The Endless Mage

Year 3917 of the Almanac of Ages, in a remote rural region

My legs ached, muscles tense and painful, but it didn’t matter. Pain no longer held the same meaning for me, not for my nature. It was both a blessing and a curse, and in that moment, I was about to exploit the former.

The forest opened before me, a dense labyrinth of trees swaying gently in the night wind. Every step seemed amplified by the silence surrounding me, yet with each meter, I drew closer to them. I could hear them—the raucous laughter of the bandits guiding me, like a song in the dark. I spotted the flickering light of a fire in the distance, the murmur of their satisfied voices as they toasted to their success.

I would find them.

I crouched under a low branch, advancing cautiously. My hands were still stained with my own blood, the dull pain of recently healed wounds reminding me how far I was from being normal. Three arrows in the body would have killed anyone else, but not me. Never me.

Finally, I reached a clearing. There, around large crackling fires, were the bandits, their loot scattered at their feet. Some were already in revelry, drinking from flasks of wine, while others laughed and recounted the deeds of the recently won battle. The sound of their voices bounced among the trees, so full of confidence, so convinced they were safe.

They had no idea that the real danger was walking toward them.

I stood still for a moment, hidden among the shadows of the trees. My eyes tracked their every movement, memorizing each position. I would kill them all, one by one. It wasn’t revenge that drove me, not really. It was something colder, more ancient. My fate, my need to balance the wrongs.

One man rose from the fire, yawning, and walked away to relieve himself among the trees. Perfect.

Silent as a shadow, I followed him, my steps light on the grassy ground. He didn’t hear me, not even as I crept up behind him. With a quick, fluid motion, I grabbed the knife at his belt and drove it into his throat. His breath stopped in a choked gurgle, and his body collapsed into my arms. I laid him down silently, letting his blood soak into the earth.

“You know,” I said, “I wouldn’t even need to do this so quietly. But old habits die hard. Just like me.” With the stolen knife, I finally cut the rope binding my hands.

I moved again, my heart beating steadily in my chest. I was already back toward the fire before the others realized their companion was missing.

The second man was drinking from his tankard, his head thrown back. The blade of the knife I had taken slid into his back, piercing his heart. He dropped the flask but didn’t even have time to scream. I caught him by the shoulders and let him fall slowly to the ground. The laughter of the other bandits drowned out the soft thud of his body.

Two.

I was acting on instinct, but it wasn’t anger guiding me. Every move was calculated, every death silent. I needed no noise, no glory. Only precision. I shifted toward the third man, who was turning a piece of meat over the fire, distracted by the heat. He didn’t see me until I was upon him, but when he did, it was too late. With a swift strike, I broke his neck.

The meat fell into the fire with a hiss, and only then did the fourth man notice something was wrong. His eyes widened at the sight of me, but he didn’t have time to scream. I was already upon him, the knife buried in his belly. A decisive, quick strike. He crumpled at my feet with a muffled groan as his blood mingled with the earth.

The others turned, finally realizing the danger.

Now it was three against one. But to me, that mattered little. The first of them lunged at me, hitting me with force, the blade piercing my chest.

I looked at the blade protruding from my back and then at the terrified face of the man. His mouth opened in an expression of pure horror as he saw me pull the sword from my chest as if it were merely a nuisance. “You’re not very good at choosing your enemies, are you?” I said, gesturing to the bloodied blade. With a decisive blow, I pierced his throat with the knife I had thrown with precision.

The second tried to grab me from behind, but I spun around, plunging his companion’s blade into his side. I felt the steel sink into flesh, and the man writhed in pain.

“What the hell are you?” he shouted.

I didn’t answer; it made no sense to talk to the dead.

The last two hesitated, terror beginning to spread in their eyes. This was not the bandit they had expected. They weren’t prepared for this.

One of them turned to flee, but I was upon him in an instant. I took him down, twisting his arm until I heard it snap with a sharp, decisive sound. Then I slashed his throat with a clean movement, leaving him to die among the damp leaves.

The last remaining was the leader; I recognized him by his more elaborate cloak and the expensive medallion around his neck. He looked proud, but now he trembled, the sword dancing in his hands. He attempted to strike me, but his movements were slow, clumsy from fear.

I easily blocked his strike, disarming him with a swift motion. He fell to the ground, retreating as my shadow loomed over him.

“Y-you’re not… human…” he stammered, trying to crawl away.

“I was never entirely human,” I murmured, advancing. “But I’m very good at finishing what I start.”

I drove the blade into his chest, pushing until I felt the heart stop beating beneath my hand.

I stood there for a moment, his body motionless beneath me. The warmth of his blood was already cooling, and the man’s breath finally ceased, leaving only the crackle of the fire to fill the air. There was nothing glorious or heroic about that death. It was simply... another.

I stood up, nudging the lifeless body of the leader with the tip of my boot, which rolled among the damp leaves. Killing had never been a problem for me. I felt no fear or fatigue that would have once made me hesitate. Perhaps that was the true problem of immortality: every action lost its weight, and everything became just... routine.

The clearing was silent at last. My breath, slow and steady, seemed the only sound not destined to fade into nothingness. The flames of the fires were dying down, slowly consuming what remained of the logs, the wood, and the charred flesh that the bandits had been cooking before I found them.

I had no hurry to leave. These were my moments, times when I had nothing left to do, no immediate mission. I turned toward their loot. A pile of sacks, gold coins, a few weapons, and provisions likely taken from recent raids. I didn’t care for riches. Not anymore. But there was one thing that could be useful: food.

I approached the fire, sitting next to the corpse of one of the bandits. A piece of charred meat had fallen into the embers. I picked it up with the blade of a knife that lay nearby, shaking it a bit to remove the ash. I didn’t need to eat, not physically. My body could endure for weeks, months without food, without water. But eating made me feel more... human. An illusion, surely, but there was something reassuring about following those rituals. One bite, then another. The meat was tough, rubbery, and once it would have made me grimace. Now? It didn’t matter.

I ate in silence, the taste filling my mouth without any real satisfaction. It was just a habit. Old habits were hard to break, and deep down, who was I without them? The wind rustled the leaves, and the scent of blood mixed with burnt wood filled the air.

Once I finished eating, I moved toward one of the tents still standing. I didn’t need to sleep, but sleeping was my refuge, a compromise between wakefulness and the desire to ignore reality. Every night I would lie down, close my eyes, and let the dark envelop me, hoping to empty my mind.

Instead, it was then that the shadows of the past came seeking me.

I settled on a worn, dusty blanket, resting my head on a backpack left behind by one of the bandits. I closed my eyes, not because I needed to, but because it gave me a bit of respite.

And it was right there, in the unnatural silence of the night, that the memories began to surface, crawling like worms.

Faces. Faces I had loved, faces I had forgotten, faces I had killed. And then her face. The one I could never shake, the one that returned every time I tried to rest. Her voice, sweet and sad, whispering my name.

Damn it, I thought, clenching my fists; the pain of memories assaulted me more than the wounds. There was no healing from that. Every physical wound healed, every broken bone mended. But not the memories. Those haunt you, even when you live forever. In fact, especially when you live forever.

I turned onto my side, trying to push those thoughts away. But I couldn’t escape from myself. The past had trapped me in a cycle of memory and regret, a cycle that never broke. Whispers, screams, laughter.

They slithered through my mind, thin as snakes, mingling with the familiar whispers of the past. 'You have failed,' they hissed. 'All this pain, and it's never enough...'

Another voice overlapped, sweeter, like a poison masked as a promise. 'You are stronger than this... you don't have to suffer. Let us show you true power.'

Clenching my fists, I tried to push them away, but they were always there, ready to seep into my thoughts.

'There's no end for you, is there?' a familiar voice whispered mockingly.

I turned, opening my eyes to the darkness, hoping the wind and the rustling of the trees would distract me. But it was just another night. A night when the past always found me.

And so, I stayed there. I wasn't really sleeping. I couldn't. But I closed my eyes anyway, seeking a moment of respite. Waiting for dawn to break that cycle, at least for another day.