“By the way, congratulations, Nerion,” Myra said happily, approaching with a radiant smile that lit the dim yard. “I see you’ve finally broken through to TAO Grandmaster — and a TIMBER Grand-Adept besides. That’s worth celebrating. A twelve-year-old at that level? You’re a true genius of this orphanage, and even this Kingdom.”

  She didn’t even glance at the unconscious hooded man still embedded in the shattered wall.

  “Thank you, Big Sister,” Nerion replied, scratching the back of his head. “But I wouldn’t call myself a genius. I only managed to tie Big Brother Elisha’s record—and it took me six whole years to go from Master to Grandmaster. Even Silvestre only needed three. If anything, I barely qualify to say I belong in this orphanage.”

  “Oh, spare us,” Silvestre snorted as he stepped into the yard, towering over both of them. “Who do you think you’re fooling? Even when you were a Master, I could barely keep up with you. Once you started learning Father’s Ancestor Martial Art, I couldn’t touch you anymore. And that was after I became a Grandmaster myself.”

  He rolled his shoulder, grinning widely.

  “And now? I’m a TAO Praetorian, and I still can’t see a clean way to beat you. You’re the real monster in this house.”

  Silvestre had grown enormously over the years. At sixteen, he was already close to two meters tall, built like a walking fortress. Even Nerion occasionally wondered whether Mikael had found him in the nest of some magical beast instead of a roadside ditch.

  He was fat—indisputably so—but that bulk concealed dense, terrifying muscle. His movements were deceptively nimble, his balance exceptional. While he lacked Elisha’s sheer talent, Silvestre would still be considered prime material by elite armies or frontier sects.

  His raw strength was monstrous. His body alone allowed him to wrestle magical beasts of equal rank head-on. In terms of brute force, he was already nearing Malla—the Goat Beastman who had once fought Elisha.

  The only thing holding him back was the missing left arm.

  It closed many paths. The army. Certain sects. Some doors, at least for now, remained firmly shut.

  “Hahaha,” Nerion laughed, nudging him. “Fatso, that’s only because you refuse to properly practice Father’s Martial Art. I know you think it’s boring and uncool, but if you actually committed to it, you could dominate the world—even with one arm missing.”

  Silvestre scoffed.

  “Father said it himself,” Nerion continued, merrily. “Better to master a single technique to its peak than know a thousand moves you can’t use properly.”

  He was genuinely happy — the weight of the night lifting for the first time.

  Silvestre walked over to the unconscious intruder and clicked his tongue. “So… is this the one we were expecting?”

  He crouched slightly, inspecting the man.

  “Damn, Nerion. You really did a number on him. Even if he recovers, he’ll be lucky to use sixty per cent of his power for months—assuming he can reconstruct his meridians at all. You’re getting more ruthless by the day.”

  Nerion raised an eyebrow. “And you’re talking? Last time someone tried to rob Miriam, I distinctly remember you sitting on the poor bastard. Half his bones were wasted.”

  Silvestre grinned sheepishly.

  “Enough,” Myra said calmly. “I’ll go settle the children. Silvestre, take him to the storage room and restrain him properly. Make sure he can’t kill himself.”

  She turned and walked back inside without another word.

  Silvestre and Nerion complied, hauling the unconscious man into storage. Nerion searched him with practised efficiency. No identifying marks. No insignia. A pouch of gold. A heavy dagger—Rank 6.

  “Good stuff,” Silvestre whistled. “That’s worth at least a thousand gold. Might even have a bound skill. Shame he never got to use it.”

  No spatial ring.

  That disappointed Nerion more than he cared to admit.

  As they stripped away the man’s outer clothing, Nerion noticed a small leather parcel strapped to his side, still warm from his skin. Inside lay a compact notebook, its cover marked with a peculiar symbol: an inverted mountain, clouds coiling around its base.

  A logbook.

  Nerion skimmed it quickly—then stopped.

  His pupils contracted.

  One name stood out.

  Lirian.

  His breath caught for a moment before he forced himself to calm down and continue reading. There was no detailed information—only mentions, conjecture, and dead ends. Another name appeared as well.

  Michel.

  A possible connection. Unconfirmed.

  The log chronicled years of inquiries along Ansara’s borders. Failed leads. Vanished informants. Obsession.

  When Myra entered the room, she didn’t flinch at the sight of the bound, half-stripped man. Nerion handed her the notebook. She read several pages in silence.

  “Go to sleep,” she said at last. “You both did well. I’ll interrogate him. Tomorrow… we’ll need to make some decisions.”

  They obeyed.

  Silvestre grumbled softly about his shattered door but didn’t truly complain. Nerion returned quietly to his room, lay on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  Sleep refused to come.

  He reached beneath the mattress and retrieved a small leather case. Inside lay a single letter—yellowed, edges frayed, worn smooth by countless readings. The paper crackled like old bones as Nerion opened it.

  Mikael’s letter. Nerion read — as he had a thousand times — and smiled through the ache.

  “Hello, Nerion.

  If you’re reading this, then I’ve already left the orphanage. I know you’re angry that I didn’t say goodbye—but that’s how it had to be. It would’ve been too hard for .”

  Nerion snorted quietly.

  “I had to leave. I spoke with Elisha and Myra beforehand. The immediate reason was Sylas Du Sakar. He identified me during the fight in Sagat’s lair.

  That alone wouldn’t have forced my hand. I have enemies, yes, but most don’t care where an old man ends up. And Sylas didn’t know where I lived.

  The problem was that he recognized my Martial Art.

  I have taught my personal Martial Art to only two people: your brother Elisha… and Lirian.

  Lirian made it famous.

  Maybe I’m overreacting. But when you reach my age, you learn to trust your intuition—especially when it screams. I feared someone would come looking for me because of Lirian.”

  Mikael’s writing paused there, as if hesitating.

  “I won’t tell you much about your father. You’ll hear rumours once you leave Radom—vile ones, born from jealousy and spite. Don’t believe them. Not even for a moment.

  You’ll want to act. Don’t.

  Only power gives truth weight. Only strength allows justice.

  Train. Become strong enough to understand what really happened.

  Elisha and I have uncovered fragments, but nothing complete. So here’s my condition: if you reach TAO Monarch by the age of twenty, your brother will tell you what we know. If you don’t—forget it. Live well. That might be what your parents wanted.”

  Nerion swallowed.

  “I’ve been tempted to let you forget everything. To let you live happily. Whatever you choose—keep living. That’s what matters.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  I’ve left you a final gift. Attached are the seven forms of my Ancestor’s Martial Art: the Free Flowing Fist

  Master the first three, and you’ll already be formidable.

  If you reach Grandmaster and still wish to advance, go to Ansem. Find Elisha. He’ll introduce you to an old friend of mine—an insufferable, perverted coot, but strong.”

  Nerion smirked.

  “Be diligent. Bring the Free Flowing Fist to heights even my ancestors never reached. Your recent setback—losing Qi and Mana—is nothing. You’ll rebound stronger.

  Sharpen your axe. Don’t rush. Strength unused is meaningless.

  I’ve also left techniques and resources for you and your brothers. Choose carefully—remember the limit per Acupoint. Especially teach the fatty. He’ll need coverage.”

  Nerion smiled faintly.

  “I used the seven drops of Millennium Stone Milk you left me. My power has stabilised at Emperor rank. Not enough to recover everything—but enough.

  If years pass and you hear nothing, forget me. I’ve lived long enough.

  Live well. All of you.

  Take care, brat.”

  Nerion folded the letter and tucked it into his chest.

  It never failed to steady him.

  “Don’t worry, old man,” he whispered. “I’ve been sharpening my axe every day for six years.”

  A slow smile curved his lips.

  “It’s due time I started chopping wood.”

  With his path finally outlined, Nerion decided to call it a night.

  Mikael could not have foreseen what had taken place within Nerion’s body. Cultivating Mana and Qi in tandem was slower than focusing on a single path, but power did not scale by simple addition. What Nerion carried was not one plus one — it was something multiplicative.

  And yet, cultivation had never been the true focus of his days.

  Most of his time had been spent elsewhere.

  While the Orphanage slept, the world continued to turn.

  The Mainal Basilica stood upon the waters of Lake Saint Marcos like a crown laid upon a mirror.

  Its marble colonnades rose in concentric rings, each carved with the prayers of forgotten centuries, each inscribed with sigils older than the Kingdoms themselves. At its heart, the dome had opened to the heavens. Vast stone petals retracted soundlessly, exposing the night sky in full—stars sharp and unblinking, reflected perfectly in the lake below.

  Runes flared along the inner vault, one by one, igniting in pale gold and argent blue. Their light climbed the pillars and spilt outward, visible for leagues. Tonight, all of Mainal knew.

  A Seneschal had returned to AEON.

  Donato Berthan lay upon the central altar, hands folded upon his chest, robes immaculate. His face bore the still dignity of a man long accustomed to being observed by gods and men alike. One hundred and ten years had not bent him. Death had been kinder than time.

  The murmurs were subdued. Reverent. Uncertain.

  , some whispered.

  , others said.

  , the faithful concluded.

  The ritual began without command.

  Light descended—not in a beam, but as a presence. The runes pulsed in slow, solemn rhythm, and Donato’s body began to dissolve, not into ash, but into countless motes of golden and silver radiance. They rose gently, like embers lifted by an unseen breath, drifting upward through the open dome.

  The crowd knelt as one.

  “This is the Return,” intoned the officiant. “What was given is reclaimed. What served is absolved.”

  The last light vanished into the stars.

  No remains were left behind.

  Later, far above the lake, a narrow path wound toward a solitary chapel perched upon the mountainside. Compared to the Basilic, it was austere—bare stone, simple arches, no ornament save a single sigil of Order etched above its doors.

  This was the Chapel of Order.

  Inside, Vicar Nikolai stood before a tall window, hands clasped behind his back. Below, Lake Saint Marcos shimmered faintly, reflecting the constellations now deprived of one of their number.

  Two figures stood beside him. The air itself bent around their stillness.

  “Donato served faithfully,” Nikolai said at last. His voice was calm, measured. “Five decades as Seneschal. A long vigil.”

  “One of the longest,” said the TAO Emperor at his side. “AEON has called him back sooner than expected.”

  “AEON’s choices are never early nor late,” Nikolai replied. “Only exact.”

  Silence followed.

  Then, cautiously: “There are… questions, Your Holiness. The Inquisition’s report cites old wounds. Natural causes.”

  Nikolai turned.

  His gaze lingered on the speaker long enough to make the man regret opening his mouth.

  “The High Inquisitor has spoken,” Nikolai said. “And he was Donato’s friend. He would not lie lightly.”

  The aide bowed his head, chastened. “Of course.”

  Another voice, quieter, edged with irritation. “The Cardinal insists this complicates matters. The Inquisition agrees. They claim the timing is… inconvenient.”

  Nikolai’s expression did not change.

  “They always do,” he said. “And yet the Enthronement will proceed. The Six Territories will acknowledge the Shepherd chosen for them. They cannot delay forever.”

  A pause.

  “They fear a Vicar unbound,” the first aide ventured.

  Nikolai smiled faintly. “They fear a Vicar not owing them favours.”

  That ended the matter.

  After a moment, he spoke again, tone shifting—lighter, almost thoughtful. “And my pupil?”

  The Mana Emperor answered. “He studies diligently. Spell matrices, convergence theory. Ever since his return from the Dark Forest of Bahamut… he has been quieter. Distracted.”

  Nikolai nodded. “That is to be expected. One does not walk among Beast Lords and return unchanged. Especially after meeting a true Elect of Mana.”

  He turned back to the window.

  Below, the lake was still.

  Above, the stars watched in silence. However, in Nikolai’s eyes, the stars stood in perfect stillness.

  And AEON, as always, gave no answer.

  Myra closed the door to the storage room.

  The man remained tied to the chair, barely conscious. His hair clung to his face in damp strands. Blood stained the floor beneath him. Several fingers were missing. One kneecap sat at an angle that no longer made sense.

  She had not been gentle.

  Those who called Myra kind did so out of ignorance. They had never known the girl who survived famine by eating what remained of the dead. They had never seen the Red Demoness tear through men twice her size with teeth bared and hands red to the wrist.

  She would do anything — anything — to spare her siblings that same hell.

  She had learned restraint only because the children needed it.

  Had she fallen into that man’s hands, restraint would not have saved her.

  She felt no guilt. Only certainty.

  Myra locked the door and barred the children from entering.

  Calling them children now was inaccurate.

  They gathered in the backyard, in Mikael’s training area. Teenagers, young men, young women. Bodies hardened by discipline. Eyes sharp with awareness. Some held hands. Others stood apart, arms folded, already bracing for what they knew was coming.

  Nerion stood among them. Silvestre beside him.

  Myra faced them.

  “How did it go?” Silvestre asked.

  Myra did not soften her voice.

  “He confirmed Father’s suspicions. He belonged to an organisation calling itself the Liberation Brotherhood.”

  A murmur rippled through the hall.

  “They have been searching the borderlands for years. Most of their efforts were spent chasing ghosts Father left behind on purpose.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Nerion. “That misdirection worked longer than expected.”

  Relief flickered across many faces.

  Even after six years, resentment had lingered — the feeling of abandonment. Now it melted away. Father had not lied. His fears had been real.

  “This man was low-tier. A Centurion. And even he was considered disposable.” Her jaw tightened. “His supervisor was not.”

  A pause.

  “TAO Emperor.”

  The air shifted.

  Some of the younger ones paled. Others clenched their fists. Nerion felt the tension but did not move.

  “Do not panic,” Myra said calmly. “They still do not know who Father is, or where he went. This man found us by chance, not design. But his disappearance will be noticed.”

  She let that sink in.

  “We cannot stay.”

  No one argued.

  They had all known this day would come.

  The orphanage would not vanish overnight — that would draw attention. Instead, it would erode. Weeks. Months. Departures staggered. Trails crossed and broken.

  Plans unfolded quietly.

  Some would head to the Frontier, Rhodar and even further. Others to minor clans, sects, and merchant houses. A few would attempt the Army. False documents could be arranged — difficult, not impossible.

  Names would change. Faces too.

  No one would know where the others went.

  If one fell, the rest would remain hidden.

  They would not seek Elisha.

  That decision hurt the most.

  Elisha’s strength was unquestioned. His heart, even less so. But placing themselves near him would light every signal fire imaginable — tying Mikael, the Brotherhood, and a rising military star into a single, convenient conclusion.

  They would not become his weakness.

  Nerion would serve as the anchor.

  Only he would be traceable.

  Once settled, he would post a notice through the Kingdom’s public boards — harmless on the surface, coded beneath. Letters would follow. Threads maintained thin enough to cut if needed.

  If, one day, the pursuit ended, they would reunite.

  If not—

  Ten years. Radom. The woods.

  That was all.

  Nerion left two days later.

  The night had not yet loosened its grip when Nerion left the path.

  Behind him, the orphanage lay silent, reduced to a dark outline against a sky beginning to pale. No voices. No footsteps. Only the soft sound of damp grass beneath his boots.

  The stone was where it had always been.

  Small. Plain. A rough block of grey rock, untouched by sigils or prayer. Just a name, carved by hands that had lacked skill but not resolve.

  Lucca.

  Nerion knelt without hurry.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. He watched dew gather in the grooves of the stone, watched the last of the night cling stubbornly to the earth.

  “You were always the one who spoke,” he murmured. I liked listening to you.

  The wind stirred the trees in answer.

  “I don’t know exactly where I’m going,” he continued. “But this time, I won’t stay behind.”

  He placed a hand on the stone. It did not shake.

  “They say stories begin with great promises”. A pause. “Mine begins now. And it isn’t only for me.”

  The horizon slowly caught fire.

  “Guard the memories,” he said softly. “I’ll give you something worth writing.”

  He stood before the sun had fully risen.

  He did not look back.

  Soon, the others joined him.

  Silvestre walked with him to the edge of town.

  “You know, you could come with me,” Nerion said quietly. “Big Brother could place you in the Army, arm missing or not. We’d still—”

  Silvestre shook his head.

  “I need to walk alone,” he said. “Father found me in Rhodar. That’s where I’ll go back.” He grinned, forcing it. “One arm or not, I’ve got pride.”

  His eyes burned red.

  “If I need help,” he added hoarsely, “I’ll shout loud enough for a Dragon General to hear.”

  Nerion laughed — then pulled him into a brief, crushing embrace.

  Behind them, the others waited.

  Some cried openly. Miriam clutched Lena’s sleeve. Others stood rigid, memorising faces as if afraid they would forget.

  Nerion turned to them.

  “I made an oath six years ago,” he said. “To reclaim what was taken from us. I need to add a few more things to that debt. It starts now.”

  He looked at each of them.

  “Write when I post the notice. Train. Live. Don’t die stupidly.” A pause. “That includes you, Fatso.”

  A few smiles broke through the grief.

  “Tiro, Lena — take care of each other. Build something beautiful.”

  “Sister Myra.”

  She met his gaze steadily.

  “Sister Myra…” His voice cracked. “You gave me a mother and a home. I’ll never repay it. But I’ll try. Stay safe on the Frontier. We love you.”

  Myra nodded once.

  Then Nerion turned toward the woods.

  “WE’RE LEAVING.”

  Silence.

  Then—

  HOOOOWWWL!

  The forest answered.

  White fur broke through the trees. Massive. Blue-white. Silver crest blazing.

  Leo burst into view — four metres of muscle. The wolf slowed as he reached Nerion, eyes bright with intelligence. The past 6 years had also brought great changes to the Magical Beast, who was now Rank 3.

  “You sure?” Nerion asked him, while patting its fur.

  The wolf shrank smoothly, until he stood no taller than a large hound.

  Nerion smiled.

  He gave his family one last look.

  Then he stepped forward, toward the road.

  Toward Ansem.

  Toward Elisha.

  Toward the world that waited to test him.

  The orphanage faded behind him. But the family never would. The Genesis Stone warmth pulsed gently in his chest, reminding him he was not alone.