The Indomitable Prairie of Rhodar sprawled across southern Aeonia, a chaotic expanse where hurricane-force winds carved arid mountains into jagged fangs. Dust swirled over cracked earth, stinging Rolando Du Sakar’s weathered face as he stood at the camp’s edge. Magical Beasts prowled the shadows, their roars a relentless hymn to survival, starving the land of mercy. Agriculture withered under the Prairie’s brutal sun, each spring a gamble against famine. To the west, the Forbidden Forest of Bahamut loomed, its mysteries untouchable; to the east, the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara’s iron shadow choked Rhodar’s heart. A sliver of border at the northeast touched Avi-Sena’s harsher deserts, unworthy of conquest. Here, only the fiercest endured, their blood a testament to a kill-or-be-killed creed.
Rhodar bred Warrior and Beastmen tribes, descendants of ancient beast-human unions, their ferocity unmatched across Aeonia. Adepts were scarce, rarer than in Ansara, yet the Prairie’s sons and daughters thrived on pride and a deep faith in AEON’s decrees, shields against sinking into Murmur’s barbarism. War defined them, each clash with Ansara a bid for dwindling resources.
Eight years ago, Rolando, a TAO Monarch, had struck at Ansara’s borders, inflicting a great amount of pain on the Kingdom, his genius briefly blazing before Lirian De Mikaeli’s victory against his troops snuffed it out. Now, exiled to a wind-battered camp, he led the Sakar’s vanguard forces, their tattered banners snapping above worn tents. Looking at this camp, people would not be able to associate it with one of the ten hegemonic tribes of Rhodar, one of the permanent members of the War Council, the true ruling military force of the entire Prairie.
Soldiers saluted stiffly, their eyes betraying disdain, Lirian’s ghost a blade in Rolando’s gut.
Rolando strode into his fraying command tent, pausing at a scarred table where a communication sigil flickered amber. . A smirk tugged Rolando’s lips, his voice dripping venom. “Sagat. Old friends catching up, are we?”
“Spare me the dramatics, Rolando,” Sagat rasped, urgency crackling through the sigil. “These years have bled us dry. Shadows whispered of something rare enough to shift our fates, if Ansara doesn’t catch me first.”
Rolando’s eyes glinted, fingers grazing his blade’s hilt. “Rare, you say? Another ‘fool-proof’ invasion?” His tone sharpened, a smirk lingering.
“Something more frugal, but to us perhaps more important. Treasure, Rolando,” Sagat pressed, voice taut with risk. “Enough to reclaim what’s ours.”
Rolando leaned closer to the sigil, the Prairie’s winds screaming outside. Eight years of disgrace, and Sagat dangled a spark, something to seize. The Indomitable Prairie of Rhodar demanded its due, and Rolando would not falter again.
Major Serena de Vainilla, barely eighteen but already a Centurion in the Frontier Army, was an improbable figure against the backdrop of pandemonium. Her black braided hair and refined, almost delicate features were a stark contrast to the brutal scene unfolding before her small squad of barely twenty soldiers. The sky, which had cracked open earlier this morning, now bled dust and smoke above Coronas. The town, built on the Ansara-Rhodar border, had become a frantic hunting ground.
The falling debris from the collapse of Mount Karol and the ruins surrounding it were like delectable prey, drawing every mercenary gang and fortune seeker on the Frontier.
Another fight had exploded in the plaza.
A sword-tattooed scavenger clutched a heavy leather satchel swollen with whatever glittering spoils had rained from Mount Karol.
“These are mine!” he roared.
A mercenary’s dagger punched straight through his throat. Blood jetted. Before the body hit the stones, a woman lunged for the bag and took a club to the temple, her skull cracking like a melon. A boy darted past, snatched a fallen pouch, and died with a spear between the shoulders, prize clutched to his chest, eyes frozen in disbelief.
“Stop in the name of His Majesty!” Serena roared, her voice strained against the rising howls of the mob. Her soldiers, already overworked from breaking up countless brawls, shoved forward, shields raised, trying to disperse the knot of scavengers fighting near a pile of smoking rubble. Somewhere a child wailed over a dead mother; somewhere else, steel clashed again.
Serena tasted bile. Coronas, a town in relative calm for years, had become a veritable slaughterhouse. This disaster had struck them completely unaware, and with many captains and squads having rushed into the Woods for intel, their available forces were dangerously diminished. It was only a matter of time before the opportunistic Rhodar forces arrived.
Not far from the front lines, torches were already being lit at the fortress right outside Mount David, the Lion and the Eagle sigil of Ansara’s Royal Family stiff on the flags. Brigadier Saulo, the second in command, stood tall and thin—a mighty Level 63 TAO Monarch. With a monocle fixed over his left eye, his appearance was one of severe, no-nonsense discipline, a perfect symbol for the Grand Royal Army.
Captains staggered in, bloody and exhausted, dropping brief, grim reports on his desk.
“Crater Seven – four dead!”
“Crater Twelve – mercenaries butchering civilians! Two dead, three civilians disappeared."
“They’re everywhere, Brigadier!”
Saulo scribbled notes, his quill scratching furiously as he barked orders. “Triple the patrols. I want all hands on this debacle. We must not give Rhodar any chances to mount a sneak attack. I want information quickly on what happened in the Woods—cause, consequences, casualties, who’s fighting who. All of this must be on my desk by dawn, or I’ll have your hides. And someone - anyone - find out what in the name of the Abyss is in the bottom of those damned craters.”
“Sir, Yes Sir,” the soldiers snapped, spinning on their heels.
Outside the Brigadier’s tent, Captain Apollos, a Praetorian with a middle-aged spread and a petty, ambitious gleam in his eye, cornered a weary Grandmaster-level Corporal. “More and more mercenaries are entering the Woods as we speak, sir,” the Corporal reported nervously.
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Apollos didn’t look at his subaltern; his eyes were on a few battered bags of silver coinage taken from a detained scavenger. “A terrible shame,” he sighed, adjusting his tunic. “This disaster means resources are scarce. The Commander will need extra funds for emergency supplies.” While the man looked away, Apollos palmed two heavy silver ingots and tucked them inside his tunic. Easy money in chaos. In the Frontier, there was always someone petty and corrupt ready to take advantage.
A rider galloped through the gate, Varona spear-and-lace crest bright on his cloak. He dropped to one knee before Commander Sebastian de Renato and Brigadier Saulo.
“Dragon General Varona arrives at Mount David with a full regiment in two days,” he gasped. “Orders: restore order at any cost. Seal the border. Prevent Rhodar from using this chaos as a pretext for invasion. Lethal force authorised against any who threatens stability.”
Sebastian broke the seal and read in silence. Saulo’s monocle flashed.
“Dismissed,” Saulo said.
He turned back to the map, jaw clenched.
Two days.
On this Frontier, two hours was already too late.
The orphanage training yard rang with children’s cheers, laughter bouncing off the stone walls as they formed a loose circle around Nerion and Elisha. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the ancient oaks, dappling the packed earth while a faint rumble from the Radon Woods still lingered in the air.
Nerion settled into the First Form’s horse stance, small frame relaxed, eyes locked on his brother.
“Let’s go,” he said, voice steady.
Elisha grinned and attacked.
A straight punch, his Qi surging like a tempered wave. Nerion swayed, palms drawing soft arcs, catching the strike at the wrist. He let Elisha’s own force roll along his arms, then flicked a spark of his meagre Qi into the return. The rebound cracked against Elisha’s forearm with a sharp thud.
Elisha pressed harder—elbow strike, spinning kick, palm thrust. A dozen exchanges flashed by in heartbeats. Nerion flowed around every blow, turning overwhelming power into a harmless breeze or snapping it back amplified. The Free Flowing Fist was the art of the torrent: pure reflection cost almost nothing; adding his own Qi made the counter bite deeper, but it burned a sliver of his limited reserves each time.
Elisha finally stepped back, rubbing his arm, eyes wide with genuine surprise.
“Sharp, runt. You’re draining almost no Qi, even using my strength against me. Add a little of yours, and the return hits like a hammer.” He shook his head. “But it’s still passive. No explosive killing edge.”
“That’s the point, Big Brother,” Nerion answered, sliding back into stance. “Master this, and no one touches me. They break themselves on my guard.”
Elisha’s pointers were quick and precise; Nerion adjusted, and the twenty-four movements suddenly felt like water finding its own level: effortless, inevitable. He felt stronger already.
Silvestre swaggered in, smirking. The newly-crowned TAO master unleashed a crushing overhead smash. Nerion circled, palms guiding the blow past him; the redirected force sent Silvestre stumbling forward two steps. Lucca charged next, wild, eager, and ended flat on his back, laughing. “Untouchable!”
Elisha watched with a quiet, wistful smile.
As the sun dipped, Myra strode in, her braid tight, face stern. The children hushed, the air shifting.
In the attic, Mikael handed Nerion a Millennial Stone Milk drop, his reward for the Woods. “Keep it,” he said, pocketing another. Nerion hesitated but nodded, clutching his three drops.
Myra spoke, voice clipped. “Ansem’s sending soldiers to probe the Radon Woods disaster, stabilise the border against Beasts.”
Nerion leaned forward. “A Dragon General?”
“Aye,” Myra said. “The one who replaced big brother Lirian, the known heir to House Varona. Supposedly, to block Rhodar’s warriors. Noble families nearby and Ansara’s border clans from Trafalgar, Manos, and Bellam are moving too, chasing a Spiritual Treasure rumour.”
Mikael’s brow furrowed. “Clans? That’s quick.”
Myra nodded. “There are many whispers of strange debris from Mount Karol, especially near Coronas. Expeditions are already forming.”
Nerion’s eyes widened. “Like flaming rocks?”
“Exactly,” Myra said. “But there’s good news, according to what Mayor Tarin has been able to find out, it’s only a small-scale skirmish, Centurions, maybe TAO Legates at most. The treasure’s just talk, not pulling any high-ranking experts yet.”
Mikael’s unease deepened, his Emperor Qi stirring. Rhys, the Rhodar Beastman spy, had escaped Arbak’s coils at the worst possible moment. The Cloud Serpent had been on the verge of Rank 9 ascension, then was suddenly interrupted. Neither Rhodar nor Ansara seemed to grasp the full picture. Rhys’s motives felt like the first loose thread in a much larger web.
“Anything else?” he asked quietly.
Myra shook her head. “People are scared. Seven years without open war… and now this.”
Mikael nodded and decided. “Elisha and I will go to Coronas for answers.”
“I’m coming,” Nerion said, gaze unwavering, the Woods’ perils fueling his resolve.
Mikael hesitated, but Elisha cut in. “Father, let the runt tag along. I’ll keep him safe. He knows the Woods better than any of us, and nobody suspects a kid. Besides, Silvestre and Lucca should come too—especially the fatty. It’s due time he brought food to the table.”
Mikael sighed, seeing Lirian’s fire in Nerion’s eyes. “It’s gonna be dangerous, pipsqueak.”
“I know,” Nerion said. “I’m ready.”
Nerion’s eyes reflected his unwavering determination to accompany them, a burning will that accepted the peril without a trace of fear. At that moment, Mikael thought he saw the same stubborn, fearless look that Lirian, his adopted son, had carried in his eyes in the past.
Mikael crouched so they were eye-to-eye, his big hand settling heavily on Nerion’s shoulder.
“Fine then”. Nerion was getting excited when Mikael continued, “One more thing before you pack, little one.”
Nerion blinked up at him.
“On the Frontier, you’re going to hear a lot about your father. Some stories will make your chest swell with pride. Others… others will feel like someone poured acid in your ears. They’ll call Lirian saviour, they’ll call him traitor, they’ll spit when they say his name.”
Mikael’s grip tightened, gentle but unbreakable. Nerion’s heart was in a heavy turmoil; he had not expected to hear about his father’s name like this.
“No matter what you hear, no matter who asks, you never, ever say you’re his son. Not a word about Lirian, not a word about Elara. Some people would be more than willing to kill for that bloodline, and others would kill to erase it. Do you understand me?”
Nerion swallowed hard, the warmth of the necklace suddenly burning against his skin.
“I understand, Pops.”
Mikael forced a small, sad smile and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Good. Then go pack light. Dawn comes fast.”
He stood, turning away so Nerion wouldn’t see the storm in his eyes.
That same night, in his dreams, Nerion found himself alone in absolute darkness—no up, no down, only silence thick as water.
A voice, neither male nor female, neither close nor far, brushed his mind like cool silk, calm and inevitable:
A warm pulse bloomed behind his eyes, the exact place where Qi and Mana had touched for one heartbeat in the Woods.
He snapped awake, heart racing. Outside, the first pale light of dawn painted the room. He didn’t stop to think about what the dream could mean, he was already late.
The next day had come quickly. Elisha, Mikael, Silvestre, and Lucca stepped through the gate, only to hear a familiar shout behind them.
“WAIT FOR ME!”
Nerion came sprinting, mischievous grin bright, eyes clear and deep. His Qi felt quieter, more reserved; level 7 was already giving way to the edge of level 8. Elisha and Mikael exchanged smiles.
They took the road toward Coronas, right on the war-torn frontier between Ansara and Rhodar. Nerion’s fingers brushed the warm stone hanging from his necklace. That steady heat felt like his parents’ love, always there, always watching.
General cultivation realm (levels 50 - 59), which causes a tiny overlap with the army title “General” (Saint-realm, levels 80 - 89).
General cultivation realm to either Warlord or Legate
- Lieutenant → Warlord / Legate
- Brigadier → Monarch
- Commander → Emperor
- General → Saint