She was thinking of Nerion, Elisha, and the others, a tight knot of worry settling in her stomach. Her intuition, sharpened by years on the Frontier, whispered that today was not a normal day.
Near the mud walls, she found Miriam, the five-year-old, shuffling sleepily toward the edge of the woods at the other end of the backyard, a bowl of milk clutched carefully in her hands.
“Miriam, little love, what are you doing?” Myra asked softly.
Miriam’s eyes widened, a momentary flash of fear replaced by determined loyalty. “Nerion asked me to look after Leo. He said Leo gets lonely without him.” She smiled proudly. “I was scared at first, but Leo is so smart. I like him.” A shy smile appeared on her lovable face, “He lets me scratch his ears now.”
Myra smiled, touching the girl’s cheek. The simplicity of the children's bonds—the anchors—always calmed the screaming in her mind. “Be quick, now. Straight there and straight back. I’ll be back from the market with breakfast.”
Myra left, walking toward the faint glow of the town lights, hoping her swift discipline would see her through a day that felt heavy with impending loss.
In the orphanage backyard, the sun had not yet cleared the horizon. The remaining orphans were roused, stretching their stiff limbs.
“Come on, Brandon! Myra will skin us! She said no breakfast for lazy Masters!” Landa (9, Level 7) chastised, already executing a basic Qi form.
Brandon (10, Level 8) grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s too early. Besides, Father Mikael isn’t even here.”
Tiro (9, Level 7), the freckled, curly-haired boy, pointed toward the house. “If Myra catches us being lazy, she’ll give us the silent treatment for a week. I’d rather face the cane.”
Soon, they formed their lines, fifteen children in patched clothes, and began the forms Mikael had drilled into them since they could walk.
Left block, right thrust, spin-kick, drop-roll.
Qi flickered weakly along small arms and legs, but it was there. Discipline carved into muscle memory.
No one noticed the five black figures on the wall until the first torch was already in the air.
Black cloaks, iron discipline, and a cold, professional Qi presence crashed down on the little backyard. The attackers dismounted, surveying the scene.
Centurion Varro landed lightly inside the yard, boots silent on the packed earth. He had expected children sleeping, or beggars preparing to go on their way; instead, he found children drilling like soldiers.
This was the "backwater orphanage" they were supposed to simply burn down.
He raised one gloved hand. His four companions fanned out.
The Grandmaster, ink-stained fingers now wrapped around a curved blade, smiled thinly. “Seedlings,” he whispered. “And well-trained ones.”
Varro gave the smallest nod.
The children froze.
Then Landa screamed the alarm Mikael had taught them for this exact day.
“INTRUDERS! FORMATION!”
They scattered like startled birds, not in panic, but in perfect, practised chaos.
Tiro and Brandon yanked trip-ropes. Buckets of kitchen slop splashed across the yard, turning dirt to slick mud.
Lena and three other girls vanished onto the rooftops, slings already whirling stones towards the enemies. The small stones cracked against armour with surprising force.
The Brotherhood advanced, amused at first. However, soon they found things weren’t that simple.
The Masters, expecting panicked targets, were instantly frustrated. They found themselves slipping on scattered stones, tripping over low garden walls, and dodging old tools swung by tiny, fast Level 7 Qi users.
A sling stone cracked one of the hooded Master’s knees. He cursed and limped.
Varro, the Centurion, paused, fascinated by the chaotic, asymmetric defence. He wasn’t worried at all about his men, on the contrary. These children were treasures. He was sure the Shadow Leader would be more than happy with these children; they could all be moulded into first-class assassins. As for how many would survive the training, well… The Brotherhood had no need for the weak.
Miriam had just set the milk bowl down when a shadow fell over her.
The Grandmaster stood between the trees, his face looking ominous. “Pretty little thing,” he crooned. “You’ll do nicely.”
Miriam’s scream was tiny and terrified.
But she was not alone. Blue and Silver fur flashed.
Leo launched himself with furious abandon from inside the Woods, the Natural Energy his best camouflage. No majestic roar, just a focused, guttural battle snarl. Leo, had grown stronger after his adventure with Nerion. He was no longer Rank 1, but a bonafide Rank 2 Magical Beast.
The Silverback Wolf, driven by the knowledge that this man was there to hurt Nerion’s family, hit the Grandmaster mid-stride, his blood thick with protective rage. His massive teeth sank into the Grandmaster's throat, severing the jugular and the spinal cord in one powerful, visceral tear. The Grandmaster fell, ink-stained fingers twitching in the dirt, dead before he hit the ground, eyes wide in permanent surprise.
In the courtyard, Varro heard the scream cut short and felt the Grandmaster’s life snuff out. His face went very still. The Centurion's curiosity instantly vanished. Varro was a pragmatic killer, but the sudden, savage death of his second-in-command by a beast was an unforgivable insult.
“ROUND THEM ALL!” Varro bellowed, finally unleashing his Centurion-level Qi.
The two remaining Masters, regaining their composure, moved to flank the children. Tiro, dodging a blow, tried to lure the Masters towards the edge of the woods, but Varro's pure destructive power was too much.
Varro didn't need tactics. He moved faster than the children could perceive. Leo was much stronger than before, true. He was currently over two meters tall, an elegant and fierce-looking wolf, his head fully silver, the rest of his body in beautiful and luxurious blue fur. However, he was no match for a Centurion, a Rank 4 Warrior. A single sweep of his hand crippled Leo, sending the wolf howling into the mud. However, Leo was still alive, if severely injured.
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“NO, LEO!” Cried Miriam, throwing herself on top of the beast.
Varro ignored the little girl, and a ruthless sweep of his hand broke Brandon's leg as the boy tried to deploy a dirt trap. He kicked Landa aside, shattering his Qi shield and sending him crashing into the wall.
The rest of the Orphans were flabbergasted by the violence unleashed upon them.
One of the masters pulled a small, oiled canister from his belt and threw it onto the porch. It burst, coating the wood in a viscous, flammable oil. One of his companions quickly followed, igniting the porch with a controlled Qi blast.
Flames engulfed the front of the house. Smoke poured from the windows.
Varro watched the carnage, satisfied. The three masters, even the injured one, rounded the children. “Bom was truly useless. But… We have good prizes with us. Tie them. We take them with us to the woods.”
“Many of them won’t make the trip,” said a young-looking Master.
“That’s ok. The ones that survive are the ones worth training.
In the distance, halfway to the market, Myra saw the column of black smoke rising above the treetops.
The world went silent. Her ears filled with the rush of ancient water—the sound of the river where they had forced her to eat—the taste of iron and shame burning her throat.
Red hair whipped behind her like a war banner as she ran.
The Demon of the Frontier was coming home.
___
The sky was still the colour of old iron. The air over Lorca Valley, a vanguard point near the Frontier, was thick with the scent of pine and ozone. Roars rolled across the broken plain like artillery, deep enough to rattle teeth. Hurricane winds screamed between the stone teeth of the Frontier, carrying the stink of blood and gravel. Magical Beasts hunted in the dark, and the dark hunted back.
Rolando Du Sakar stepped away from the dying embers of his camp, four shadows peeling from the night to join him.
Three were human, silent, hooded, moving with the loose confidence of killers who had already sold their souls.
The other two were not.
Ron, male, copper-furred, elongated ape-like face, tail coiled like a whip around his waist, knuckles dragging when he walked. He was a Mandrill-Beastman.
Malla, female, nearly two metres tall, hooved feet, leathery hide the colour of dried blood, curved horns sweeping back from her temples. She was a Goat-Beastman.
Both Praetorians. Both beastmen born under Rhodar’s cruel stars.
Rolando himself looked like any other mercenary: scarred leather coat, travel dust, short dark hair, brown eyes that never quite smiled. Only the proud tilt of his chin betrayed the blood of the Ten Great Tribes.
They moved east, toward the Radon Woods. Darkness poured from the treeline like tar, barely pushed back by the faint shimmer of Natural Energy that floated in the air itself.
Rolando spoke without looking back.
“We ride hard. I’ve already sent word through the Ancestral Mark. Whoever comes to support will arrive soon. But the more who arrive, the thinner the prize is cut. We need to finish this ourselves.”
He spat on the ground. “It is better that we conclude our deal with Sagat as soon as possible. Sagat, that blind fool, thinks he’s safe in his little cave. Thinks no one knows the Rhodar-side entrance. Thinks two Praetorians and a handful of Grandmasters can protect a Fruit of the Mountain God, hehehe.”
Ron’s voice, more acute than expected for a male, said in a cruel voice, “That Sagat is truly unfortunate. But you know what they say. A true treasure is calamity for the weak. He can only blame his luck and AEON, don’t you agree, Malla?”
Malla simply growled.
“What a bore you are,” said Ron, a wide grin on his face, fangs seen in his mouth.
“Indeed,” continued Rolando. “He still believes I’m coming to buy, not to take.”
Ron’s tail twitched. Malla’s hooves clopped once on stone.
Rolando’s voice dropped to a lover’s whisper. “Sagat, Sagat… you were useful, I won’t deny that. You fed me Ansaran movements for years. But you never told me Lirian De Mikaeli was nearby when I attacked the Frontier. That debt is still overdue.”
He turned, eyes shining with the same manic light that had once cost him his place among the elite.
“The plan is simple. We meet Sagat at the clearing at dawn. Ron, Malla, you slip in from the Rhodar tunnel the moment his lieutenants leave the lair to greet us. Kill everything that breathes. Find the Fruit. Burn the rest. We three will keep Sagat talking, smiling, and counting coins until you signal. Then we close the circle.”
Rolando smiled—a chilling, maniacal expression. “I did think about taking the Tiger with us to Galia. However, no one can be left alive. If they speak up, and someone finds out that we have the Fruit, we will be pursued throughout the Prairie. Their corpses will be the toll we pay to walk back into the War Council with our heads high and the Fruit in our hands. And Rhodar will remember the name Sakar.”
He drew his blade, kissed the flat, and slid it home.
“Mount up. Dawn waits for no one.”
Five shadows melted into the wind, riding for a cave that would open its throat and never close again.
__
The air in the Radon Woods did not just breathe, it whispered. It was a strange, ancient sound, coiling around the black pines, a promise of destiny and violence for whoever had the savvy to hear it. On the scarred northwest remains of Mount Karol, the first pale light of a cold dawn kissed the jagged, treacherous stone, but the woods below were still steeped in heavy, nervous shadow.
Six figures were coiled within that darkness, motionless as the tree roots themselves, their forms lost to the early gloom. Mikael, clad in his usual threadbare cloak that hid a mountain of power, held the centre.
Ailan, a mass of nerves, shifted his weight, about to speak, but Mikael's hand flashed out, a silent, imperative command for stillness. He opened his opposite palm; for a brief, transcendent moment, a perfect, glowing Qi symbol was drawn upon the skin, a white, incandescent rune that vanished with a silent pop.
“It’s time,” Mikael said, voice low as grave dirt.
Tension rippled through the children like wind over wheat, but their eyes hardened with the cold necessity of war.
Mikael and Elisha would spearhead. Four children (Nerion, Ailan, Lucca, Silvestre) would race to Roxy’s mark, free Eliana, and run. Mikael and Elisha would hunt deeper: cripple the lair, find the Fruit, watch for Sagat or Rhodarians.
Mikael and Elisha descended from the canopies with terrible speed and silence onto two unsuspecting sentries. Before either mercenary could react, Mikael and Elisha had silently broken their necks.
Nerion, Ailan, Lucca, and Silvestre watched the swift, absolute violence. Ailan trembled, the finality of the act cold on his heart. They knew, without being told, that this was the price of Eliana’s rescue: mercy was forfeit.
Nerion swallowed hard. Lucca whimpered, burying his face in Ailan's side. Even the cocky Silvestre trembled, his bulky frame shivering as he grappled with the sheer finality of the act. The cold reality had stained their hope, forcing them, in that single, horrific instant, to face the type of warrior they would one day choose to be.
Minutes later, they located the final triad of sentries guarding the primary approach. Two people were talking too close together. Elisha plunged down like a meteor, his Qi-enhanced heel smashing the skull of the first man. Before the second could so much as gasp, Elisha propelled himself off a nearby tree trunk, invoking the lightning-fast footwork of
The final mercenary spun, weapon raised, only to lock eyes with Mikael. It was over instantly; Mikael extended a single, casual finger, a white, incandescent pulse of Qi surging from its tip. The mercenary's skull popped, collapsing inward without a sound.
The air was clear. The first phase was complete.
A moment later, a small, scared-looking boy with a shock of brown hair stumbled into the clearing near the cave entrance—the Lair of the Ferocious Tigers. The entrance itself was cleverly disguised, a jagged mouth half-hidden by a periphery of moss-covered stones.
“That looks like a cave,” Nerion called out loud, his voice wavering with practised terror. “Maybe I can take refuge from the Magical Beasts there while my companions find me.” He walked toward the dark mouth with a palpable, manufactured fear.
The two guards positioned inside, watching the mouth, exploded into action. “Stop, brat! Where did you come from? Damn it, what are the sentries doing? How did they let a kid get all the way here?” they roared, bounding out to intercept him.
Nerion tried to run, his panic an expertly crafted lure, but the two guards cornered him instantly.
“Relax, kid,” one sneered, a cruel, mocking light in his eyes. “Didn’t you want to hide inside the cave? Well, this is your chance, hehehe. You'll enter the cave, the only thing is I can't guarantee you'll be able to leave later.”
It was then that Nerion’s face transformed. The scared, lost expression vanished, replaced by a wide, unnervingly confident smirk that seemed to call them outright idiots. The guard caught the change, a flicker of genuine alarm piercing his cruelty, and he opened his mouth to scream a word “ but the sound was stillborn.
Two new figures erupted from the tree line behind them, appearing like silent, vengeful ghosts. They were the last thing the guards saw. Two wet, heavy thuds signalled their demise, and in less than five minutes from the mission's start, the main entrance had been neutralised.
The group of six slipped into the cave. It took less than five minutes from Roxy’s signal to their final infiltration.
The luminous pearls lining the cave walls briefly dazzled the children, but the moment was lost to urgency. They soon reached the first intersection.
The orphan siblings and Ailan chose the path on the left, leading toward the cells, where they were to meet Roxy.
Mikael nodded, taking the opposite route alone. His mission: explore, incapacitate guards, and confirm that Sagat had not returned.
The weight of the world, and the true danger, lay entirely on his massive, injured shoulders.
Six souls entered the cave alive. Only five would make it out unscathed.