Sylas Du Sakar read the note once more, silver eyes narrowing.
.
A smile ghosted across his tanned face — the kind that belonged to men who had outlived their enemies and their friends alike. His thin yet powerful physique, and middle aged looks, were only betrayed by his weathered eyes and silver hair.
Sylas rose, his personal attendant next to him, his head always bowed.
“Should I call for the Black Turtle Army, m’lord? Lord Bulo is in charge and is quite close to the Frontier.”
Sylas waved his arm. “No… The Black Turtle Army also has Adam and Mandela tribes mixed within. Too risky… I’ll go myself. This is too important. With this, Rolando might just be able to end his exile and get the pardon of the Grand Elder. The other old fogeys would stop saying our branch has no mettle.”
He looked towards the horizon, the direction of the Frontier where he had fought valiant battles more than two decades ago, his fight against Ansara’s Mad Dog now only legends among the young generation.
Outside the small wooden house, the Sakar heartland spread beneath a sky bleeding crimson.
Cumulonimbus towers marched along the horizon like siege engines of the gods, their anvil heads clawing at the distant peaks of the Indomitable Prairie.
At the foot of those mountains lay Galia — twenty times the sprawl of little frontier towns like Coronas, a living hive of millions.
Thirty-metre walls of black stone ringed it, and at the main gate two thirty-five-metre statues of ancient warlords stood eternal vigil, furs carved so finely the wind seemed to stir them, eyes of polished obsidian staring down every traveller with the promise of death or welcome.
Beyond the walls, thin ribbons of grazing land and patchwork fields struggled to feed the beast.
They never had.
They never would.
The rest came on caravans that crawled like ants toward those gates, bartering everything for a sack of wheat.
Sylas stepped off the porch.
He crossed the inner enclave without sound — past lakes that mirrored the dying sun, past artificial hills where children of the direct bloodline trained, past the great tents stitched from the hides of Rank 8 and Rank 9 beasts.
The hides breathed old death; even his Emperor-level Qi crawled, sullen, inside his meridians, a subtle, constant weight that reminded every outsider and even the Sakar own members, that their Qi was a sick dog on a leash here.
No one saw the Sixth Elder leave.
He simply walked to the northern wall, laid a palm against the stone, and vanished.
Six hundred and forty kilometres per hour.
The wind folded around him like a cloak.
Far below, Galia shrank to a child’s toy — walls, statues, tents, lakes — all swallowed by the vastness of the Prairie.
In less than a day he would reach the border.
In less than a day the Fruit might be his.
And the continent would remember why the Sakar Tribe still sat among the Ten Great Tribes of Rhodar.
Near the entrance to the Radon Woods yet away from the chaos within, in the Kingdom of Ansara, hundreds of tents stood in perfect rows while soldiers drilled in tight formations, preparing for a possible Rhodarian invasion.
Two great central pavilions towered above the rest, far larger and more luxurious. Both bore the Eagle and Lion of the Royal House of Ansara. One carried an additional crest: two crossed swords whose blades were studded with sapphires — the sigil of one of the Five Great Families — House Renato.
Inside the Renato pavilion, a three-metre-long oak table dominated the space. At one end, documents were stacked with military precision beside inkwells and quills. At the other, a detailed relief map of the Frontier showed every known regiment and battalion on both sides of the border.
Behind the table sat a grave, middle-aged man with close-cropped black hair flecked with grey at the temples. His dark-blue uniform was immaculate, every button gleaming, every medal aligned. Nothing was out of place; everything looked measured with a ruler. This was Commander Sebastian De Renato, leader of the Royal Ansara Army regiment stationed on the Frontier.
Before him, captains, majors, and lieutenants stood in perfect rank order. Among them were Serena and Apollos. At Sebastian’s side stood Brigadier Saulo, the second in command. A tall, short straight brown hair, monocle in his left eye, and an elegant metallic-trimmed vest bearing a single heavy medal.
“Saulo, any progress on the investigation? I want to know who had the gall to break into my house and kidnap someone under my own roof,” Sebastian asked, voice calm but edged with cold anger.
“Yes, Commander. A gate guard was bribed to let a man into the servants’ quarters. The abducted girl is a maid named Eliana — new, a few months only. You would not know her. Under… persuasion, the guard named the intruder: Jackal, lieutenant of the Ferocious Tigers.”
Sebastian’s face darkened. “Sagat has grown steel balls.”
“My lord,” Apollos ventured, his voice a shade too eager, Sagat’s money on his mind, “she was only a maid. Perhaps she owed the Tigers money, or there’s some other dirty business we don’t know about. No real damage was done to the mansion, nothing is missing. The steward simply asked me to look into it, but gave no further orders regarding the girl.”
“INSOLENCE!”
The word cracked like a whip. The tent seemed to shrink, the air itself becoming stagnant.
“Did I give you permission to speak? Remove the captain. Ten strokes of the cane for Insubordination.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Apollos went white. He never thought the Commander’s obsession for discipline would amount to this degree.
“Furthermore,” Sebastian continued, eyes boring into the kneeling man, “Is any citizen of Ansara to be snatched from the streets without consequence? Attacked without consequence? Killed without consequence? Sagat and his pack think themselves above the Law. And they even chose my house — my own house — to prove it. Am I supposed to turn the other cheek when someone slaps me in the face so brazenly? So, on top of being insolent, you are also incompetent.”
Apollos bowed his head. “This subordinate begs punishment.”
Serena requested permission to speak.
“Commander, sir. Jackal recently chased a thief who stole from Sagat’s lair, then clashed with three boys he mistook for accomplices. The incidents may be connected.”
Saulo nodded. “Likely. Eliana has a younger brother in the slums — orphan of the last Rhodarian invasion, known petty thief. She was probably taken as leverage.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Location of the Tigers?”
“Not yet, Commander. Rumour puts their lair deep in the Radon Woods. Patrols are searching.”
Sebastian turned to the map. “Changing subject — the Dragon General wants answers about the explosion and the craters.”
Serena stepped forward. “Nothing of value found yet in any of the craters — only deep minerals. But since Sagat’s name keeps on coming, I seem to remember a rumour claiming the Legate and his men were in the Woods when it happened. A burning rock fell practically next to them. Two Tigers died, their families reported; Sagat himself inspected several craters afterward.”
“Sagat,” Sebastian said, the name tasting like rust. “That one name over and over. Find him, and we solve everything. Double the search. The Dragon General has decided to remain here — I want perfect order. Dismissed. Major Serena, the Dragon General requires your attendance. And do not forget Captain Apollos’ punishment.”
Night fell faithfully. A full moon silvered the forest and every camp.
The dying sun was vanishing from the sky, turning the dusty road to Radom the colour of old bruises.
Five riders moved in silence, black cloaks snapping like raven wings. Their horses were lathered, but the men showed no fatigue; only the hard, patient cruelty of professionals who had long ago sold their mercy.
The leader, a scarred Centurion named Varro, spat to the side and broke the quiet.
“Rhys has been dark for almost five weeks. Five. Not even our men in Tribe Venteria know about him. That beastman better be dead, because if he’s just ignoring us I’ll skin him myself.”
The Grandmaster riding at his stirrup, a thin man with ink-stained fingers and eyes like chipped obsidian, gave a soft, humourless laugh.
“I still don’t understand it. Kael, Francis, and Rhys. Three of our best. Julieta De Corina should be fertiliser by now, yet our eyes in Ansem swear she’s alive and blooming. Spotted last week strolling into House Varona’s gardens, pretty as you please, Adept magic dancing on her fingertips.”
A younger Master, face hidden beneath a hood, clicked his tongue.
“Captain Lykos of the Corina Guard screamed bloody murder. Accused House Alara of buying Francis and Kael. The traitors had been taken care of, of course, but Alara denied everything. Just gossip and old hate. No proof, no war. Our whole plan to crack the Great Families against each other is rotting on the vine.”
Varro grunted. “The Brotherhood’s patience is thinning. The High Circle wants heads. Rhys is the last loose thread from that failure. We find him, alive or in pieces, and we find out what in the nine hells went wrong.”
The fifth rider, silent until now, spoke. His voice was like gravel soaked in oil: “And Mount Karol explodes while we’re chasing ghosts. Whatever fell from the sky, someone else got there first. We’re blind, late, and the Circle is furious.”
Varro reined in his horse atop a low rise. Far ahead, the last lights of Radom flickered against the dusk, the town barely etched against the horizon.
“One small detour before we ride into the Woods,” he said, turning in the saddle. “An orphanage on the southern road. Someone paid excellent gold to see it gone.”
The hooded Master smiled beneath his cowl. “Burn it. Kill the trash. If any seedlings look promising, bag them. The Shadow Leader still hungers for fresh meat to break.”
Varro nodded once.
“Orders are orders. The building burns at first light. The children die or disappear. Either way, by dawn there’ll be nothing left but ash and lessons.”
He spurred his horse forward.
Behind him, the five black cloaks melted into the deepening night, riding toward a town that had no idea what was coming.
The twilight kissed the land, and the land did not kiss back.
The Radon Woods were never quiet, only waiting. Cold seeped from the black trunks, and every leaf carried the smell of iron and wet stone.
A thin mist clung to the ground like a living thing. Somewhere far off a night-beast screamed, the forest alive with permanent peril.
The orphans had chosen a hollow beneath an overhang of roots, half a kilometre from the cave mouth. Mikael was out there in the dark, a shadow among shadows, listening for footsteps that should not exist.
Around the dying campfire sat five small figures wrapped in stolen cloaks. Though nervous, the children maintained a posture of coiled stillness, ready to move at any moment they might be required. Silvestre had received treatment for the cuts on his arm from Elisha and Mikael, and they were now little more than small scars, Silvestre flexing his arm showing his ‘medals of honor’.
Ailan hugged his knees, eyes red from crying and not sleeping. The bandage around his head had soaked through again.
Elisha crouched opposite him, feeding the fire one twig at a time so the flame stayed low.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“I keep hearing her,” Ailan whispered. “Eliana. In the cave. What if we’re too late?”
“We won’t be,” Elisha answered. “But you need to understand what you saw today, or tomorrow you’ll freeze when it matters.”
Ailan managed a nod.
Trying to calm down and pass the time, Ailan asked one of the questions that had been preoccupying him all night, "Elder Brother Elisha, I have seen several fights between TAO Masters, and I also know the great strength that Grandmasters and Praetorians have. Jackal, for example, was also a Praetorian, but you finished them off quite quickly, almost as if they had no capacity to react or any way to defend themselves. Why?"
Ailan had changed the way he referred to Elisha, even though they were almost the same age, and started calling him the same way Nerion, Lucca and Silvestre did.
Elisha turned to the others. “Tell him.”
Silvestre poked the coals. “Mercenaries like Jackal and Ocelot… they stuff themselves with raw Qi. Quantity over quality. If they have a hundred units of power, maybe seventy actually answer when they call.”
Lucca grinned, flexing his one good arm. “We only have eighty. But every drop listens. They don’t let Qi purify and strengthen each inch of their body. They also have almost no Acupoints open and linked.”
The children were looking at each other, laughing and feeling all proud.
“Braggarts”, the raspy voice of Mikael sounded from outside, which made the children blush a little.
Nerion added, voice soft, with his usual cheeky smile, “We also have…” he let the silence linger for a while, Ailan almost wanting to clobber the jokester. “... Martial Skills.”
Ailan stared. “Those were Martial Skills?”
Elisha nodded once. “Formulas. Sequences. Ways to make the Qi and the body sing together instead of scream. The Tigers swing clubs. We use scalpels.”
He drew a slow circle in the dirt with a stick.
“Simple skills give ten, fifteen percent more power. Good skills double it. Great skills—” he glanced at Nerion, “—can turn a child into a storm. But they need open acupoints, pure Qi, and a body that’s been forged since the cradle. Father made sure we paid that price.”
Ailan swallowed. “How many do you know?”
“Enough,” Elisha said, and the single word carried the weight of years of blood and dawn training.
How could Ailan know that Mikael, a former Dragon General, was a walking repository of some of the most powerful Martial Techniques in the realm.
Elisha erased the circle and wrote four letters in the dirt: A?B?C?D
“Tomorrow we walk into the cave. These are the only roads out.”
- Plan A, ‘The Ghost’ – We find Eliana, we leave quiet. No one ever knows we were there.
- Plan B, ‘The Feint’ – Ocelot or another of Sagat’s men spots us. Father pins the strong ones. We grab your sister and vanish.
- Plan C, ‘The Breakout’ – Too many high ranks. Rolando’s beastmen are already inside. Father holds the centre. I get you all out. Eliana becomes secondary. Survival first.
- Plan D, ‘The Scorch’ – An Emperor appears. Everything burns. We run. If Eliana hasn’t been saved, she is left behind. I ride for the army and bring Sebastian’s horns down on their heads.
Ailan’s voice cracked. “I brought this on you. If I hadn’t—”
Elisha’s hand clamped on his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
“You are the reason, not the cause. You’re one of us now. We get Eliana, we get the stone, we get out. Together.”
Around the fire the others nodded — Lucca fierce, Silvestre calm, Nerion’s eyes already burning with tomorrow’s fire. He was eager. Perhaps too eager.
The flames sank to embers. Elisha kicked dirt over them until only a faint red glow remained.
“Sleep,” he said. “We need to be battle-ready at any time.”
The Woods swallowed the last of the light.
Five small hearts beat in the same stubborn rhythm.
Tomorrow the cave would open its mouth. Tonight they were still whole.
Each group nursed its own plans, ignorant of the others.
Tomorrow, the Frontier would bleed.