The Radon Woods were being unmade.

  It was not a storm, but the cataclysmic wreckage of one. Following the clash between Kerchak and Arbak, the sky split open with anarchic power. Lightning, thick as felled trees, raked the scarred earth, while house-sized remnants of Mount Karol plunged from the heavens. A rain of igneous debris was now crushing magical beasts who had wisely fled the initial fight. Chaos reigned, threatening to engulf at least a quarter of the vast, ancient forest.

  Nerion, his small body pressed against the back of his lupine friend, Leo, ran with the fierce desperation of the hunted. They were streaks of motion, dodging the apocalyptic fallout. The air screamed with the force of near misses—a rock the size of a carriage slammed into the ground ten meters to their left, and a bolt of ethereal lightning vaporised a gnarled oak to their right. Terror was a cold knot in Nerion’s gut, but the years spent roaming these woods with Leo meant their flight was instinctual. They wove through the falling ruin, Leo’s paws sure on the shifting earth, their movements a desperate, flawless dance against AEON’s unbalance.

  As they neared the Woods’ edge, a fiery rock erupted from the combat zone, slamming a hundred meters away. Its radiant halo pulsed like a beacon, whispering of power. Nerion’s heart raced, the Genesis Stone flaring in response. He knew this was no mere stone; it was a Vein fragment, a treasure worth staking everything for. “Leo, full speed!” he urged, chasing the glow.

  They arrived to find a scene of surreal devastation: a deep, smoking crater, its walls latticed with shimmering veins of fire. Inside, nestled among the heat-shimmering rock, lay a dark pinkish stone with irregular, unpolished edges. It pulsed with a contained power, a jewel of the mountain's core.

  Leo met Nerion’s gaze, a silent agreement passing between them. He leapt into the crater, nimbly avoiding the hottest veins, his keen eyes focused on the prize. Nerion jumped off his back, but the raw heat radiating from the stone was immediately unbearable, stinging his skin. He placed a hand on Leo's head. Leo inflated his chest, then exhaled a deep, silent plume of icy, wind-laced breath.

  The respite would not last. Both of them felt the vibrations of the approaching greedy; for multiple Rank 2 and even Rank 3 beasts were closing in. They were out of time.

  Nerion reached for the stone, his left hand blistering under the heat, second- and third-degree burns scorching his palm. Gritting his teeth, he seized it, its glow fading in his grip. He scrambled onto Leo’s back, clutching the prize against his chest to hide it. The stone cooled, sparing his hand from further ruin.

  Two Rank 2 beasts blocked their path: a Fire Liger, flames licking the air, and a Shadow Macaque, eyes glinting with greed. Not too far off, a Rank 3 Giant Rocky Armadillo’s roar shook the earth, charging closer.

  Nerion wasted no time and unleashed his Mana fully, golden halos flaring in his pupils.

  “Καλειδοσκ?πιο! - (Kaleidoskópio)”

  The beasts staggered, vision warped, but the Liger lunged blindly, claws grazing Leo’s flank. Leo countered, tearing into its jugular with feral precision, blood spraying, assuring its demise. The Macaque vanished into the shadows, and the Armadillo’s footsteps thundered near. Leo bolted, Nerion gripping the stone, outpacing the Macaque’s shadow strikes as they faded behind.

  They halted only when they reached the absolute edge of the Radon Woods. Nerion slid off Leo's back, his legs trembling from adrenaline and pain. He turned, the smoky air mixing with his deep, relieved laughter, and threw his arms around his lupine friend. “We did it!”. Together, they had claimed a piece of the Fruit of the Mountain God.

  Leo whined excitedly, not just from the victory, but from the raw, potent reward it carried. The primordial blood of the slain Fire Liger, a creature far above his rank, was already surging through his system, a fierce tonic that guaranteed a rise in his own magical beast rank. He knew he wouldn’t have achieved this without Nerion’s bold, calculated risk.

  When Nerion offered to share the pinkish stone, Leo refused with a soft, dismissive nudge of his head. Nerion had risked his hand and all his Mana for the acquisition; Leo had his own ample reward. Nerion nodded, tucking the stone away, the fresh scar on his palm a painful, treasured memory, his bond with Leo only further engraving into his heart.

  After leaving Leo behind at the Woods’ edge, Nerion went right for the Orphanage, his legs burning from the sprint, the Vein fragment a warm weight against his chest. The familiar sights, the weathered stone walls, the blooming ivy climbing the fence, felt like a distant dream after the Woods’ hellscape. Nerion’s burned hand throbbed, but the adrenaline dulled it, his mind still reeling from the mountain’s explosion.

  Elisha was waiting at the edge of the courtyard, his frame tense, lion-like hair tousled by the wind from the distant storm. His eyes scanned the Woods, sharp as his sword. When he spotted Nerion, relief flickered across his stoic face. “Nerion! Get inside, now!” he called, striding forward to guide him into the main building. The door creaked shut behind them, muffling the fading rumbles from Mount Karol.

  Inside, the common room was a haven of normalcy, the other orphans chattering over chores, the air warm with the lingering aroma of fresh bread and herbs from their most recent meal. But Myra, sweeping the floor, dropped her broom at the sight of Nerion. “Nerion!” she exclaimed, rushing over. Her Centurion’s braid swung as she took in his mud-caked form, hair plastered with dirt and leaves. “What in AEON’s name happened to you? You’re filthier than a bog troll!” Her reproach faltered as she noticed his hand, red, blistered, skin peeling in ugly patches. “Your hand… Nerion, what did you do?” Her voice softened, laced with genuine concern, her beautiful eyes wide with fear. “Are you okay? How did you burn yourself like this? You can’t keep exposing yourself to danger…”

  Nerion’s throat tightened, the weight of her words hitting him harder than the pain in his palm. Myra’s concern wasn’t just words; it was in her touch as she cradled his hand, her calloused fingers gentle, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. He was an orphan, yes, but luck, or AEON, had given him a family who cared, who worried. It ached, knowing his recklessness hurt them too.

  Before he could answer, Myra was in motion, her Centurion’s efficiency kicking in. She led him to the courtyard’s storage shed, plunging into its dimly lit depths. The air was cool and dusty, the shelves lined with tools and supplies. In the back, hidden behind crates, was a wooden box with an intricate lock. It looked ordinary at first glance, but Nerion spotted the runes etched along its edges, pulsing faintly with Qi, and a rose-patterned sigil on the top. This was a Magic Safe, one of the continent’s rarest artefacts, usually held by wealthy families. It was a secret known only to Myra, Elisha, and Mikael, a remnant of the latter’s former life, tied to House Rosas. Myra touched the box in specific spots, her Qi unlocking it with a soft click. Inside were several bottles, jade boxes, loose notes, and International Mint cards that glinted in the low light. She selected a vial, uncorked it, and scooped out a shimmering red paste, smearing it carefully over Nerion’s burns.

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  The paste was cool at first, then warmed, sinking into his skin like a healing breath. The pain ebbed, the blisters fading before his eyes, leaving his hand smooth and unscarred. “There,” Myra said, her voice steady but her hands trembling slightly. “Good as new. But don’t think that means you’re off the hook, runt. You scared us.”

  Just then, the door slammed open, Mikael striding in from the town hall, his Qi a subtle hum in the air. Mikael’s eyes locked on Nerion, taking in the mud, the healed hand, the Vein fragment’s faint glow peeking from his shirt. “You three, backyard. Now,” Mikael ordered, his voice low and unyielding, no room for argument.

  “Speak, runt. What happened?” Mikael’s tone was stern, his gaze piercing, the seriousness etching deep lines into his scarred face. There was no jocularity here, no room for excuses.

  Nerion swallowed, the weight of their worry pressing on him. He began his retelling, voice steady at first but gaining fervour as he described the titans’ clash. “Kerchak invaded Arbak’s territory, demanding the Fruit. They transformed into war forms, massive and terrifying. Kerchak’s antlers like lightning, Arbak’s scales like prisms. They fought like nothing I’ve seen, Father. Natural Energy everywhere, the mountain crumbling.” His eyes widened, reliving the chaos. He was getting more and more excited as his words painted the storm, the Serpent’s whip of heaven, Kerchak splitting the mountain. “I saw the Vein shatter, fragments flying. I… I grabbed one.” He pulled the pinkish stone from his shirt, its faint pulse filling the air.

  The group’s eyes widened. Myra gasped, Elisha leaned in, Mikael’s face paled. “You what?” Mikael’s voice was a whisper at first, then exploded. “You reckless, idiot, stupid runt!” He smacked Nerion’s head, not hard enough to hurt, but the sting was in his eyes, tears glinting, his voice breaking!”

  Myra’s hands clenched, her calm cracking as she whispered, “You saw titans fall, and you ran toward it?” Elisha’s jaw tightened, his stoicism wavering. “You’re brave, runt, but too reckless for your own good.”

  “But I did good you shitty geezer. I even got…” Nerion recoiled, guilt crashing over him like the Woods’ deluge. Pride warred with shame; he’d chased the fragment for them, but their fear cut deeper than his burns. Myra’s gaze was laced with worry. “Do you think you’re only worth when breaking yourself? You’re the last spark of your parents’ love, our family! You endanger not just yourself but all of us with this madness.”

  Nerion’s chest tightened, tears stinging his eyes. He’d thought he was being strong, like the great beasts in the Woods, but their words laid bare his recklessness. “I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking, handing Mikael the stone. “I just wanted to help.”

  Mikael studied the fragment, no bigger than a pinky, enough for a drop or two of Millennial Stone Milk, for many a treasure worth whatever it takes to get it. But, for Mikael and the rest, it wasn’t worth a single iota of Nerion’s pain and suffering.

  Mikael’s worst fears surged: the Fruit’s shattering would summon vultures to the Frontier, beasts, bandits, tribes, drawn by its power, threatening Radom and the orphanage. He pocketed the stone, his face hardening. “We’ll extract the Milk. But this ends your solo adventures, pipsqueak.”

  Mikael looked at Myra, who nodded silently, and hurried to the Mayor’s house for intel on the fallout. As Mikael prepared the extraction, Elisha grasped Nerion’s shoulder and took him away. Nerion squeezed the Genesis Stone, its warmth evocative of his family’s love, both his lost one and his found one, reminding him that it was not treasure but family that really mattered.

  A labyrinthine shadow was carved into the earth at the edge of the sprawling Radon Woods, not far from the disputed frontier city of Coronas, one of the five contested jewels fought over by Ansara and Rhodar. This scar on the mountain’s face was the lair of the Ferocious Tiger Band, one of the most notorious mercenary gangs to plague the Western Frontier.

  The cave entrance was a tableau of raw, brutal power. A mix of tough-looking male and female mercenaries stood guard, their bodies corded with years of life-or-death fighting, each one bearing the band's distinctive mark: a savage, claw-like tattoo etched across an arm, neck, or chest. These were hardened killers, drawn from the chaos of the warring kingdoms, bound by their leader's strength and the desperate need for coin.

  One of the gang’s two lieutenants, Jackal, a lean man whose eyes constantly darted with cautious energy, stood near the mouth of the cave, his worry a palpable thing. The air itself was heavy. The Radon Woods, once a beautiful, ethereal landscape of ancient trees, was now a grotesque, hellish sight. The distant atmosphere still thrummed with the remnant Natural Energy from the recent cataclysmic battle between the two beast overlords, a residual, suffocating pressure that made even the toughest mercenary’s skin crawl.

  The Frontier was a land of extremes. Death waited everywhere, but so did fortune. The lure of a vast treasure or a piece of valuable intelligence was a siren song to those who lived on the knife-edge, and the recent battle had opened up the possibility of incredible riches. Many camps had already been moved closer to the woods to investigate. For a gang like the Ferocious Tiger Band, an immediate treasure could transform their precarious situation. They had been renowned and well-regarded for their brute force in the past, but a disastrous incident eight years prior, a secret known only to their leader, Sagat, had deeply weakened them, and they were constantly seeking to reclaim their former glory.

  Despite this hidden weakness, the gang was far from a trifling matter. They were a local head gang, their collective power at the upper limit for a mercenary force, boasting several Praetorians in their ranks alongside numerous Grandmasters. Their shield and cornerstone was Sagat himself, a Legate-level warrior on the very cusp of becoming a Monarch at Level 59, a force of nature whose presence alone guaranteed a grim respect.

  The guards snapped to attention, their assorted blades and axes raised, as a formidable figure appeared from the bruised shadows of the Woods. Then, as recognition dawned, the bristling tension melted away, and they relaxed, saluting their returning leader.

  Sagat was a man built to dominate, a towering figure nearly 190 cm tall, whose muscles looked as taut and unforgiving as iron cable beneath his rough leather armour. His bald head bore a gruesome, curved scar, an actual claw-mark that subtly matched the gang’s insignia. His features were stern and, to a stranger, cruel-looking, accentuated by a severe eye-patch that covered his left eye. Slung casually over his massive shoulder, like a sack of grain, was the unconscious body of a woman.

  Every guard dropped their gaze and stood aside, allowing him passage. Jackal silently escorted his boss deeper into the cave’s mouth, a veritable maze carved by generations of ruthless occupation where the Ferocious Tiger Band reigned unopposed. No one dared ask about the woman; kidnapping, robbery, and far more unspeakable acts were commonplace in their brutal line of work. Yet, as the woman’s luxuriant, beautiful black hair swung past him, Jackal couldn’t help but glance once or twice, caught by a strange, mesmerising shine to the tresses.

  They soon arrived at the gang's private inner area, a larger cavern reserved for the upper echelon. Ocelot, the other second-in-command, was waiting, his small, ugly figure, barely 160 cm tall and carrying the rank of Praetorian at level 39, already a study in impatient anticipation.

  “Boss, did you find anything? Who is—” Ocelot’s words caught in his throat and died once his eyes fell upon the woman Sagat lay gently on the floor. Her face, even in the slack repose of unconsciousness, was simply breathtaking, possessing the kind of otherworldly elegance and beauty often described in ancient songs as being ‘capable of destroying cities.’ Her curves were sinuous, voluptuous, and perfect. Ocelot had never in his life seen a woman who could compare to this female, and a dark, impulsive thought of ravaging her right there and then flared in his mind. The presence of Sagat, however, was the most powerful deterrent in the world, and he quickly calmed himself, his thoughts settling on the more pragmatic:

  Sagat looked at his two top lieutenants, his grim face splitting into a rare, unsettling smile. “Our chance is finally here…” he announced, his voice a low, rumbling triumph. He let a large, heavy bag fall to the floor. It was filled with what looked like rough, unrefined rocks of several colours, many of them a peculiar pinkish hue, each one possessing a strange, powerful glimmer in its midst.

  As Jackal and Ocelot stared greedily at the bag's strange, glimmering contents, a promise of untold wealth, Sagat was consumed by his own thoughts. The sight of the years-sought minerals deepened his rare smile. Ignoring his lieutenants' avarice, he quickly checked the unconscious woman. His mind, however, moved beyond the immediate riches. A cold, calculating gleam entered his eye. It matters not; the spoils are mine.