The Forsaken Heir: Reclaiming Magic

When Allen Greenwood was forced over the edge of the cliff, he was certain that death awaited him. The violent impacts and sharp tearing pain as he fell battered his body so completely that he felt as though every bone had been shattered.

When he finally woke up, the world around him was shrouded in darkness, and only the wind howling through the depths of the ravine reached his ears. His left arm was entirely numb, his right leg felt like it was fractured, and countless gashes on his body still oozed blood. The sharp ache in his chest suggested internal injuries, and every breath he took was a struggle, each one like a knife cutting through his ribs. If not for the faint ability to move, he might have thought himself already dead.

He forced himself to shift slightly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Beneath him lay a tangled mat of dead branches and vines, which seemed to have softened the impact of his fall. Additionally, the cliff wasn't entirely vertical; its slopes and vegetation had repeatedly slowed his descent, giving him the faintest chance of survival.

"But… I'm barely holding on." He let out a bitter laugh, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.

Mustering his willpower, Allen tried to move, his trembling hands fumbling over his body in search of the vial of healing potion his father had given him. It was meant to be his last line of defense, the one thing that could save him in a dire moment. When he reached the pouch, his heart sank—the vial had shattered, leaving behind only a patch of damp fabric soaked in the sharp scent of herbs.

"Damn it…" A cold chill ran through him. But then he noticed something strange: though his wounds still bled, the injuries weren't as severe as he'd expected. The potion, now soaked into his clothing and skin, seemed to have partially seeped into his body.

"The healing potion… It must have broken during the fall, and most of it was absorbed into me," he realized. Perhaps that small miracle was the only reason he hadn't died outright.

Although still gravely injured, Allen wasn't entirely without strength. He assessed his situation: the ravine was surrounded by steep walls on three sides, with the fourth dropping into an even deeper gorge. Above him, the mist obscured any view of the cliff's edge. Around him, bloodstained trails marked the path of his fall, an unsettling reminder of how close he had come to death.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Allen clenched his fists. "If I give up now, I'm truly done for." But how could he escape? Searching through his belongings, he found his short sword, though the blade was bent and dulled from the fall. Nearby, he noticed a sturdy wooden branch, its surface rough and pitted with age. It was long enough to serve as a makeshift crutch.

Relying on sheer determination, he gritted his teeth and propped himself up using the branch. The effort was excruciating, each movement sending sharp pain through his broken body. Yet he couldn't afford to stop. He staggered forward, one agonizing step at a time, dragging himself away from the unstable slope where he had landed.

After walking only a short distance, Allen's strength gave out, and he collapsed against a large boulder, his breathing shallow. His throat burned with thirst.

"Water…" he croaked, his voice barely audible. His mind drifted back to survival knowledge he'd read in adventure manuals and wilderness guides during his childhood. Though he lacked magical talent, he had always been fascinated by such books, and now their lessons were his only hope.

Straining to hear past the wind, he caught a faint sound—water trickling somewhere nearby. Hope flickered in his chest. "A stream… or a spring," he muttered, clinging to the possibility.

Using the branch as a crutch, he dragged himself toward the sound. The journey was torturous; his tattered clothes snagged on thorns, and fresh cuts opened with every stumble. The remnants of the potion seemed to slow his bleeding, but his injuries remained severe.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached a shallow hollow where water trickled down from the rocks into a small, muddy pool. Though the water was murky and cold, to Allen, it was a gift from the heavens.

He collapsed beside the pool and cupped the water in his trembling hands, drinking deeply. The icy liquid stung his throat, but he drank until his stomach felt full. Then he rinsed his bloodied wounds with the water, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain. It wasn't much, but it helped.

Allen knew survival required more than just water. He scanned the area for food, finding only a few tender leaves that he cautiously tested. The bitter, unappetizing greens were hard to swallow, but they kept his hunger at bay. Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. Shivering in the cold, he huddled close to his branch, unable to light a fire with his damp tools. He wrapped himself in his torn clothes and endured the freezing darkness.

The second day passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Hunger clawed at him, and his fever spiked, making him drift in and out of consciousness. Each time he woke, the betrayal that had led him here flashed through his mind: his uncle Bryan's feigned concern, Roy's cold indifference, and the masked attacker's familiar amulet. "It wasn't bandits. Someone from the family planned this…"

That thought burned in his chest, stoking the faint embers of his will to survive. "If I give up now, I'll never uncover the truth. I'll die as nothing more than a scapegoat."

By the third day, Allen was at his limit. His wounds burned with infection, his fever worsened, and his body felt like it would collapse at any moment. He lay slumped against the cliffside, gripping the branch with trembling hands.

"I don't want to die…" he whispered, his voice rasping. But his strength was almost gone, and his vision blurred.

Just as he was about to succumb, a strange warmth spread through his chest. At first, he thought it was a fevered hallucination, but the sensation was real—a gentle heat flowing through his veins, soothing his pain and mending his injuries.

"What… is this?" he murmured, flexing his fingers. His breathing steadied, and the stabbing pain in his chest dulled. Looking down, he saw faint, shimmering light across his bloodstained clothes.

"You're not imagining it, boy," said a deep, gravelly voice, startling him.

Allen's head snapped up, but there was no one in sight. "Who's there?" he demanded.

"Look down," the voice replied, its tone tinged with exasperation. Allen's gaze fell to the branch in his hand. Strange symbols carved into its surface seemed to glow faintly.

"It's… you?" he asked, incredulous.

"Smart kid," the voice said dryly. "Now stop staring and take care of those wounds. You're not out of the woods yet."

Though stunned, Allen obeyed, using the remaining daylight to tend to his injuries. By the time night fell, his body had begun to recover. His fever subsided, and he could move more freely.

"Who are you?" he asked the branch as he sat beside a small fire he had managed to light.

The voice chuckled. "A question for another time. For now, focus on staying alive. There's still much for you to do."

Allen nodded, gripping the branch tightly. Whatever the future held, he wasn't ready to give up.