"You saved my life?"
The voice came from ahead, soft but steady, carried on shaky breaths that barely masked the awe laced within. The young mystic approached, eyes wide with gratitude, limbs trembling slightly from exhaustion and adrenaline. His steps faltered as he neared the group, gaze fixed on Xander, the man who had intervened during the chaos.
"I just did what needed to be done, kid," Xander replied with a dismissive wave, brushing off the moment like it meant nothing. "You've got some solid moves yourself. For a mystic without any training, you're not half bad."
The youth stood there, modest and worn. His appearance suggested he was native to this place, clad in torn garb, his dark hair unkempt and tangled, face marked with soot and effort. There was nothing externally striking about him, yet something lingered in the way he carried himself: resilience. Grit is born of survival and necessity.
