Three covered wagons, black banners snapping with silver crow wings, were escorted by twenty laughing mercenaries in mismatched armour. Up front, Raye (a sturdy Praetorian, round as a harvest moon, and twice as bright) rode a shaggy dun mare that somehow carried his bulk without complaint. Every few minutes, he bellowed a joke or a drinking song, keeping the whole column grinning despite the distant smoke pillars rising from the Radon Woods.
Nerion, Elisha, Silvestre, Lucca, and Mikael rode in the second wagon, legs dangling over the tailgate. Mikael had paid Raye with a single gold crown and the promise of a favour (old debts die hard on the Frontier).
Mikael leaned forward, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Remember the story, boy. We're the De Casas, an old line, fallen on hard times. You’re aiming for the Royal Army’s favour, getting back what your father 'lost.' And you two," he glanced at Silvestre and Lucca, "Keep your hands out of the supply crates and act like servants, not wild mountain dogs. Nerion, you stay close to Elisha. You’re the little brother, the only blood left."
Elisha nodded, straightening his back. "Got it, Father. The prodigy noble trying to restore the family name."
Raye twisted in his saddle, beaming at Elisha.
“You’ve got a future, kid. A Praetorian at twelve is unheard of in these parts. You want to join the army, I get it. But look at us, the Night Crows. We bring supplies to all those cities.” He gestured to the surrounding land. “Ansara’s a powerhouse, sure, but it’s just one of the Six Major Territories on this massive continent. We're tiny, stuck on a peninsula. Every territory from Rhodar to the mages of Luztar wants a piece of our pie. The army's a meat grinder, Elisha. We’re the smart money."
"But the army keeps the peace," Elisha argued, clutching his knees.
“Alright, alright… I won’t try to convince you anymore. Still owe you that introduction, lad. Major Serena de Vainilla herself is holding Coronas. Prettiest blade on the border, and only eighteen. You’ll like her.”
Elisha smirked. “I like anyone who can keep Lucca from eating the entire supply crate.”
Lucca, mouth already full of dried sausage, protested through crumbs. “I’m growing!”
The sun dipped low, painting the bruised sky in streaks of copper and ash. The caravan halted beside a cliff, and soon a huge bonfire blazed, the smell of roasting boar filling the cold night air. Mercenaries drank ale and boasted about the fortunes waiting at the frontier.
Silvestre leaned out, squinting at the horizon. Five jagged silhouettes — ruined walls, half-rebuilt towers, smoke curling from fresh craters — rose against the haze.
“Which one’s Coronas?” he asked.
Raye swept a plump arm across the view. “See the five scars? Teras, Samoa, Karpatia, Coronas, Pellam. They’re the teeth between Ansara and Rhodar.” He took a deep swig of ale, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “They’ve been fought over so many times, they’re practically piles of rubble and faith. But for the last seven years, it's been a relative truce, and Ansara’s held four of those five. Only Pellam still flies Rhodar’s colours.”
Silvestre’s chest puffed out. “That’s because of the Dragon Generals! You said they’re the strongest in a hundred years!”
“Damn right,” Raye affirmed, a flicker of genuine pride in his eyes. “General Falma is the strongest swordsman in the world, full stop. Nobody else comes even close.”
“Really?” asked Lucca, a bit of doubt in his voice, before taking a bite of the crackling boar.
“See that huge mountain fortress in the haze?” Raye pointed with a greasy hand. “Mount David. General Falma took that down in one night—shattered that big bastard dead centre.”
Nerion’s eyes went wide. “One night?”
“One very loud night,” Raye laughed. “Ansara’s had the Frontier on a chokehold ever since. Four hundred thousand soldiers live there now. Permanent garrison. Because this strip of dirt is the only thing stopping Rhodar from swallowing Ansara’s throat. Right now, they are led by Commander Sebastian De Renato, the Iron Wall. A stuck-up man if I’ve ever seen one. Take my advice. Don’t antagonise the army in the Frontier. It won’t have a good ending.”
Lucca swallowed his meat with a loud gulp. “So why haven’t we just… taken the Prairie?”
Raye’s grin faded a shade. Mikael answered before the mercenary could.
“Seven years of quiet because the three living Dragon Generals scared everyone stiff. Then Lirian died six years ago, and the wolves started circling again. Rhodar, Luztar, and even some desert clans. We lost momentum. Couldn’t push west. Had to settle for chewing up the barbarian lands of Murmur to the north instead. Many nobles hate Lirian's name; they blame him for the wealth they haven't taken yet.”
Raye whistled softly, chewing his boar. "A legendary bastard, that Lirian. Too bad he’s a traitor now."
"He was no traitor," Mikael snapped, his eyes flashing, silencing Raye instantly. "He was a fool of a Legend. But a hero, never a traitor.”
Nerion clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. He remembered Mikael’s warning from last night and kept quiet. Elisha put his hand on Nerion’s shoulder with a smile.
Raye raised both hands in mock surrender, grin returning. “Easy, old friend. I see you’re one of those Lirian faithful. They’re still around on the Frontier — plenty of folks still adore him. To each his own.” He took another swig. “Anyway, the Navy’s fat and happy now, and merchants love the calm… until today, of course.” He pointed at the smoking craters. “Something cracked Mount Karol open like an egg. Calm probably died with the mountain.”
Nerion clutched the warm stone at his neck, suddenly very aware of the three Millennium drops hidden in his pouch.
“Will there be war?” he asked, voice small.
Raye ruffled the boy’s hair with a hand the size of a ham. “Kid, on this Frontier, war’s just peace that got bored. But tomorrow we’ve got Major Serena, hot food, and maybe, if AEON is kind, a bath. One disaster at a time.”
The Night Crows stayed up late, drinking and boasting, but Nerion was soon asleep, curled in the wagon beside Mikael, the Genesis Stone a small, warm pulse against his chest. He dreamt of fire and fast movement, and when he woke, the sun was already cresting the ridge.
The next day, the lead wagon passed over the final rise. Coronas sprawled below them: half the walls new stone, half ancient rubble, banners of the lion-and-eagle flapping beside fresh scorch marks. The caravan scouts galloped ahead, waving the column forward.
Raye raised his voice in a cheerful roar. “Night Crows, roll! Coronas welcomes friends and tolerates everyone else!”
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The caravan lurched downhill toward the city gates, dust swirling like funeral ash behind them.
__
Raye pressed a wooden token into Elisha’s hand—a silver crow perched on a post, sigil of the Night Crows, one of the three great mercenary gangs of the Frontier.
“If you have trouble, look for me. I can’t fix everything, but a lot of people still have to give me face. Come back tomorrow—maybe I’ll have news about Major Serena.”
Elisha pocketed the token with a grin. The group parted from the caravan and joined the long queue at the gates.
Coronas, walls ten meters high and three meters thick, a scale of defence none of the orphans had ever imagined. A long queue of adventurers and merchants snaked toward the single gate, everyone eager to capitalise on the recent Mount Karol incident. Nerion, Lucca, and Silvestre moved through the crowd, listening to the anxious whispers.
After several minutes, it was their turn. They handed over one hundred silver coins for the five of them, a steep toll just to enter a city, and passed through a short, dark tunnel.
The main avenue slammed into them like a living thing. Wide enough for two Corina carriages abreast, it vanished between towering stone buildings. Qi Masters and Grandmasters strode everywhere; Praetorians parted the crowd like sharks. Coronas was no capital, but as the great trading post on the bloody border with Rhodar, power and coin poured through its streets. War was the best business of all; smugglers and mercenaries grew fat on it.
Mikael led them off the avenue into twisting alleys where beggars begged and honest folk scraped by. He chose a sagging inn that stank of sour ale and desperation. Elisha paid for two rooms, one week’s rent, then vanished toward the central square to hunt for an expedition to the Woods craters. Mikael disappeared into the bar to drink and listen to rumours.
With the adults occupied, Nerion, Lucca, and Silvestre set out to explore, keenly aware of Elisha’s warnings not to cause any trouble on the Frontier.
They quickly returned to the main avenue, eyes wide at the glittering shops and the confident swagger of the warriors and nobles who ignored the sight of three scruffy orphans.
The children tried to ask questions, only to be dismissed by busy merchants and cold-eyed passersby. It was far harder than they expected to unearth any useful information. Suddenly, a sharp cry cut through the noise:
“THIEF! STOP THAT THIEF!”
A commotion broke out down the avenue. A boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, with curly hair and freckles, was running with agile speed. He wore rags, like them, and clutched a package beneath his tunic. A group of heavily armed mercenaries was close on his heels.
As he closed the distance, the thief's eyes flashed, and he tossed a soiled piece of cloth toward Silvestre. “There’s the package. See you at the usual spot,” he yelled as he darted into the crowd.
Silvestre caught the bundle on reflex. Too late.
He, Nerion, and Lucca were suddenly encircled by the pursuing mercenaries, who fixed them with furious, red-rimmed eyes. The thief had used them as a shield.
“This… this is a misunderstanding, I swear we have nothing to do with that brat,” Silvestre stammered, dropping the package.
A mercenary snatched the rag-wrapped item. Inside: only a piece of black, mouldy bread, the thief’s wretched ration. The guards’ faces darkened further. They had been mocked, and their leader would make someone pay.
The rest of the squad returned moments later, empty-handed and enraged; the boy had vanished.
Their leader, lean and square-faced, claw tattoo livid on his forearm, stepped forward. He gave the orphans a merciless look. “Take them. I want every piece of information they have about that miserable thief. Then get rid of the bodies.”
Passers-by who had seen the whole thing opened their mouths to protest - these were clearly new arrivals - but fell silent the instant they spotted the snarling tiger emblem and claw tattoos. The Ferocious Tigers: local tyrants, cruel, ruthless, rumoured to have friends in the city government and even contacts inside Rhodar. Their captain, the self-proclaimed Tiger of the Prairie, was a TAO Legate who was rumoured to have once burned an entire civilian village in Rhodar and been expelled from the army for it.
In Coronas, open murder was forbidden, but the Tigers had coin and protection. With the Army stretched thin by the chaos, kidnappings and “disappearances” were the order of the day.
“Hey, we truly have nothing to do with that guy. We just arrived today!” Nerion shouted hastily, but the three mercenaries closing in paid no mind, their faces impassive as they positioned themselves to block all escape. “Are you really going to attack us for no reason?” Nerion called the crowd. No one moved. Not a single voice rose in protest.
He locked eyes with Silvestre and Lucca. A silent agreement passed between them. All or nothing.
The nearest mercenary lunged. Silvestre seized the outstretched forearm (surprising the man that a chubby orphan could even grip him) and, with a surge of raw power, hurled the mercenary like a rag doll into the second guard reaching for Nerion.
CRASH!
Both men slammed into the cobblestones, a tangle of limbs and spilt fruit, their collision echoing through the street.
Nerion was already gone. He sprinted straight at the third mercenary, who sneered and snapped a brutal kick toward his face. Nerion vanished with a
“You damned brats dare attack us?” the leader roared. “Catch them, cut off their legs so they can’t run!”
Silvestre ripped a head-sized cobblestone from the road. Whitish Qi coiled around his arm like a living serpent. He hurled it with all his strength. A mercenary barely parried with his sword, staggering. Lucca, grinning like a maniac, pelted the rest with garbage, fruit, anything within reach.
They tore down the avenue, the Main Plaza only kilometres away—safety in numbers.
Knives hissed from sheaths and flew.
Nerion’s ocular acupoint blazed. Even without looking back, the circulating Mana in his mental palace let him feel the ripples in the natural world, the gift of TIMBER users. Feeling the air pressure shift behind them, he shouted a warning and launched himself sideways, shoving Silvestre out of the way just as the blades zipped past. Lucca ducked low, the knives whistling over his head. But the desperate move cost them precious ground.
The Tiger leader snarled, vaulted twenty metres, and landed in front of them.
Nerion tensed, ready to unleash his ocular spell, when he saw a blur streak from the plaza. It was Elisha, tall, intrepid, his wild, lion-like hair a beacon, his simple clothes giving way to an aura of raw power. He had been close by, near the Main Plaza. The commotion had been his warning; he rushed to the sound, remembering his instruction to the boys to flee toward him if they were in trouble.
The merc leader’s face twisted in fury at the new obstacle. Without a word, he accumulated energy in his arm, surrounding himself with three whitish, dirty snakes of Qi. His mind worked cold and fast: . He attacked Elisha forcefully, aiming to finish this quickly before the City Army could intervene and complicate the matter.
Elisha met it head-on. Three pure-white Qi serpents coiled around his fist.
BAM!
The shockwave cracked cobblestones. Elisha slid back one step. The Tiger leader staggered three metres, boots gouging furrows in the stone.
Silence.
The other mercenaries froze. The leader's pupils shrank to pinpricks. He realized then that this youth was also a Praetorian and stronger than himself even. Cursing his terrible luck, he quickly clasped his hands in a strained, insincere salute.
“Young hero, a misunderstanding. These thieves stole something precious from our Boss, Sagat, the Tiger of the Prairie himself. Step aside, and the Ferocious Tigers will reward you richly.” The mention of Sagat, a known Legate, was a clear, veiled threat.
Elisha didn’t even glance at him.
“Are you three alright?” he asked softly, eyes only on Nerion, Lucca, and Silvestre. “Did they hurt you?”
The leader’s smile vanished. Voice dropping to ice:
“Then you choose to stand against the Ferocious Tigers. A waste, for a Praetorian of your talent to die over three worthless brats.”
“Who are you calling worthless, you fool?” Nerion snapped, patience gone. “We told you a hundred times, we don’t know that thief! It's not our fault that you all are a huge group of bufoons who couldn't even capture him”.
Elisha was about to respond as well when a new noise broke the tension: the rhythmic, measured steps of a group of City Army soldiers approaching.
Bootsteps. Armour clanking. Soon, they rang out, sharp and final. The soldiers parted, revealing their superior.
Captain Apollos was tall and lean, handsome in a cold way, ruined only by a greasy moustache that curled with permanent disdain. Navy-blue uniform and beautiful armour - precious metal etched with the Crowned Eagle astride the Majestic Lion - gleamed across his chest and arms. A level-3 artefact, yes, but its true power was the authority it carried. Even a TAO Legate or Monarch would think twice before raising a hand against the uniform of Ansara’s Royal Army.
Apollos swept his gaze over the frozen street, lingering on the groaning Tigers, the cracked cobblestones, and finally on Jackal, the square-faced lieutenant whose claw tattoo still dripped sweat.
“Someone explain,” he said, voice soft and lethal. “Ansara’s laws are not suggestions. Fighting inside the walls is forbidden. Blasphemy against the King’s peace is punished by death… or worse.”
His eyes locked on the Tiger leader.
“You, Jackal. Speak. And pray your excuse is worth more than the blood on these stones.”