Unaffected by most things, the talent level of magic had noticed a sharp decline in the recent years. Historical analysts note this as a consequence of Warfare. That is, they credit the change of talent to the circumstance and environment. Those born during times of conflict were seemingly stronger and more "talented".
Luna and Drake were good examples of individuals born during this time. Both of them were unnaturally strong compared to the current Mages of the world. The analysts also noted an increase in artistic focus or liberal channels for magic. Considering the times of war had ended, they noted an increase in the number of students and individuals opting to use their talents in contemporary fields that were more creative than destructive.
This was the decrease in talent that they observed; many of Adrenia's upcoming generation dropped their combat-related courses and opted for more liberal ones. This wasn't a bad thing; rather, such a phenomenon was observed before, under the rule of the Lost King.
There were important caveats to consider. One was that it wasn't the interest in creative fields that decreased their combat prowess. Rather, it was the era of peace that didn't act as a limit breaker. Second, the analysts needed to revise their understanding of talent, it couldn't be one-dimensional and purely based on combat prowess.
Why was this important? What was the purpose of the random history lesson? It showcased the stark difference between the generations. It showed that those born during times of war were born for it.
Drake stared at the body of the adventurer plop to the ground, it grew cold and pale with every passing second. A pool of liquid resembling Drake's aura formed, and for the first time that day, there was silence. The local vendors and villagers who were running away in fear stopped and gazed at the giant man whose figure seemed to vibrate.
He said nothing. Uttered no words. Looked at nothing in particular. His attention was fixated on a few pebbles on the ground. Almost as if he wished to escape to his childhood, Drake picked up some of them.
"Most of us….we resemble these stones sometimes. The only time we move is when some kid decides to throw us around or perhaps as company for some passerby on a long journey..."
"You may justify your actions somehow, and I hope that your reasoning provides you company. You will die today."
Drake knew very well. This wasn't an issue that could be solved by eliminating the Southern Revolution. The idea of good and bad came up for precisely this dilemma. If Drake killed the "bad guys," he would thus become the "bad guy." No matter what, this wouldn't change. In the first place, not many people cared about such things, especially warriors like him. It hindered them from fighting freely.
He hoped for the best and saw the light in people. Killing these guys wasn't going to bring the villagers back. The responsibility of the lives lost now fell onto Drake for not having gone all out from the very beginning. At such a point, the argument boils down to a single choice.
To take the lives of those who harm others. Or, to take the risk of attempting to save these individuals who harm others. What weighed more? The lives of criminals and offenders? Or the possible lives of innocent bystanders?
Drake looked back, his knees bent a little oddly, as his curved back stood as a shield between the villagers and the assassins. Even now, he stands in between a complex decision. "There was something my father had told me. There are moments where I must think, and there are moments where I must act," a weary smile formed on his face as he walked forward.
In anticipation of his strike, the two swapped positions with a nearby object. However, before Drake's weapon could even complete its path, he turned around and flicked a pebble at one of their foreheads. A clean and round wound, the body of the assassin offered no protection against the rocks. It was like butter defending against a burning knife.
"Do not run. Do not fear, I will end your suffering," he said, walking over to the trembling assassin who had just watched his accomplice die in an instant. He wanted to use spatial exchange, but his body moved uncontrollably, pulsating almost. His eyes shifted at such a rapid pace that people would assume he was sleeping with his eyes open.
"P-…ppewl-"
A crunching sound, akin to a branch snapping, echoed through the deafening silence of the village. A lifeless body dropped from Drake's hands. Blood from the assassin's mouth dripped down onto his fists before his neck was snapped. Without any hesitation, he walked over to the bodies of the two villagers, his knees and knuckles on the ground as sand now mixed with the blood.
He was an adventurer, and death was rather common, which raised the question, why wasn't Drake used to it? He wasn't naive, nor did he avoid reality actively. He was often ridiculed for mourning the dead. During times of war, there were more people dying than alive, so he would have to spend more time grieving and mourning than training. So what made him continue? What made him persevere and stay true to who he was even after all the complications?
As he lay there, closer to the ground than he had been in a while, Drake wore a solemn expression. His fists clenched, his knees slightly wounded, and bruise marks formed under his eyes. Yet, he stood up and dusted his clothes, none of that mattered for at the moment the words of his father echoed through his chaotic mindscape. They were like water quenching a fire's thirst to destroy. In resonance with what was happening internally, the strong fragrance of petrichor accompanied a thundering downpour.
"You are a Wolfriver! You come from a warrior's family, we were born to fight and never yield! But…" Theo's voice resounded, "Before any of that. You are my son. Just focus on that," his hand brushed away the tears forming and gently caressed Drake's cheeks.
"There are moments where you must think, and moments where you must act. But there is no moment when you do not feel. Be yourself, and never let that stop you,"