the path."
The headman paled, his triple chin trembling. The crowd of locals rumbled menacingly, but no one dared take a step forward. The alchemists possessed an infamous reputation; rumor had it they could turn a man into a puddle of boiling sludge with a single well-aimed toss of a glass flask.
I realized this was my chance. I stepped out of the crowd and headed straight toward the arguing pair.
"I can clear the passage," I said in an even tone. "If, in exchange, I secure a spot in your caravan and a share of supplies all the way to Dornheim."
The alchemist slowly turned his head in my direction. Through the dark lenses of the mask, cold eyes locked onto me. The headman merely snorted with laughter—nervous and spiteful.
"You? A drifter?" he spat at his feet. "A dozen able-bodied men and four oxen couldn't budge the Dead Slab by an inch. And you want to lift it with your bare hands? Walk away, if you value your life."
"Weight is irrelevant if you know where to apply force," I replied, not even glancing at the headman. My gaze was fixed entirely on Mortis. "Do we have a deal?"
Mortis measured me up with a stare.
"If this is empty bravado, you will become my personal slave—we happen to be short on test subjects. But if you actually move the stone... well, you ride with us. Begin."
The crowd parted, forming a semicircle. A tense silence hung in the air.
I walked right up to the granite slab. The stone radiated cold and dampness. I placed my left palm flat on the rough surface, dead center. I didn't draw my right arm from beneath my cloak—I merely pressed my cloth-covered forearm against the very edge of the slab, right where it was hopelessly wedged in the groove.
[STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS]
Mass: Approximately 18 tons.
Pressure Vector: Directed downward and to the right.
Coefficient of Static Friction at the jam point: Critical.
Solution: Localized zeroing of friction and an artificial shift of the center of mass three degrees to the left.
I closed my eyes. The Will to Live.
Space in my consciousness was mapped out by a grid of glowing vector lines.
Friction: zero.
Gravity vector: 20% inversion.
The granite shuddered. A ghastly, low screech rang out. And then, the massive slab slid smoothly upward along the grooves.
The crowd gasped. Someone shrieked hysterically and collapsed to their knees, burying their head in their hands. The stone rose higher and higher until it reached its zenith, where the ancient locking mechanisms engaged, securing it permanently in place.
I abruptly severed my connection to the Skill.
I lowered my head, letting the hood conceal my face once more. A sharp spike of pain flared at the base of my skull, closely followed by a wave of intense nausea. My heart hammered violently, pumping blood, but my legs held firm.
"The gates are open," I said, turning to the alchemist. My voice sounded somewhat raspy, but firm.
Mortis remained silent. Even through the mask, it was obvious he was stunned. The master of alchemy gave a brief nod.
"I know not who you are, traveler, but you kept your word. Take a spot in the rear wagon. We move out immediately."
The caravan lurched forward with a groan. I headed toward the trailing cart to retrieve my meager belongings, which I had left under the awning of a nearby shack.
In a narrow alleyway sandwiched between two rotting houses, four men blocked my path.
They were local scavenger-mercenaries. Filthy, reeking of sour ale, with rusted cleavers in hand. Leading them was a brute with a face like a piece of chewed meat, armed with a heavy club studded with forged nails. They had witnessed what I did to the gates. And they had drawn a classic, catastrophically flawed conclusion: since the mage had just cast a powerful spell, he must now be depleted and weak.
"Hey there, miracle-worker," the brute grinned, barring the path. "Seems to me you got off too easy. Hand over everything you’ve got, and maybe we won't break your legs."
I stopped. The nausea hadn't fully passed yet.
"Out of my way," I said quietly.
"Or what? Turn me into a toad, you damn sorcerer?" the thug brayed with laughter. Wasting no time on empty banter, he let out a roar and swung the spiked club up for a crushing blow to my head.
I multiplied the momentum of his own movement fivefold.
Crunch!
With a wild shriek, he spun violently on his heel. His right arm dangled loose, completely dislocated from its socket, and he collapsed like a sack into the swamp mire, instantly losing consciousness from the sheer shock of the pain. The club, slipping from his weakened fingers, punched right through the rotting wall of the adjacent house.
The remaining three froze solid. The cleavers in their hands began to tremble.
Unhurriedly, I walked past them. They pressed themselves flat against the decayed wooden walls, afraid to take a single breath until my gray cloak vanished around the corner.
By the time I reached the alchemists' rear wagon, the oxen were already slowly hauling the caravan through the open gate. I vaulted onto the hard planks of the cart and leaned my back against the wooden frame, which was draped in black canvas.
Klop (as he later introduced himself), who was sitting on the box next to the driver, shot a terror-stricken glance at me and immediately looked away, pulling his head into his shoulders.
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