The Last Human: Unlimited Power, Unlimited Beauties

Staying in Silverclaw Village turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.

Not comfortable in the modern sense.

There was no electricity, no running hot water, no refrigerator, no air-conditioning, and definitely no magical little box in my pocket capable of showing me the collective stupidity of humanity whenever I got bored.

Still, I adjusted.

Fast.

Three days.

That was apparently all Caled Morningwood needed to go from dying underneath a condominium building to functioning as a semi-productive member of a village populated entirely by wolf people.

I was almost proud of myself.

Almost.

I spent those three days learning everything I could about where I had ended up without making it painfully obvious that I knew absolutely nothing.

That required finesse.

You couldn’t simply walk up to someone and ask, ”Excuse me, what planet am I on?”

That tended to create follow-up questions.

Instead, I had developed a more sophisticated approach.

Ask questions like I already knew half the answer.

”So that’s how you do it around here?”

”Is that custom common in this region?”

”Remind me, what do people usually call this place?”

The trick was confidence.

Say something stupid confidently enough and people often assumed there was context they were missing.

A skill I had been practicing my entire life.

That was how I learned the name of this world.

Aphrodasia.

I had to respect the name.

My old world was called Earth.

Earth.

Dirt.

Humanity looked at an entire planet full of oceans, mountains, forests, cities, deserts, and billions of people and apparently decided dirt covered the branding requirements.

Aphrodasia sounded like the sort of world that entered a room wearing expensive perfume and immediately caused divorces.

Much better.

Silverclaw Village was a Wolfkin settlement.

That explained all the ears, tails, impressive hearing, and why whispering about somebody from ten meters away was apparently a terrible tactical decision.

Then there were Spriggans.

Gran and Kol still believed I was one.

Almost everybody did.

I had learned more about Spriggans during my second day while helping Gran carry timber toward a damaged section of the village barricade.

I had one end of a log balanced against my shoulder while Gran carried the other.

”So,” I said casually, ”purely for entertainment purposes, explain Spriggans to me.”

Gran looked back at me.

”Explain your own race?”

”Yes.”

”Why?”

”I enjoy hearing other people’s interpretation of me.”

He stared.

”That makes no sense.”

”Most interesting things don’t.”

Gran snorted.

”You Spriggans are strange.”

”There we go. We’re already learning.”

According to Gran, Spriggans were a fairy race strongly connected to magic.

And unlike what I originally assumed, they did have wings.

Sort of.

Every Spriggan carried markings across their back shaped like folded wings.

Those markings looked almost like elaborate tattoos and served as one of the most recognizable signs that someone was a Spriggan.

The unusual part was that the wings did not always exist physically.

A Spriggan traveling alone only had the markings.

No functional wings.

No flying.

No dramatic fluttering through forests while sparkling mysteriously.

But whenever two or more Spriggans came together, their magic resonated with each other.

Then the markings changed.

The wing-shaped tattoos manifested outward from their backs and transformed into actual magical wings.

That allowed them to fly.

I stopped walking.

Gran nearly got pulled backward by the log.

”What?”

I stared at him.

”So one Spriggan can’t fly.”

”No.”

”But two can.”

”Yes.”

”Because their tattoos become wings.”

”The markings manifest through magical resonance.”

I nodded slowly.

”Friendship-powered aviation.”

Gran frowned.

”What?”

”Nothing. Continue.”

He shook his head.

Apparently, that same resonance strengthened their magical abilities too.

Spriggans were powerful magic users, but they became considerably more dangerous when several gathered together.

The more of them there were nearby, the stronger their connection became.

That explained why Spriggans generally traveled in groups.

Flying alone was physically impossible for them, and their magic was naturally more effective around others of their kind.

Which made Gran’s confusion about finding me wandering by myself much more reasonable.

It also created one very specific problem.

I did not have wing markings.

At least, not unless death had tattooed my back while I wasn’t paying attention.

Nobody had checked yet.

That meant my continued disguise as the world’s most disappointing Spriggan depended heavily on one important strategy.

Keep my shirt on.

Strangely enough, for the first time in my life, keeping my clothes on was protecting me from trouble.

Personal growth.

Maybe.

I also made sure to work.

I wasn’t interested in becoming the mysterious stranger who ate their food, slept in their homes, and contributed nothing besides jokes and attractive facial structure.

So I helped wherever possible.

I carried water.

Moved timber.

Repaired sections of fencing.

Helped strengthen barricades.

Chopped firewood.

Assisted craftsmen with simple weapon construction.

And something weird kept happening.

I learned ridiculously fast.

The first time someone showed me how to chop wood properly, I expected to spend the next hour embarrassing myself.

Instead, after a few swings, my body adjusted.

My grip changed.

My stance improved.

The axe started landing exactly where I wanted.

When Kol demonstrated how to smooth a spear shaft evenly, I copied him.

A few attempts later, my hands moved like they already understood the process.

That made absolutely no sense.

Back on Earth, I once tried fixing a leaking faucet and somehow made it leak from two places.

Yet here I was picking up unfamiliar physical skills like somebody had secretly installed instructional videos directly into my muscles.

I chose not to investigate too deeply.

If there was one philosophy that had carried me through twenty-four years of questionable survival, it was this:

If something strange is currently helping you, don’t poke it until it bites.

The villagers also seemed to like me.

A lot.

Maybe suspiciously much.

Families invited me to eat with them.

Children followed me around asking questions about my clothes.

The men joked while we worked.

Several women had developed the habit of smiling whenever I passed.

I supported this cultural development completely.

One elderly woman even tried arranging a marriage between me and her granddaughter.

She cornered me near the water barrels one afternoon.

”You don’t have a wife?”

I blinked.

”Not unless someone filed paperwork without telling me.”

She smiled.

”My granddaughter has no husband.”

There it was.

The ambush.

I glanced toward the girl she pointed at.

Cute.

Definitely cute.

Also definitely too young.

I looked back at Grandma.

”I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m going to decline.”

Her brows furrowed.

”Why? She’s beautiful.”

”Agreed.”

”Then what’s wrong?”

”Nothing. She’s just below my minimum age limit.”

The old woman stared.

”Minimum?”

”Yes. Even I have standards.”

She continued staring.

I placed a hand over my chest.

”I know. Shocking.”

Eventually she laughed and swatted my arm.

”You are a strange young man.”

”That appears to be my reputation.”

By the third morning, I had developed something resembling a routine.

Sunlight spilled across Silverclaw while cooking smoke drifted lazily above the wooden rooftops.

Birds called from beyond the village.

Children ran between houses.

Somewhere nearby, somebody was hammering metal.

And I was chopping firewood.

I raised the axe.

Swung.

Crack.

The log split neatly.

Another.

Crack.

Another.

Crack.

Three days ago, I had never done this.

Now I had rhythm.

Place.

Raise.

Swing.

Split.

It was strangely satisfying.

Probably because wood didn’t argue, slap me, have boyfriends, or ask why I had forgotten its name.

I wiped sweat from my forehead.

Then I noticed several women nearby.

Watching.

Not even pretending particularly well.

Two stood beside baskets.

Another was carrying folded cloth.

One younger woman whispered something that made the others giggle.

I leaned on the axe handle.

”Ladies.”

They immediately looked elsewhere.

One became extremely interested in a completely ordinary wall.

I smiled.

Their eyes returned almost instantly.

Caught.

A woman laughed.

”You noticed.”

”I’ve been noticed professionally for years. I recognize the symptoms.”

Another woman grinned.

”You seem to enjoy the attention.”

”I endure it bravely.”

”Bravely?”

”Someone has to make sacrifices for village morale.”

They laughed.

I picked up another log.

One woman tilted her head.

”You swing harder when women are watching.”

”That’s false.”

”It isn’t.”

”I always work this hard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I reconsidered.

”Fine. I work more attractively when women are watching.”

That earned louder laughter.

I gave them a smile.

One covered her mouth.

Another nudged her.

Beautiful.

This world had monsters, magical races, and apparently dragons.

But women reacting to a good smile?

Some laws of reality deserved immortality.

Then their expressions changed.

One by one, they looked past me.

The laughter faded.

Without anyone saying anything, the women began walking away.

Interesting.

Five women suddenly remembering errands at exactly the same moment.

I looked over my shoulder.

Clyr was approaching.

Mystery solved.

She walked with that same steady confidence she always carried, brown hair moving gently behind her while her wolf ears stood alert above her head.

I rested the axe against the chopping block.

”Chief.”

She looked at the pile of split firewood.

”I’ve been hearing things about you.”

I brightened.

”Finally. Recognition.”

”You’ve been chopping wood every morning.”

”Heroically.”

”Helping repair the barricades.”

”Also heroically.”

”You’ve been assisting the craftsmen making weapons.”

I nodded.

”My heroism has range.”

Her expression remained perfectly flat.

”And yesterday, you tried joining the monster hunters.”

I paused.

”Ah.”

”You asked them three times.”

”I admire persistence.”

”They rejected you three times.”

”They admire consistency.”

Clyr folded her arms.

”They hunt monsters, Caled.”

”I gathered that from the name.”

”You don’t know the surrounding territory.”

”True.”

”You don’t know the creatures they hunt.”

”Also true.”

”You don’t even own a weapon.”

”I planned to solve that problem shortly before departure.”

She stared.

”By stealing one?”

”Borrowing.”

”Without permission?”

”Surprise borrowing.”

”That’s stealing.”

”Language is such a restrictive thing.”

For a moment, I thought the corner of her mouth moved.

I pointed.

”There.”

”What?”

”You nearly smiled.”

”No.”

”I saw it.”

”You imagined it.”

”Your face betrayed you.”

”My face did nothing.”

”Exactly what a guilty face would claim.”

She sighed.

I loved progress.

Clyr looked over the wood again.

”I didn’t expect you to help this much.”

I placed a hand against my chest.

”That hurts.”

”Why?”

”Because you clearly profiled me.”

”I did.”

I blinked.

”Oh. Very honest.”

”You looked like someone who would spend all day talking and avoiding work.”

”That’s unfair.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I considered myself.

”Accurate, maybe. But unfair.”

She glanced toward the barricade.

”Gran said you learned the repairs quickly.”

”He exaggerates.”

”He said you understood after watching once.”

”That part might be accurate.”

”Kol said the same about helping shape weapon shafts.”

I shrugged.

”Apparently I’m talented.”

”You sound surprised.”

”I am.”

Her eyes sharpened slightly.

I decided not to hide that part.

”Honestly, I’ve never done most of this before.”

Clyr tilted her head.

”Never?”

”Different upbringing.”

”Yet you learn almost immediately.”

”Maybe I’m secretly brilliant.”

”Secretly?”

”Very secretly.”

She studied me for several seconds.

Then she said, ”I didn’t expect something like that from a Spriggan.”

I smiled.

”And what were you expecting?”

”More magic.”

”Less lumber?”

”Much less lumber.”

I leaned against the axe.

”What, did you expect me to sit under a tree all day whispering inspirational messages to flowers?”

Her brows pulled together.

”Why would you whisper to flowers?”

”Fairy behavior.”

”Spriggans don’t do that.”

”Then somebody has been spreading harmful stereotypes.”

”You are the one spreading them.”

”Then I demand accountability.”

She shook her head.

”You joke too much.”

”I’ve been told laughter extends life.”

”Who told you that?”

”I probably made it up.”

Clyr sighed.

Then her expression grew more thoughtful.

”There is something else.”

”That sentence rarely ends well.”

”You haven’t shown any magic since arriving.”

And there it was.

The issue I had been carefully dancing around like a drunk man avoiding a puddle.

Magic.

I had none.

At least, none I knew how to use.

Clyr continued.

”Spriggans are known for magic. Even alone, you should still possess some ability.”

She glanced briefly toward my back.

”And without another Spriggan nearby, your wings can’t manifest. That much is obvious. But that doesn’t explain why you haven’t used magic at all.”

Great.

Not only did I lack magic, I also lacked the magical tattoo identifying the race I was pretending not to pretend to be.

Fortunately, my shirt continued performing excellent defensive work.

I smiled confidently.

”I can use magic.”

Clyr raised one eyebrow.

”You can?”

”Obviously.”

”Show me.”

That was immediate.

No hesitation.

No polite opportunity for me to retreat.

Wonderful.

I stepped toward her.

Her eyes narrowed.

”What are you doing?”

”Magic requires atmosphere.”

”No, it doesn’t.”

”Mine does.”

”Caled.”

”Trust the process.”

I reached toward one of her wolf ears.

Her hand shot up and caught my wrist.

Fast enough that I barely saw it move.

”Don’t touch my ears.”

I looked at her hand around my wrist.

”Important cultural information acquired.”

”I’m serious.”

”So am I. Message received.”

She released me.

I slowly moved my fingers close to her ear without touching it.

Then I drew my hand back.

A small flower appeared between my fingers.

Clyr blinked.

I held it up.

”Behold.”

She stared at the flower.

Then at me.

”You already had that.”

”Outrageous accusation.”

”I saw you pick a flower earlier.”

”You witnessed preparation for advanced sorcery.”

”It’s a trick.”

”It’s magic.”

”It isn’t.”

”Can you prove that?”

”Yes.”

”Please don’t.”

I extended the flower toward her.

”Regardless, this is yours.”

She looked at it for a second.

Then took it.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

She examined the petals.

”Fancy little trick.”

”Little?”

”It’s a flower.”

”You know how to destroy an artist.”

”You called yourself a mage.”

”I contain many talents.”

”Mostly talking.”

”That’s one of my strongest disciplines.”

She finally looked directly into my eyes.

I smiled slowly.

”Believe me, Chief, you haven’t seen my best tricks yet.”

For once, she did not immediately answer.

She held my gaze.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Her ears gave the smallest twitch.

Then she blinked.

First.

I felt victory bloom inside me like a tiny flag being planted on enemy territory.

Clyr cleared her throat.

”I have work to do.”

”Running away already?”

”I’m walking.”

”Quickly.”

She turned.

I watched her start down the path.

”Keep the flower.”

She raised it slightly without turning around.

”I wasn’t planning to give it back.”

Oh.

That was something.

I watched her leave, a slow grin settling across my face.

Once she was far enough away, I murmured under my breath.

”That wall isn’t nearly as strong as advertised.”

•••••

Night came quietly.

Lamps glowed along the paths between houses, throwing warm circles of light across packed earth.

The village settled.

Cooking fires faded.

Families went indoors.

The moon hung full above the hills, bright enough to paint Silverclaw in pale silver.

Men patrolled the perimeter carrying weapons.

I had gotten used to seeing them.

When monsters existed, apparently neighborhood security required spears instead of flashlights.

I lay on the wooden bed they had given me.

Calling it a bed was generous.

It was basically several boards apologizing beneath a thin layer of padding.

Still, I had slept in worse places.

Usually after drinking.

I had one arm behind my head and was staring at the ceiling when a horn suddenly blasted through the village.

I sat upright.

”What the hell?”

The horn sounded again.

Long.

Urgent.

I had never heard it before.

Then came shouting.

Footsteps.

Doors opening.

People running.

Definitely not a midnight celebration.

I jumped out of bed and hurried outside.

The peaceful village had vanished.

Wolfkin rushed through the paths.

Parents grabbed children.

People shouted orders.

Armed villagers ran toward the barricades.

A man sprinted through the center of Silverclaw.

”Enslavers!”

The word cut through every other sound.

”Enslavers are coming! Anyone who can’t fight, get inside the Chief’s house!”

The village changed instantly.

People who had been farmers, craftsmen, hunters, and mothers during the day now reached for weapons.

Spears.

Axes.

Bows.

Wooden shields.

An older woman pulled two children toward Clyr’s home.

Someone helped an elderly man across the path.

I spotted Gran running past carrying a spear.

I grabbed his shoulder.

”Gran.”

He turned sharply.

”What?”

”I’m assuming ’enslavers’ doesn’t mean traveling merchants with unfortunate branding.”

”Get inside.”

”Who are they?”

”No time.”

”Everybody keeps saying that whenever the answer sounds important.”

Kol appeared nearby with a bow.

”Gran!”

Gran pointed toward Clyr’s house.

”Go inside, Caled. Now.”

They hurried away.

I stared after them.

Then Clyr emerged.

She carried a spear in one hand and a wooden shield in the other.

The woman who had stood beside me discussing flowers that morning had disappeared.

This was the village chief.

Focused.

Prepared.

Dangerously serious.

Her eyes found me.

”You. Inside.”

”Good evening to you too.”

”Caled.”

”Right. Emergency.”

I looked toward the gathering fighters.

”Maybe I can help.”

”No.”

”That was very quick.”

”Because there’s nothing to consider.”

”Give me a weapon.”

”No.”

”A small weapon?”

”No.”

”A pointy stick?”

”Inside.”

I spread my hands.

”I’ve been working here for three days. Let me do something.”

”This isn’t chopping wood.”

”Technically, an axe remains surprisingly relevant.”

She stepped closer.

”Listen to me.”

Her voice hardened.

”Spriggans can use powerful magic, but everyone knows your race is at its strongest around others of your kind. Your magic resonates together. Your wings don’t even manifest unless another Spriggan is nearby.”

Right.

Spriggan limitations.

She believed I had magical wing markings hidden underneath my shirt.

I actually had absolutely nothing.

No magic.

No wings.

No combat training.

Just confidence and a history of surviving situations I had no business surviving.

Clyr continued.

”You can pretend those restrictions don’t matter, but they do.”

”I prefer creatively ignoring restrictions.”

”This isn’t the time.”

Her expression made the joke die before I could add another.

She turned away.

”Besides, this battle has nothing to do with you.”

That one hit harder than expected.

My ego wanted to argue.

Every reckless impulse I possessed wanted to grab the nearest spear and run after them.

But reality remained annoyingly persuasive.

I had never fought a monster.

Never fought armed raiders.

Never fought anyone seriously, unless angry boyfriends counted, and those battles usually consisted of me identifying the nearest exit.

Being naturally good at splitting logs did not qualify me for warfare.

So, for once, I listened.

I entered Clyr’s house alongside the children, elderly villagers, and everyone unable to fight.

The room became crowded quickly.

Children clung to their parents.

An old woman whispered prayers.

Someone barred the door.

Then the battle began outside.

Metal struck metal.

Someone screamed.

A shield cracked against something heavy.

More shouting followed.

Footsteps thundered past the house.

Another collision shook the night.

Then another.

The fighting grew louder until Silverclaw sounded like the entire village was being torn apart piece by piece.

I stood beside the wall.

My fists tightened.

A child nearby began crying.

His mother pulled him against her chest.

Another crash came from outside.

I stared at the closed door.

Damn it.

I hated this.

I hated standing here while everyone else fought.

I hated hearing weapons clash without knowing who was winning.

I hated listening to voices I recognized shouting somewhere outside while I remained safely behind a wall.

Most of all, I hated being helpless and having absolutely nothing I could do about it.