The last remaining Master was a Rank 1 expert cornered by a Rank 4 fiend. He knew he was about to be killed, and desperation drove him to his final, repulsive act. He seized Malina, one of the youngest children, his knife pressing against her throat, tearing the skin while her tears streaked her dirt-smeared face.
“LET ME GO!” His roar broke the silence.
Myra turned. Her eyes were voids filled with apathy. The black wing behind her quivered, hungry.
“DON’T MOVE! ONE STEP AND SHE DIES!”
However, Myra took one step.
Then another.
The Master felt it: a sudden, paralysing chill that was the unmistakable call of death in his very soul. He realised the horrifying truth: Myra was no longer factoring the child in his arms into her equation.
Myra’s mind had already fallen.
She was three again in Murmur, watching her parents gutted for a scrap of mouldy bread. She saw the flash of the blade, the red geyser, the blank despair in her mother’s dead eyes.
She was six, chained to the man who had raped her mother before killing her
Sleeping in the snow, ribs showing, eating frozen rats, eating her only friend when the girl starved first and whispered,
She had stopped being human that winter. She became a creature of pure, distilled survival, driven by a hatred so profound it warped her very soul. The darkness, the 'black wing' of her inherited, monstrous power, became her true self.
Until Lirian came. Lirian, another Murmur orphan, saved by Mikael before the abyss swallowed him. Lirian, who returned as a Royal Army’s prodigy and cut her chains with his own hands.
Lirian, who carried her south and gave her a name again, Mikael’s ‘second’ child. It took years for her to trust them, to open herself once more. The Orphanage had been her resurrection.
Until Lirian died — slandered as a traitor, murdered by monsters wearing the Templo’s colours.
She ran to the lawless Frontier and became the Red Demoness for two blood-soaked years. Killing, lying, stealing, plotting, nothing was beneath her. Mikael finally found her a couple of years later, when she was 12. She was already a Grandmaster, yet the number of people killed by her by force or crook was already in the double digits.
Mikael dragged her back when she was twelve.
The growing children needed her. She needed them.
Today they had tried to take them again.
Malina didn’t exist in her mind anymore. Only the Master’s death remained, his image overlapping with her father’s and Lirian’s killer, his mother’s rapist, the many men and women that died at her hands; he was the amalgamation of her hatred.
She raised her leg to crush his skull, child and all.
The Master, sensing his inevitable doom, hardened his heart. If he was to die, he would take the girl and as many other children as he could with him. But, he was stopped.
WHAP!
A rock cracked against the Master’s temple.
Lena — quiet, clever Lena — had untied herself with a jagged stone while Myra was lost in the abyss.
Tiro and the rest of the children swarmed like angry bees. Ropes, pots, fists, teeth.
The Master went down under a storm of small, furious bodies. He lived… barely.
The children cheered, hugging, crying.
Nevertheless, Myra was still coming.
Her foot raised, ready to stomp the man to death.
Miriam — tiny Miriam — launched herself at Myra’s chest, weeping.
“Sister Myra… wake up… please… it’s over…”
Myra broke once more. The black wing of her Will dissolved into smoke. Myra’s eyes bled back to ochre.
She dropped to her knees in the mud and cradled Miriam, tears cutting channels through the blood on her face.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
The children piled on, a tangle of arms and sobs.
Rain began to fall, washing the gore from their skin, quenching the fires that licked the Orphanage walls.
For one heartbeat, they had a future, a new start.
But fate is a cruel accountant.
And the balance was not yet paid
The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the ground outside the Royal Army Camp into a slurry of mud that clung to boots like desperate hands. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing the storm brewing in Elisha's chest. He stood there, drenched and heaving, legs trembling, acupoints screaming, lungs on fire from the suicidal pace that had carried him here
Yet, at the camp's fortified entrance, flanked by banners bearing Ansara's royal crest and AEON's eternal circle, Captain Apollos blocked his path like a petty gatekeeper to hell.
The soldiers around Apollos shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between the captain and the wild-eyed boy. None dared speak; Apollos was their superior, his uniform crisp despite the downpour, his face twisted in a smug sneer.
Elisha saw red. The thought ignited his Qi, a burning coil in his core. This scum, this despicable worm, dared obstruct him now? Worse, threaten the home he'd sworn to protect? Elisha's fists clenched, his Will surging despite his exhausted acupoints screaming in protest.
Apollos smirked, sensing the boy's fraying temper. . One swing from the orphan, and he'd have every excuse to bury him. "Well, boy? Going to cry to your 'pops'?"
What Apollos wanted came swiftly. Elisha vanished in a blur, his
BAAAAM… CRACK!
Elisha's fist connected like thunder, shattering Apollos' defence and slamming him into the mud. The captain's face crumpled: black eye swelling, orbit fracturing, teeth scattering like broken pearls, blood mingling with rain. The other soldiers gaped, stunned.
Alarms blared across the camp, horns wailing over the storm. Soldiers poured from tents, weapons drawn: swords humming with Qi, bows nocked with enchanted arrows.
"ASSAULT ON A CAPTAIN!" one shouted. "SUBDUE HIM!"
Elisha wouldn't surrender. Activating
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
The layout was a grid of order, Ansara's military precision on display, but in the chaos, it became his playground. He leapt over supply crates, Qi-enhanced agility carrying him aloft.
A Corporal Grandmaster burst from a tent, sword slashing a luminous Qi wave.
Elisha twisted mid-air, the wave scorching past his sleeve. He countered defensively, summoning
Three meter-long golden talons ignited along his knuckles. Two more energy waves hurtled from flanking Praetorians; he blocked them with his claws, the rebound propelling him backwards into another cluster of soldiers.
Arrows whistled through the rain. Elisha grabbed a nearby post, swinging upward to a tent roof. Below, soldiers scrambled, their shouts muffled by thunder. A third of the camp was alert now, formations tightening.
Mid-tiered warriors, Centurions, Legates, would join soon. Many were out scouting craters, buying him precious seconds, but time was slipping.
A stealthy Praetorian ambushed from behind, kicking with Qi-infused force.
BAM!
Elisha crossed his arms, the impact reopening his wounds, blood soaking his tunic. He flew meters, crashing through soldiers, using the momentum to breach another enclave.
Ducking into a tent, Elisha channelled his desperation. He slammed his fist down.
The tent exploded upward in a dust cloud, canvas billowing like a storm sail. Soldiers coughed, blinded. A newly arrived Centurion barked, "Archers! Shoot the tent!"
Arrows rained, perforating the canvas into a sieve. But Elisha was already gone, having leapt hidden within the billowing canvas, using the dust for cover. He hit the ground, rolled, and unleashed a final, desperate
Fumbling in his pocket, Elisha pulled the leather pouch Mikael had given him. He was about to open it when a figure emerged from the main tent: a woman of about twenty, heroic in stature, 1.75 meters tall with fiery red hair and piercing violet eyes. Her curves strained against the blue Ansara uniform, unadorned by medals. She fixed him with a gaze that froze his soul, a smile playing on her lips.
Elisha's movements halted, as if invisible chains bound him. Her presence was overwhelming, a synchronisation far beyond anything he’d felt, even Mikael. He tried to activate his Qi claws, but she vanished like mist.
A hand—smooth as jade, strong as iron—pressed his head from behind. Elisha twisted, but it was futile. Pressure mounted; he crumpled face-down in the mud, her weight pinning him effortlessly. The pouch tumbled, opening to reveal a wooden plaque with a metallic seal, ancient, etched with a valiant warrior holding a sword surrounded by a dragon.
Sitting atop him, the woman laughed, her voice melodic like a lark's song. "Hehehe, little Lion, that was a fantastic show! I was this close to applauding. Come on, spill, what's the plot? Assassination? Theft? Don't leave me hanging!"
Two men emerged from the tent: Brigadier Saulo, stern and professional, and Commander Sebastian, his face a mask of unyielding authority.
"More fools testing our laws," Saulo muttered. "First Sagat, now this whelp. The youth lack discipline." He drew his sword, Qi humming along the blade, ready to execute.
Sebastian's hand stopped him. His eyes weren't on Elisha or Saulo. They fixed on the plaque. The woman glanced too, her playful demeanour unchanging, but something inscrutable flickered in her violet eyes, as she remained quiet as well.
The pursuing soldiers halted, a tense silence falling over the camp, broken only by rain and distant thunder. Seconds stretched like eternities.
Finally, Sebastian spoke, his voice measured. "You sought me desperately, boy. But Ansara's army thrives on the Rule of Law: the balance that elevates us above Murmur's barbarians or Rhodar's beasts. It's what makes us superior in Aeonia. Do you understand?"
Before Elisha could respond, Apollos staggered in, face a ruined mess, swollen, bloody, teeth gaps grinning grotesquely. "Commander! Justice! This savage attacked me unprovoked and infiltrated the camp! I've suspected him a Rhodar spy… he mocks our dignity!"
Saulo shot him a withering look, as did several soldiers. their expressions said. Sebastian ignored him, lifting Elisha by the collar. "Speak your piece before I decide your fate."
Elisha gasped, words tumbling out. "Commander Sebastian, sir… I'm Elisha, an orphan from Radom. My family came to the Border seeking fortune, investigating craters. We clashed with Sagat of the Violent Tigers. They kidnapped a friend's sister; we infiltrated to rescue her. His lair's in a cave northwest of Rainbow Roses Lake, toward Mount Karol's northeastern edge.
"We found Sagat trading with Rhodarians, Beastmen soldiers and Commander Rolando Du Sacar, the invader from eight years ago. He's with a TAO Emperor! I fled to warn you. Please… help us. My brothers and father are still there. If the Rhodarians escape with Sagat's crater find... It's the Fruit of the Mountain God."
Sebastian's face remained impassive through mentions of Sagat, Rhodar, Rolando, Emperor. But at "Fruit," his pupils contracted subtly.
Apollos opened his mouth to scoff, but Sebastian's glare silenced him. A promise of sure death.
Sebastian turned to Saulo. “Everything he said dies here. Take three Lieutenants (Legates), four Majors (Centurions), and every Captain (Praetorian) except Apollos. Follow the boy. You know what must be done.”
Saulo saluted and began barking names, Apollos’ not among them.
Sebastian knelt, pressed two fingers to Elisha’s forehead. Five acupoints flared along his arm; warm golden-white Qi flooded the boy’s meridians like sunlight piercing storm clouds.
Fractured bones knitted with soft cracks; torn meridians cooled. Not whole—but alive enough to fight. This was a show of good faith from Commander Sebastian.
“You’ll guide them,” Sebastian ordered. “Lie to me, and no law will save you.”
Elisha staggered to his feet, awe and terror warring in his chest. “I wouldn’t dare, Commander.”
As the strike force vanished into the storm, Apollos stood alone in the mud, ignored by every passing soldier, the taste of his own blood suddenly very bitter. He had the feeling his future in the Army was no more.
Afterwards, Sebastian lifted the plaque, thumb tracing the dragon seal with something close to reverence. The red-haired woman stood beside him. He whispered as if talking to himself, "A shame if Rolando slips away."
"He won't," her voice soft like falling ash. She walked westwards, towards Rhodar. After ten steps, she vanished like a phantom in the rain.
Ten minutes had gone by since Elisha left Sagat’s lair.
Tic… Tac… Tic… Tac.
Eleven.
Sagat stopped his measured advance, the foul air of the cave coiling around him. He studied Roxy and the trembling cluster of children huddled behind her, his yellow eyes fixing on the young woman as if already gazing upon a corpse. His voice was flat, almost bored, as if he were reading a list of groceries instead of pronouncing a death sentence.
“So Ailan was tortured, and Jackal took him for more ‘stones.’ I can assume Jackal is dead, and you little rats decided to play heroes. Still wondering what gave you the courage to lie to my face, Roxy.”
His gaze slid over her, silent anger rising in his leer. “Ocelot’s nowhere to be found, so I guess he’s gone too. Good, good, good.”
The children and Roxy backed away, trembling. Sagat advanced with the slow inevitability of an executioner.
“If that old tramp in the main hall had finished me, none of this would matter. Funny—you had time to run. You didn’t.”
A cruel smile. “Unlike Ocelot, I don’t play with my food.”
Killing intent rolled off him in a visible wave, thick as tar. The Legate’s Will crushed the air; knees buckled, lungs forgot how to draw breath. Even breathing felt like betrayal.
It was a catharsis. The betrayal of Rolando, the death of his subordinates, the utter destruction of his hideout—all the resentment of the day was being vented upon this small group. And now, discovering Roxy’s treachery had caused his rage to completely spill over. Perhaps, he thought with a flicker of bitterness, this was the insidious Balance of AEON, haunting him for the kingdom he himself had betrayed.
Nerion stood beside Arbak’s cage, mind racing.
Sagat reached Roxy. His hand rose, a claw-like shadow reaching for her throat.
Nerion screamed, “LOOK!”
Sagat briefly lifted his gaze. Golden rings flared around Nerion’s irises, his entire Mana pool igniting in his eyes like molten gold.
“Καλειδοσκ?πιο! – Kaleidoskópio”
This was their last-ditch attempt. Roxy lunged, dagger flashing toward Sagat’s throat. Silvestre and Lucca leapt, Qi blazing.
It was useless.
Nerion’s technique shattered against Sagat’s mighty Will. The backlash hit like a thousand needles driven inward. Blood exploded from Nerion’s eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. He collapsed, clawing at his face, nails carving red furrows down his cheeks that would never fully fade.
Sagat didn’t even glance at the knife. His hand closed around Roxy’s neck first.
Crack!.
Roxy’s neck made a wet, bone-crunching sound. He flung her aside like a dirty rag, his gaze fixed on the screaming, bleeding Nerion. Roxy’s eyes rolled white, tongue protruding, the last spark of life already fleeing.
Silvestre roared overhead, hands clasped, resplendent Qi forming a hammer the size of a wagon wheel.
Sagat raised one palm. A massive tiger claw of pure crimson Qi materialised and swatted Silvestre out of the air.
BOOM!
The fat boy smashed into the far wall; the impact tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of arterial red. His right arm hung shattered, bones jutting through skin. He slid down the wall unconscious, blood pooling, yet his Earth meridian and thick layers of fat stubbornly refused to let him die.
Lucca landed a fraction later, spinning kick loaded with every ounce of Qi he had.
Sagat’s boot met Lucca’s chest, two reddish energy halos forming around his leg.
BAAM!.
The sternum caved like wet paper. Ribs speared heart and lungs. Lucca flew backwards, slammed the ground, and for one endless second, his eyes found Nerion’s across the cavern… wide, surprised, already glazing.
His lips moved. A soundless word: “Run…”
Lucca’s eyes rolled back, a final red tear slipping down his cheek before the light died forever.
“LUCCA! SILVESTRE!”
Nerion’s scream was inhuman, shredded raw by blood and guilt.
He knew this was his fault; he should have convinced them to flee. His young age, his pride, his tragic naivety had conditioned his decision to fight, and now, he had no way to remedy it. Roxy was dead, Lucca was dead, and Silvestre lay motionless in a widening crimson lake.
Ailan and Eliana clung to each other, sobbing, legs too weak to stand.
The mountain itself seemed to roar in mourning as the clash of Emperors overhead reached its climax: stone dust raining from the ceiling like grave-soil. The tremors, resulting from the fight between Sylas and Mikael, caused a percussive sound that was a funeral march to the children’s ears.
The toll had come true to its calling. AEON doesn’t forgive debts.
Tic… Tac…
Thirteen.