The Radon Woods stretched like a wound across the edges of Rhodar and Ansara, its depth a primordial labyrinth where ancient trees twisted like the veins of the earth, their bark cloaked in faintly glowing moss that cast a sickly green pallor. The canopy above was a suffocating shroud, splintering the sun’s light into pale, ghostly rays that danced with shadows, as if the forest whispered secrets of forgotten gods. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of rot, damp earth, and a sharp tang of ozone that stung the nostrils, a harbinger of an eternal storm. Silence reigned, oppressive and unbroken, save for the occasional snap of a branch or the mournful wail of wind through blackened leaves. The few beasts that dared roam, shadow wolves with amber eyes, deer with shattered antlers, fled with ears pinned back as they neared the cave, as if the ground itself repelled them, trembling with a primal dread.
Deep within the woods, a cave gaped like a wound in the mountainside, its entrance veiled by thorny vines that crackled with faint arcs of electricity, alive with the power of their master. Inside, the cavern yawned vast and dark, its stalactites dripping brackish water that sparked upon the jagged floor, illuminated by veins of mineral pulsing with trapped lightning. The walls bore deep claw marks, their grooves glowing with residual electricity, as if the cave itself breathed the fury of its occupant. Each rumble of the beast within shook the earth, a low thunder that pressed against the chest, the air thick with the acrid scent of wet fur and scorched ozone.
Kerchak, the Thunder Breathing Bear, slumbered within, a colossus of black fur streaked with silver veins that sparked like a storm’s heart. His twisted antlers, crowned with faint arcs of lightning, scraped the cave’s ceiling, channelling raw Natural Energy that made the air hum. His breaths were a rolling thunder, exhaling clouds of vapour laced with electric tendrils that lit the cavern in fleeting bursts. A Rank 8 overlord, equal to Arbak the Cloud Serpent, Kerchak ruled half the Radon Woods with unchallenged might.
A shadow moved at the cave’s edge, a tall, sturdy figure cloaked in a tattered hood. Beneath it, a thick rhinoceros horn protruded from the forehead, its surface marred by deep cracks, a testament to a near-fatal wound. Rhys, the Beastman Legate, staggered forward, his breath ragged, each step a lance of pain through his scarred body. Weeks ago, Arbak’s prism-clouds had torn through him, leaving burns that still smouldered beneath his cloak, his Qi fractured and barely holding. He had lain in a near-coma, sustained only by rare herbs, moonbloom petals, and Taurus roots, that drained the last of his belongings, to restore his strength to this frail shadow. His communication runes, gifts from the Brotherhood, lay shattered, cutting him off from Venteria and the shadowy masters he served in secret. He believed Nerion and his companions dead, their fates sealed in the Woods’ chaos, leaving him alone to face the storm he now sought to unleash.
Rhys’s heart was a battlefield, torn between two lords. Venteria, his warrior tribe, demanded loyalty to Rhodar’s prairies, to the Legend who led them. Yet the Brotherhood, a whispered promise of power beyond the tribes, pulled at his ambition, their unseen contact urging him toward the Vein. He knew its worth—raw Natural Energy, a force to ascend beasts and men alike. But time was a blade at his throat. Arbak, the Cloud Serpent, teetered on the edge of becoming a Rank 9 Beast Lord, her power untouchable if she succeeded. His runes gone, his body broken, Rhys had one gamble left: a reckless spark to ignite a war.
He stopped short of the cave, the air thickening with dread, the ground trembling beneath Kerchak’s presence. The ozone burned his lungs, and his cracked horn ached, a warning to flee. Rhys gripped a crystal in his cloak, a false relic pulsing with stolen Natural Energy, its light mimicking the Vein’s call. He dared not step closer, wary of the death that waited within.
“Leave…” A voice rumbled from the cave, grave and thunderous, shaking the stalactites. “Before you become my meal.” Kerchak’s eyes opened, twin lightning bolts piercing the dark, his antlers crackling with arcs of power. “The only reason you’re not dead is the aura of your ancestor. I owe him a favour.”
Rhys swallowed, his voice steady despite the pain lancing through his chest. “I understand, Lord Kerchak. My presence here is to return that favour. I have information on the Cloud Serpent.”
Kerchak’s growl shook the cave, a storm brewing in his throat. “Information? I smell her attack on you, beastman. Nearly dead, and you think me your servant, to avenge your pathetic grudge?” The air shifted, grey clouds swirling above the cave, lightning dancing within, ready to reduce Rhys to ashes. The aura of dread and death expanded, pressing against his fractured Qi.
“Far from me to slight you, Lord Kerchak,” Rhys said, raising the crystal, its faint pulse cutting through the storm. “I would never presume you my tool. I came to speak of a discovery in the Cloud Serpent’s territory…” Lightning cracked louder, the air heavy with menace. Rhys’s voice held firm. “The Fruit of the Mountain God.”
The lightning froze. Silence gripped the forest, broken only by a low, sinister laugh that erupted from the cave’s depths. It was a grand, terrifying sound, echoing for miles, shaking the trees and sending beasts fleeing in a wider radius. The crystal in Rhys’s hand trembled, as if answering the Vein’s distant pulse, and in that moment, the Radon Woods held its breath, awaiting the chaos to come.
While the sinister laughter of Kerchak, the Thunder Breathing Bear, rippled through the tangled depths of Radon Woods, shaking beasts and trees alike, Radom lay cloaked in a deceptive calm. Its skies stretched clear, the air heavy with the scent of dew-soaked oak and blooming ivy. In the heart of the orphanage, a boy of six stood poised to unravel a legacy that defied the world’s oldest laws.
The training yard was a sacred circle, hidden behind ivy-draped walls that shimmered with morning mist. Ancient oaks ringed the packed earth, their gnarled branches etched with faint rose carvings, a whisper of House Rosas’ forgotten glory. Nerion stood alone with Mikael, his mentor’s weathered frame a pillar against the dawn.
Fifteen days ago, Nerion had watched Mikael demonstrate the First Form of the Free Flowing Fist, the core legacy of House Rosas. “Watch closely, Nerion. This art is a silent language.” The Saint had sunk into a horse stance, his arms weaving like wind through reeds, feet tracing a silent rhythm. To Nerion, it was mesmerising: now gentle as a breeze brushing leaves, now fierce as a gale carving stone. A flicker of Natural Energy had danced around Mikael, bending to his will. “It’s fantastic… for a dance,” Nerion had grinned, earning a sharp “Smartass” and a chuckle. Mikael had warned him: the Fist was a contradiction, a Warrior’s Qi forced to flow like an Adept’s Mana, faltering against the TAO’s will to dominate.
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Now, two weeks into his training, Nerion moved through the First Form’s twenty-four movements, his small body tracing arcs that should have mirrored a river’s grace. During this time, Nerion had celebrated his sixth birthday, marked by a modest feast with the other orphans, who shared the same day in the absence of true birthdates. Roast lamb, fresh fruits and vegetables and even some meat from Rank 1 Magical Beasts hunted by Elisha were the perfect gifts for the children. The laughter and warmth of the celebration lingered, but time, relentless, had pushed Nerion back to the yard, his muscles taut with effort. The movements were etched into his bones, yet they felt hollow, a riverbed dry of meaning.
“Slower, runt!” Mikael called, a clay bottle glinting in his hand, its amber catching the sun. “Don’t force it. The Fist flows, not cuts, adapt, don’t command.” His fingers brushed a rose-etched ring, a shadow crossing his eyes as he murmured, “I thought I could master it, too.”
Nerion’s jaw clenched, frustration a stone in his chest. His Qi, level 7 and fierce as a storm, surged, but it churned, breaking the flow like waves against cliffs. He had even tried channelling his gentle level 5 Mana; the movements becoming inefficient, limp, weightless as silk in still air. The First Law of AEON pressed against him, a barrier as real as iron: Qi and Mana could not coexist; one must yield. Yet Nerion pictured the orphans’ faces, Mikael’s weary smile. He wanted both: Qi to fight, Mana to shield them. A dream too big for his small frame.
The contradiction gnawed: how could a Warrior wield Qi to yield like an Adept? House Rosas had crafted the Fist for equilibrium, yet even they had failed to master it. Nerion wondered if he’d falter as well… or rewrite its truth. The pursuit of balance was tearing him apart. To make the Fist work, he’d have to defy logic, to see the First Law not as a chain, but a question: He pushed the childish thought aside, but it clung, stubborn as his heart.
The day continued unabashed, but for Nerion, it was a day of crushing, internal failure. He was a small furnace threatening to consume itself, and the endless chores and lessons offered no escape from the stone of frustration sitting in his gut.
As the afternoon came, and free time arrived at the Orphanage, Nerion sought the only place where he felt truly free: the Radon Woods. He slipped through the back fence, where the thorny ivy yielded to his slight, quick frame. The forest was his refuge and his training ground, a place where the focus shifted entirely from mere technique, which he had effortlessly mastered in five days, to the core issue of integrating his Qi into the moves. The Fist was a riddle he couldn't solve, and the quiet danger of the forest was a welcome distraction from the failure of his own body.
He was walking without a clear thought of what to do, letting the wind and shadows guide his steps, when a blue and white shadow suddenly appeared, coming at him at full speed, close to 80 km/hour. Instinctively, Nerion’s hand twitched, ready to activate his ocular acupoints and use the spell he had acquired from the Eyes of the World. But before he could, Leo, the young blue-maned Silverback Wolf, jumped right on top of him. Leo started licking Nerion’s face with frantic, ecstatic energy; both were very happy to see each other.
“You’re here, my Leo”, said Nerion with great delight. Leo had been worried by the boy’s injury and subsequent long absence, and had finally come looking for him. Nerion buried his hands in Leo’s thick mane, flexing his biceps, an utterly unimpressive sight, but a show of spirit nonetheless. “See! Good as new,” he said, his small voice bright with genuine relief.
Nerion mounted Leo and started travelling through the woods for a while, letting the rhythmic gallop soothe his frayed nerves. The setting sun bled through the canopy, painting the forest floor in bruised purple and amber. They skirted around several Rank 1 Magical Beasts, as Nerion simply wanted to travel and clear his mind. But as they went deeper and deeper, Leo started whimpering, his pace slowing to a nervous crawl. Nerion realised they were coming too close to the Mountain that the Cloud Serpent called home, Mount Karol, the very place he had been injured. He knew it was foolish to venture into the territory of a Rank 8 Magical Beast, so he stopped. Even in the face of prudence, Nerion couldn't help but think, .
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. It was not a subtle shift, but an absolute environmental upheaval. Heavy and dark clouds started appearing all over the previously clear skies, and a soft rain began to pour, quickly becoming heavier. Lightning serpents could be seen dancing, silent yet terrifyingly bright, among the clouds. All of the nearby magical beasts started trembling, and many began running away from Arbak’s mountain. Though the Cloud Serpent, a Rank 8 overlord, did not typically use her power wantonly, every creature in the woods now felt the huge pressure that appeared out of nowhere.
It was a crushing, malicious presence of pure killing intent: a heavy, electrifying sort of pressure, a violent and dark environment suddenly descending that pressed against Nerion’s chest and stole his breath. Then, he saw it. Even several kilometres away, a colossal figure was climbing the mountain with ease. It was a dark-haired beast, the shape of a bear, easily forty meters tall, with a huge scar crossing one eye and great deer-like antlers on its head. A booming voice, raw and arrogant thunder, shook the very earth and sounded across a great distance around the mountain, enough for Nerion’s ears to hurt a bit: “ARBAK!... Come out!… Give me the Fruit and I’ll leave. Otherwise, today is the day you’ll meet the Creator.”
The ethereal-looking clouds on top of the mountain parted, revealing a huge serpent head, its eyes glowing like molten prisms, unyielding. The distance made its three-meter diameter head appear small, but Nerion wasted no time, activating his ocular acupoints, which allowed him to capture the image of the Beast Overlords of the Radon Woods facing each other. A lightning serpent struck the mountain, its crack splitting the air, heralding the clash. Nerion instantly recognised the Thunder Breathing Bear, confronting the Cloud Serpent. Her coiled grace, fluid as the Fist, stirred a flicker of insight in Nerion’s heart, a question half-formed.
Leo was cowering, trembling with his full being. Barely one and a half meters tall, his power was nothing but a fart in front of those mighty beings. The only reason he had not run away was Nerion’s presence, a small, grounding anchor standing right beside him.
Nerion saw Leo’s trembling and, with his small but strong hand, started rubbing the Silverback Wolf's neck. He thought of his recent encounters with Kael and Rhys, and of Mikael’s veiled words about his parents, names he was forbidden to speak for fear of calling enemies powerful enough to even kill a Saint. Nerion understood that if he didn’t even dare to look danger in the face, then his dream of uncovering the truth behind his parents’ death, or protecting his found family, was nothing more than poppycock.
“You need to raise your head, Leo,” said Nerion, his voice fierce against the distant roar of thunder. “If you’re not even able to look straight at those above you, then how will you be able to grow stronger to become a true Beast Lord?”
These were childish thoughts, for the path of a Magical Beast is both fairly simple yet immensely complex, requiring lineage, age, spiritual treasures, and constant battle to refine their condition, some of the reasons why Rank 9 Magical Beasts were much rarer than TAO Legends and TIMBER Arch-Sages. But Leo heard Nerion’s strength in these thoughts, and led by the trust transmitted through Nerion’s small hand, he actually dared to raise his head towards the huge beasts that lorded over his very home, and took a shaky step forward, tail stiff, anchored by Nerion’s touch. The first step in rebelling against your own limitations is perhaps daring to look beyond them.