Full Verse Review: The Lone Wanderer. By PathOfPen.

This one’s a bit esoteric—not all of you are meant to understand it. But those of you who’ve puffed the magic dragon’s fungal cousin will know full well, it can take you to some… strange places.

I only wish I’d picked up The Lone Wanderer before going down that route. Didn’t realise there was an easier—safer—way to explore strange and colourful worlds. Would’ve saved me a fortune in therapy.

Not for the psychosis—no, that part was fine.

It was the counselling I needed after falling in love with a withholding, emotionally unavailable tree.

Live and learn, I suppose. I broke things off with her in the end. Tragic stuff. She was utterly bark-broken.

(Get it? Because it sounds like “heartbroken”—gah! Whatever, man. It’s comedy gold.)

Much like my love affair with a fern, The Lone Wanderer is also a trip. It takes you across the cosmos, exploring strange new worlds, seeking out new life and new civilisations; boldly going where no man has gone before—then plundering it for all the magical shizniz Percy can smuggle back home.

Let me give you some context for this review before I dive in. I’ve been reading this one since it was released—you might even find some of my comments haunting the old chapters. It’s recently been stubbed. For those not in the know, that means a good chunk of the story has been removed from free access, packaged, edited, and sold for coin.

I have no issue with stubbing—an artist’s gotta eat—but it does mean that new readers will have to pay a toll for admission.

To wit, I say: “perfect.”

As in, the perfect time to review it.

Other than romancing redwoods, I aim to offer a service. For authors, it’s to say: “I see what you did there.” And for readers, it’s to curate—to give you a window into what to expect before sinking time or actual monies into the stories that catch your eye.

Let’s get into it.

Buried beneath some shroom-induced ramblings—not the magical type, but the type you rebound with when you finally accept the tree will never change—I’ve alluded to the premise of this fiction.

To say it plain, The Lone Wanderer is an astral-projection, world-hopping, magic-driven LitRPG, progression adventure—a story that understands its audience and gives them a damn good time. Having read a total of 378 chapters to date, I can say that with confidence.

That being said, it doesn’t break new ground. If you’ve read your share of progression fantasies, you’ll be familiar with many of the tropes PathOfPen employs: weak-to-strong growth; an underestimated, overachieving protagonist; blighted by the worst innate magical talent, yet blessed with a cheat skill that makes it all work. The Lone Wanderer has all of that.

But it’s not about the ingredients; it’s about how you stir them to make the soup.

Sticking to the soup metaphor, I can tell you this one’s filling. It gives you just enough of what you want in every sip. If you’re looking for warmth, you’ll find it in the character interactions. If you’re looking for spice, some of the action sequences blaze. If you’re looking for complex flavours, the magic system’s deep and layered.

And if you’re here for the romance… well, there’s a crass joke to be made involving meats and cream, but unless you’re a weirdo, that’s probably where the soup analogy ends.

Still—this fiction has it all the same.

It features a smorgasbord of genres and genre expectations, all grounded and made believable by Percy’s planet-hopping ways. And now it’s up to Bardic Planet to employ the resources available to us to take apart this piece and tell you exactly how it works.

Character & Voice:

Not unlike the sapling that withholding birch used me to babysit, this story has character. Quite a few of them, actually. But the narrative is driven by Percy Avalon.

Percy, the protagonist, begins life at the bottom rung. Born into the Avalon household on the human-dominant world of Remior, he’s marked as a “Red Born”—a status that leaves him magically disadvantaged. In a society where power is measured by magical talent, Percy starts with almost no potential.

Or, to put it less academically: he’s about as promising as a floppy disk in the age of cloud storage.

And for those of you too young to remember what floppy disks are—screw you. Time catches up with us all in the end.

He’s all but ignored by his loved ones. Even his parents don’t give a toss about him. I’m not kidding—they cared so little about his welfare that they up and left… and promptly died.

Okay, technically they were murdered, but that’s semantics. A thinly veiled pretence to hide the real cause: the sheer, crushing shame of having birthed a Red Born.

He’s discriminated against, given few magical resources and opportunities. Most of his uncles and cousins treat him with disdain, and the patriarch of his household—Archibald (“Baldy”) Avalon—simply ignores Percy’s existence altogether.

But Percy has a secret. Maddeningly, as the story progresses, he doesn’t seem capable of keeping that secret to himself—but he has one all the same.

He’s inherited a mutated bloodline ability of his family. While other Avalons can create physical clones of themselves, Percy can copy his soul. With that ability, he’s able to possess dying life on other worlds, plunder their secrets, and bring them back to his own.

That’s the hook. Reel the fish.

That’s what separates Percy from all the other Red Borns—who, so far as I can tell, genuinely have a rough go of it.

“Speaking as somebody who’s seen lots of amazing treasures out there… this is huge! … We’ll get more gods, and you’ll get more Violet and White cores!

The only ones who’ll get squat are the Red-borns, but then again… who cares about them anyway, right?”

~ So saith Hermes, god of trolololololololz.

Given the lack of love, consideration, or the slightest hint of respect he’s shown during his upbringing, you could be excused for thinking this is all the making of a murder-hobo, scumbag-revengefest. And indeed, there have been some discussions in the fiction’s comment section as to whether Percy is, in fact, a murder hobo.

He travels a fair bit, and he’s not too shy to kiss and kill, but it has been my contention—and I stand by it—that Percy is merely ruthlessly pragmatic. He doesn’t kill for the lolz.

Indeed, despite the neglect he received all his life—despite his people seeming to shop for the very same gift I get my mother each Mother’s Day: disappointment—he’s never stingy with the boons he reaps. He shares most of his ghost-earned plunder and discoveries with his loved ones at every turn. Even relative strangers aren’t exempt from his generosity.

Some might call him foolish, but Percy sees it another way. He’s determined to rise from nothing and seize divinity. An advantage here, a secret there—they mean little when he’s determined never to stop.

“‘You know. I used to worry about that… But do you have any idea how many amazing things I’ve come across… Just 7? 8 years? If the day ever comes… tell them to ask themselves one important question…’ ‘

What question?’

‘How many more places has Percy visited since Atlantis?’”

~So Saith Percival Avalon: Aspirant god of FAFO.

He’s a workaholic; he works himself to the bone. If he didn’t need to sleep, he wouldn’t. How do I know this? Simple: he develops the ability not to sleep—so he doesn’t.

This gives the narrative much of its drive: he’s always pushing to improve, to innovate, to advance. And he isn’t shy about taking death-defying risks in pursuit of what he wants—to prove the impossible to the cosmos: that even someone deemed worthless can achieve great, and occasionally terrible, feats.

The main cast is rounded out by a ragtag band of Percy’s allies—chief among them his giant, talking crow. Micky (a.k.a. Percy’s crow familiar) has a tragic origin of his own. His bond with Percy is oddly touching at times for a progression fantasy; the lengths the two have gone for each other border on star-crossed myth.

You can’t help but root for the pair. Birds of a feather—to the end. More than willing to kill or even die to keep the other safe.

Then there’s Elaine, Percy’s talented cousin. She loves him—not the kind of love between a man and a redwood—but she’s always treated him with kindness, and she’s the first of their clan to recognise his potential.

Next is Nesha, Percy’s romantic interest. She’s introduced as a work-shy yet savvy business partner in a licit trade. She’s standoffish, a bit selfish—but deep down she’s grieving the loss of her entire line. Too weak to seriously pursue vengeance, she seems content to make her coin and run down the metre of her days.

But then she meets Percy. She learns—through hard work, and let’s face it, cheat abilities or the right associations—that anything is possible after all.

She does, admittedly, blend into Percy’s story for a stretch, losing some of the sharpness that made her compelling at the start. But fear not, dear readers: in so far as I have read, she does eventually assert her agency again.

I salute her. I know well the pain of playing second fiddle to someone with main-character syndrome. In fairness, Percy is actually the protagonist, and Nesha wasn’t off her mind on shrooms when she met him. But all the same, I support her.

Just as I hope my readers will support me in the civil suit filed against me for “defaming” my emotionally (and actually) wooden ex.

Narrative & Structure:

The structure is largely linear, allowing for some meanwhiles in between. We don’t just follow Percy; we also tag along with his clones. This allows for certain bouts of monotony to be skipped while we’re carried away on a secondary adventure.

Put another way: Percy’s main-self might be busy fussing over thread—fascinating for him, a total snore-fest for the reader if prolonged too long. Instead, the perspective will cut to one of his clones, and we’ll be whisked away to far-off worlds, greeted by the riveting subplot of Percy learning to read. Or tattoo. Or dance. Or what-have-you.

It’s actually quite a clever device to ensure the story never loses momentum. Readers feel the passage of time, so it isn’t jarring when we’re dropped back into Percy’s next breakthrough.

Now look, I’m just a guy who munched down a few too many and got handsy with some oak… which, in fairness, might have contributed to my breakup with the redwood. But even I can see the brilliance of the world-hopping mechanic. It allows the author to explore different genres without ever losing internal coherence.

Maybe Percy’s in Atlantis, learning alchemy from fish. Maybe he’s at a university, cramming for tests like I crammed that oak. (Too far? If so, apologies—I have no filter left.)

And every so often, he might be in the incest-world of a god. Yes, I’ve hallucinated that realm. Yes, I regret it. No, the tree wasn’t involved this time.

Each arc has a definitive beginning, mid-point, and end—so much so that the author can, and does, neatly package them into separate books. You can buy the first on Amazon, here.

Tension ramps up nicely in each arc, and they’re resolved with a set-piece spectacle of action or flight. Don’t get me wrong, much of the narrative centres around Percy’s growth—growing his skills, his spells, his competencies—but the story never meanders, nor drifts without direction.

There are some poignant flashbacks here and there, but these are used sparingly. Additionally, the perspective isn’t always fixed on Percy. We get to ride inside his enemies’ heads, track their movements—a device that works nicely to ramp up tension and build dramatic irony.

But for the most part, this is Percy’s story, and I dare say I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Worldbuilding & Themes:

The world of The Lone Wanderer is well crafted. Even just in Remior, you feel the sense of history and scale. You have your noble houses, guilds, and factions. You get the monsters and magic the story simply wouldn’t be complete without. You’re even given a planetary pantheon—gods who protect their world from the predations of alien divinity.

And, like I mentioned, thanks to Percy’s world-hopping escapades, you don’t have just one world to explore—you journey the cosmos. Every world has its own history. Everyone Percy meets has a unique story to tell. Some worlds are more developed technologically, others more developed magically—none of them are dull.

All of this allows PathOfPen to build a vast universe of worlds, offering glimpses of incredible scale while keeping the narrative grounded with its terrestrial focus on Percy’s home world. This works two-fold: you don’t get lost in spiralling lore—it’s drip-fed only when needed. And there’s always a sense that the story could go anywhere.

They say actualisation comes at the cost of potential. This might be the story to disprove that rule. The worldbuilding is no small reason for this. It can focus tight in one area, then zoom wide and take you wherever the author’s imagination deems fit.

Then there’s the magic system. Magic as in “hocus-pocus,” not magic as in the mushrooms you take before humping a fir. It’s well defined and detailed. The rules are known, exploited, and put to good use—just like my redwood ex after the lawsuit; she’ll do wonders as the stick for my mop. A more useful wooden partner, at last.

It’s not as if I’ve never come across a magic system like this before. I have. Supreme Magus comes to mind, with its progressive refinement of one’s magic core from red to orange, to yellow, all the way to white then divine. But just because it’s not unique doesn’t mean it’s not handled well. It is. You’re given a solid sense of progression—of grind to hit those dopamine receptors just right—and all the while, it feels justified and clear.

The fiction’s a LitRPG—you’ll find your soul-bound UI comes as standard. But honestly, it’s mostly there to keep track of spells and abilities; it seems more for the reader’s benefit than the actual story’s. There are moments where it’s consequential, but on the whole, it’s just sort of there. Honestly, I don’t know whether the novel would be better without it. It might be—but it’s not distracting, and it’s justified by the narrative, so I suppose it can stay.

(Because, as you know, the Bard-in-Chief has editing veto over EVERY WORK OF FICTION!)

In terms of themes, the story explores a godless, god-filled cosmos. Cruelty and selfishness almost seem built into the universe. It’s Darwinism on a cosmic scale—the strong eat the weak, the stronger eat the strong, and so the only thing that makes sense is the pursuit of power. Perhaps cynical, but it reflects our world in many ways.

But just as you’ll find cruelty, you’ll also find kindness. Maybe kindness shouldn’t make sense in such a world… but the world is brighter for its presence. And if Percy can spread that kindness about, all the more power to him.

Craft:

I’ll only go into light detail here, and I’ll hold the jokes… just like yo mamma held somethang else last nite.

The prose is confident and clear. No jarring mistakes to be found. The narrative is written in a 3rd-person limited perspective. For the most part, it follows Percy or one of his clones, but it can cycle to any character whenever there’s reason to.

It works. You get an intimate view of the characters’ inner clockwork. Percy’s a schemer—you get to watch those schemes play out in his head.

“Percy frowned. He did have a few more healing potions, though he was saving them for a rainy day. It wasn’t like he was too stingy to use them on Micky if the bird really needed them, but he’d rather hold on to them for a time they might need them more – assuming his familiar could recover on his own, of course.”

Sentence structures alternate nicely, so it never becomes a monotonous drone. Scenes are well described; emotions are well explored. The prose never tints to purple, but it’s evocative all the same.

If you’re looking for Shakespeare—metaphors branching through scenes, filling all with thematic depth—you won’t find that here. What you’ll find is a well-written work you can easily digest without straining to make sense of every line.

Closing Thoughts:

The Lone Wanderer is, at its core, a story that knows exactly what it is—and refuses to apologise for it. It’s ambitious without being pretentious, familiar without being stale, and bold enough to swing for the cosmic fences while keeping its feet grounded in character and consequence.

Percy’s rise from cosmic afterthought to divine threat is addictive, and PathOfPen’s commitment to structure, pacing, and worldbuilding means the journey never loses momentum. Even at 378 chapters deep, it remains sharp, imaginative, and deeply readable.

If you’re hungry for a progression fantasy that balances heart, happenings, and high-concept wonder—with just enough chaos to keep things spicy—then The Lone Wanderer is well worth your time, your coin, and possibly a small portion of your sanity.

Just… if you start hallucinating trees calling you “Percy, darling,” that part is not on the author. That one’s on you.

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