Lanterns hung low from blackened beams, their flames dancing in pools of spilt ale.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted mutton, sour beer, woodsmoke, and the faint, underlying tang of sweat and wet wool.
Laughter rolled like thunder across the low ceiling, punctuated by the clink of tin mugs and the occasional crack of a bench protesting under too much weight. Ale flowed easily, laughter followed it, and pride had taken root in the town like stubborn ivy.
In the corner by the hearth, a middle-aged man with a gentle face and a disarming smile poured another round for a red-nosed regular who had already lost count of his drinks.
“Elisha Nil Radomia,” a red-nosed man slurred, raising his mug high enough to slosh ale onto the table. “Greatest thing to ever crawl out of this mudhole, I tell you.”
A few men chuckled. Someone snorted.
“Oh, here we go again.”
The drunk ignored them. “You think it’s easy, climbing the ranks as he did? Orphans don’t get breaks. They get broken.” He jabbed a finger at the kind-looking man across from him, who merely smiled and refilled his cup. “And yet there he is. Brigadier already, they say. The personal aide to herself. There are some whispers, he could even become a Commander in the future, you hear. One of the big shots… a from this town, hic.”
“Whisper?” a man near the hearth scoffed. “Half the boys in town started swinging sticks because of him. Some ran off to the army just to chase his shadow.”
“That’s true,” another added. “Training yards are fuller than ever. Doesn’t mean they’ll make it.”
The drunk waved them off. “Talent’s rare. Power’s rarer. Not everyone gets to climb.”
The kind-looking man leaned forward slightly, attentive. “And the others?” he asked mildly. “The children he grew up with?”
That earned a round of mixed reactions.
“Heh,” someone laughed. “The orphanage brats?”
A man with calloused hands—older, quieter—spoke first. “They’re… alright. Honest kids. Hard workers. Radom’s better for having them.”
“Elisha never comes back to see them, though,” a patron muttered. “Too busy. Too important. Probably forgot the little brothers he left behind.”
The drunkard waved a sloppy hand. “Nah. He cared for those orphanage brats. But worlds apart now — him in silk, them in rags.”
“It’s a shame, especially the girl running the place,” the drunk cut in eagerly. “Myra. Beauty and backbone, that one. Twenty-two now. Turned down a noble from the Capital, can you believe that? Could’ve married into a Viscount’s house.”
“Foolish,” muttered one man.
“Or devoted,” said another.
“She says the kids come first,” the drunk continued. “Raised them all herself after the old drunk left.”
At the mention of that, a few expressions soured.
“Mikael,” someone spat. “Good riddance.”
The kind-looking man tilted his head. “The former caretaker?”
“Abusive bastard,” the drunk said cheerfully. “Drank everything that wasn’t nailed down. Spent the kids’ coin on ale. Beat them when he was sober, ignored them when he wasn’t.”
A pause.
“Well,” the older man near the hearth said quietly, “he did leave.”
“And the kids were better for it,” the drunk insisted. “Law couldn’t touch him, the mayor wouldn’t act, so he vanished. Perhaps he was afraid of Elisha’s reprisal. That’s life.”
The kind-looking man nodded slowly, filing the words away.
“What about the boys?” he asked. “I heard one of them is… large.”
Laughter erupted.
“Silvestre,” someone grinned. “The fat one.”
“He’s strong,” another corrected. “Lost an arm, still does the work of ten men. Ox doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Likes the girls, too,” the drunk added. “Relentless, that one.”
“And the others?”
“Decent lads. Some are already walking the TAO path. Masters, a few.”
A man who’d been quiet until now cleared his throat. “There’s also Nerion.”
That drew shrugs.
“Pretty kid,” the drunk said dismissively. "Too pretty. Delicate as glass. Shame he wasn’t born a girl.”
A few men laughed.
“He doesn’t train like the others,” the quiet man continued. “Spends time in the woods. Keeps to himself.”
“Kind, though,” someone said. “Just… not made for greatness.”
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The kind-looking man smiled wider at that.
“So many stories,” he murmured. “Radom breeds interesting children.”
As the afternoon wore on, talk drifted—war rumours, Rhodar’s stalled advance, the five Frontier cities still occupied. The new Vicar came up, as it always did for the last two years.
“Barbarian blood on the throne,” one man grumbled.
“Doesn’t matter,” another replied. “AEON chose. Or the Conclave did, at least.”
As dusk fell, the kind-looking man paid for another round, thanked them for the company, and excused himself.
He moved through Radom without haste.
Night had settled fully now, and with it came the familiar hush of a border town that knew better than to linger outdoors after dark. He crossed the streets like a ghost, his footfalls measured, his breathing slow. When he reached the small inn, he did not light a lamp. He merely closed the door behind him, locked it, and stood still.
His smile never faded. Not once. Not even alone, in the rented room of his inn, where no one remained to watch it.
At last, his face relaxed into something far sharper, colder. He removed his vest and replaced it with dark, layered cloth designed to drink in light. A hood followed, then gloves treated with resin and powdered bone. From beneath the bed, he retrieved a slim satchel and fastened it to his waist.
he assessed calmly.
A single breath later, he was out the window.
The rooftops of Radom were quiet. Too quiet for a town so close to the Frontier.
He moved across them with practiced ease, counting steps, noting angles, committing exits to memory. No patrols. No watchers. No wards. Rural towns always grew complacent in peace.
For some reason or another, Radom had been saved from the six years of war.
The agent had hunted ghosts for six long years.
Every lead on Michel De Rosas ended in empty taverns or cold graves.
The Brotherhood’s great manhunt — sparked by that single Frontier clash with Sylas Du Sakar — had crumbled.
Spies rooted out. Safe houses burned.
All because of one accident six years ago.
He had been left alone on the border, chasing shadows.
Until Radom.
A rising star in Ansara’s army. And rumours of an old drunkard named Mikael who vanished the same year, his former caretaker.
The agent’s pulse quickened for the first time in years.
The reward would be immense. He smiled behind his kind mask.
A pack of orphanage brats. Some TAO Masters, among them, whispers said. Perhaps even a Grandmaster, if the rumours were generous. To a Centurion assassin, that was manageable. Predictable.
And the girl in charge — Myra — was said to be beautiful. No mention of cultivation. No battlefield record. No danger worth noting.
Pretty things broke prettily. Or fetched a good coin on the side.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Nor the last.
The orphanage sat quietly at the northern edge of town, its stone walls old but well-kept. Ivy climbed the exterior, and a single lantern burned near the front door. The rear yard was dark.
He vaulted the wall in one smooth motion.
His boots landed on loose stone.
He froze. One heartbeat. Two. In the end, nothing stirred.
The man exhaled softly and cursed under his breath. Children. He had overestimated them. Even if one or two walked the TAO path, discipline did not grow in places like this.
He advanced with determination. He never noticed that from the roof, a pair of clear, limpid eyes followed him without emotion.
Inside, the orphanage smelled of soap, wood, and faint incense. He paused, listening.
Snoring. Thunderous, uneven, unapologetic snoring.
The man winced.
He altered his path immediately, avoiding the source. Even injured animals thrashed when startled.
Room by room, he moved with care. Teenagers slept in orderly cots. Some were fit. Some radiated faint Qi. Enough to be notable — not enough to matter.
he thought.
One room stood empty. He frowned, noting it, but moved on. Perhaps a kid decided to go outside and have fun.
The snoring grew louder, rough and uneven. It masked every careless breath he took.
Opposite it — a door, closed, lightless.
he decided.
He placed a hand on the latch.
The door opened.
She was already standing.
Not startled. Not rising. Standing — as if she had been waiting. The snoring grew louder, rough and uneven. It masked every careless breath he took. The ‘kind’ Myra everyone had told him about.
However, her gaze was anything but kind. It was cold, assessing, utterly devoid of panic, as if he was nothing more than a cockroach in her kitchen.
For the briefest moment, the man hesitated.
Then she moved.
She crossed the room faster than his instincts could properly register. Her leg came up in a tight arc, heel leading.
CRACK.
The impact reverberated through bone and air.
He barely managed to raise his arm.
Pain exploded.
His forearm fractured instantly, the force nearly folding him in half.
He staggered back, blood flooding his mouth.
Realisation hit like ice.
The snoring stopped.
The door across the hall vanished.
Not opened. Vanished.
Wood exploded outward as a massive arm punched through the frame, followed by a body that should not have been able to move that fast.
Silvestre. One arm. Enormous. Wild-eyed, like a warthog charging its next victim..
He roared.
“
The man raised his remaining arm just in time.
BAM!
The blow landed, a fist almost the size of his own face.
His vision flipped. Organs slammed against bone. Something inside him twisted painfully; his injuries heavy, he had not even been able to call upon his Will.
He used the recoil. He twisted and rolled, then threw himself through the empty room. He shot quickly to the window, looking for the embrace of the night, his only chance of actually making it out alive.
He hit the ground running.
The man was desperate. Time was not on his side. With enough distance, he’d be able to use a forbidden skill that’d help him escape the Monarch. He was sure now. This was the place they had been looking for.
He almost made it.
But someone stood in his path.
A boy.
Twelve years old. Curly brown hair to the shoulders. Ragged shirt, knee-length shorts, worn shoes.
Clean, slender, delicate — pretty enough to pass for a girl.
The man recognised him instantly.
The runt. The useless one, the drunkards mentioned.
He lunged. He didn’t have time for considerations. Perhaps he could earn precious seconds from the tender-looking teenager.
The boy smiled.
That was when the world shattered.
Nerion’s pupils bloomed into gold, fractal patterns spiralling outward in his irises.
“Μεγ?λο Καλειδοσκ?πιο. (Megálo Kaleidoskópio - Grand Kaleidoscope)
Reality fractured.
Reflections multiplied in hundreds. Depth collapsed. Space twisted inwards.
The man’s balance failed.
Then—
Pain erupted everywhere at once.
It wasn't one movement. It was a blur of efficiency. Nerion moved within the fractures of the Kaleidoscope, his hands striking joints with the precision of a surgeon and the force of a falling mountain.
A shoulder crashed into the man's sternum.
The world inverted.
CRASH!
The agent hit the stone wall. His internal Qi was a mess, his meridians shattered by the dual-energy strikes. He looked up, coughing blood, seeing the "delicate" boy standing over him.
Myra stepped into the moonlight, her expression more annoyed than threatened.
She sighed.
“Nerion. You should be more careful,” she said, dusting off her apron. “Do you have any idea how much repairing that wall will cost?”
Nerion scratched his cheek, smiling.
“Sorry, Sister Myra. My bad. Never thought he’d be so weak.”
The man heard this. He vomited once more before darkness took him.