The scene, however, was anything but peaceful.
At the centre of the road stood a boy and a dog.
The boy was slender, dressed in a clean but well-worn shirt, knee-length trousers, and scuffed boots that had already walked far more than their age suggested. His features were delicate, almost refined, but beneath the softness lay a body that moved with quiet assurance—muscle defined not by bulk, but by use.
This was Nerion.
Beside him sat a dog, the size of a hound, with pale fur and alert eyes, tail low, ears forward.
They were surrounded.
Fifteen men formed a loose ring around them. Some were burly, others lean, all armed. Their equipment was mismatched—leather scraps, dented mail, rusted blades—but their eyes shared the same expression: hunger sharpened by opportunity.
One of them lay on the ground, retching violently, vomit staining his beard as his body spasmed in helpless convulsions.
Not far away stood a simple carriage. The horses had been bound with rope, tangled and panicked. A man and woman stood in front of it, arms spread protectively over their two children—a boy and a girl, both trembling, eyes wide.
The bandit leader stepped forward.
He was broader than the rest, his armour reinforced with metal plates scavenged from better men. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his gaze lingered on Nerion with open contempt.
“Well now,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “You’ve got no hair down there yet, but you think you’re man enough to interfere?”
Nerion tilted his head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
“Good,” the man continued. “I admire bravery. Or stupidity. Hard to tell at your age.” His lips curled. “You look bored with living.”
Nerion glanced at the man still vomiting on the ground.
“I apologise,” he said politely. “He bent over on his own. The air must be thin today.”
For a heartbeat, the road was silent.
Then veins bulged on foreheads. Hands tightened around hilts. A few of the men took an involuntary step forward.
The leader laughed.
“Alright,” he said. “Alright. I like you.” His eyes flicked to the dog. “We’ll take you back with us. Maybe teach you some manners. The animal goes first.”
Nerion sighed.
“You talk too much. Tell me, do you all rehearse this?” he asked. “Or does it just come naturally?”
The leader’s smile vanished.
“Get him.”
Two men lunged at once—one from the front, one low and fast from the side. Nerion shifted his stance, knees bending, body turning sideways. His arms lifted loosely, relaxed.
His eyes gleamed faintly, a golden halo brushing their edges.
The first attacker reached him.
Nerion stepped forward—not away, but the attack—slipping past the grabbing arm as if he had seen it coming long before it began. His fist drove into the man’s solar plexus with surgical precision.
The man folded, air exploding from his lungs, bile surging up his throat.
Nerion was already moving.
His foot slid onto the second attacker’s step. He jumped lightly, knee snapping upward into the man’s shin. Bone cracked. The man screamed—and then dropped.
Shouts erupted.
Five more charged in, blades flashing.
Nerion exhaled.
He moved like water through a sieve. He didn't use flashy techniques. He used the First Form of the Free Flowing Fist
The sound was wet. Dull. Efficient. In seconds, bodies hit the dirt.
Men groaned, twitched, or lay still with eyes rolled white, foam bubbling at their lips.
Nerion stood among them, unhurt.
He had not killed anyone.
The remaining bandits froze. The boy in front of them was not a child.
The leader swallowed, eyes narrowing as he focused. Qi stirred around him—thin, dirty, coiling into a pale, misshapen serpent.
“A Master…” he muttered. “You should’ve said. I could let you go, kid, but you have to stay away from our business. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
Nerion blinked.
“First. You didn’t ask. Second… No.”
The leader snarled and unleashed his Qi fully.
Nerion vanished.
He reappeared inches from the man’s face.
The kick landed.
The leader flew backwards, tumbling through the air before crashing into the road with a sickening crack. His skull fractured on impact. He did not rise.
Nerion looked down at him.
“I told you,” he said mildly. “You talk too much.”
He turned to the rest.
“Anyone else?”
They didn’t answer.
They ran.
Dragging their wounded, stumbling over each other, disappearing down the road in panicked silence.
Nerion watched them go.
Behind him, the children stared.
“Big brother!” the boy gasped. “You’re amazing! Are you from a noble family? Or a sect?”
The father, Joel, stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Thank you. You saved our lives.”
Nerion waved it off. “You shared food with me, uncle Joel. That’s enough.”
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As they re-mounted the carriage and began the final trek toward the county capital, Joel looked at the teenager with newfound caution. “You should have killed them, Nerion. Men like that… they don't learn. They bring back their brothers.”
Nerion smiled faintly. “Maybe,” he said. “But I prefer fishing.”
The man didn’t understand. He didn’t ask.
They resumed their journey. The city of Siracusa rose like a monument to Ansara’s growth. It was larger than Coronas, guarded by white stone walls and soaring towers. It was the first true city Nerion had ever seen.
“Those towers,” Nerion whispered, awed.
“The MintJobs AssociationTemplo
As they reached the city gates, a subtle coldness entered the carriage. Joel’s wife clutched her children, her eyes avoiding Nerion. He was a saviour, yes—but he was a saviour who had just dismantled fifteen men without breaking a sweat. To a normal family, he was a different kind of danger.
“Where will you stay, Nerion?” the young boy asked, his eyes full of hero-worship.
Before Nerion could answer, the mother spoke up. “I’m sure Nerion is very busy, Leo. He has… important business.”
Nerion felt the sting of it—the fickle nature of the human heart. They were grateful, but they were afraid. They wanted to part ways before the ‘ Nerion carried caught up to them.
“Your mom is right,” Nerion said, jumping down from the carriage before it even fully stopped. He gave the boy a wink. “Business. If AEON wills it, we’ll meet again.”
Joel flushed, embarrassed.
Nerion walked ahead alone, with Leo beside him. He didn’t look back.
Being alone, he thought, was better than being unwelcome.
By now, more than a tenday had passed since he had left Radom, and the road dust no longer felt foreign beneath his boots.
As Nerion approached the city gates, a sudden disturbance rippled through the road ahead.
Shouts rose. Merchants cursed. Pedestrians scattered.
A cavalry detachment thundered past, hooves striking stone hard enough to rattle teeth. Twenty riders in the blue-and-silver of the Kingdom’s Army, moving fast enough to ignore courtesy, protocol, and apology alike.
At their head rode a woman.
She sat her horse with the ease of command, dark hair braided tightly down her back, armour polished but worn at the joints. Her posture was straight, her gaze forward, sharp and unyielding. She did not look left or right. She did not need to.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, Nerion felt a tug in his chest. The thought slipped away before he could catch it.
The riders vanished into the city, leaving behind churned dust and uneasy silence.
People resumed breathing. Whispers followed soon.
“They finally came,” someone muttered.
“About time,” another replied. “If the rumours are true…”
Nerion slowed and turned toward the voices.
“Excuse me, uncle”, he said politely. “What rumours?”
One man frowned. “You’re young. Best not to poke into things that don’t concern you.”
Another shrugged. “It’s not secret anymore. You’ll hear it inside anyway.”
He lowered his voice.
“Children have been disappearing. On the roads. Near the city.”
Nerion’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
“At first, it was slum children,” the man continued. “No families of note. No noise. Then artisans’ kids. Apprentices. And last night…” He hesitated. “…a noble child.”
A murmur spread nearby.
“That’s when the alarm bells rang,” the man said. “No ransom. No bodies. No pattern anyone can prove. Just gone.”
“How many?” Nerion asked.
“Close to thirty already. Thirty too many.”
“Under ten years old”, the other man added grimly. “All of them.”
Nerion couldn’t help but think of Joel’s children. Of ropes. Of practised hands.
“Is the city army investigating?” he asked.
“They tried,” the man snorted. “Caught a few low-level thugs. They delivered the children somewhere, but none knew where. Or claimed not to.”
Nerion absorbed that quietly.
The Kingdom’s Army arrival, then, was not reassurance… It was an escalation.
“That brigadier who just rode in,” the man said, nodding toward the gates. “She’s probably taking command. The Governor had no choice.”
“And the Templo?” Nerion asked.
The man grimaced. “Oh, they’ve spoken.”
Indeed, just beyond the gates, a white-robed cleric stood upon a raised stone, voice amplified by gentle Mana. He spoke of vigilance. Of trust. Of AEON’s Balance. Of Order being maintained.
Guards stood nearby, hands on halberds, faces bored.
The words washed over the crowd without sinking in, like rain on sealed stone.
Nerion felt nothing in the speech that resembled urgency. Or grief. Only procedure.
The man beside him chuckled bitterly. “House Vainilla is under fire. House Salinas is sharpening knives. Every lost child is a crack in the dam.”
“Politics,” the other spat. “As if that brings kids back.”
Nerion said nothing.
He paid the gate fee and entered Siracusa.
The city unfolded before him in layered motion: wide streets packed with foot traffic, the sharp tang of metal and incense in the air, voices raised in argument and trade. It was larger than Coronas, but not overwhelmingly so — a city grown by design, not chaos.
His gaze rose naturally to the towers.
One in particular dominated the skyline: tall, broad, clad in pale stone with silver filigree tracing its edges.
“The Mint,” someone said proudly as they passed. “And the Jobs Association beneath it.”
Nerion followed the flow toward it.
He felt the shift immediately. This was not merely a bank, but a mighty infrastructure.
The Mint was where contracts were honoured, debts recorded, and trust quantified. The Jobs Association below it pulsed with controlled chaos: Alchemists, Apothecaries, Blacksmiths, Mercenary brokers, caravan agents. If something moved through Ansara — people, goods, information — it passed through here.
And today, it was tense.
Voices were sharp. Tempers frayed.
“No caravans allowed to leave?” a merchant shouted. “Are they mad?”
“They think children are being smuggled out,” another replied. “Every caravan is suspect.”
“This is ruinous! I’m losing money for every day I stay put.”
“Complain to House Vainilla,” someone sneered. “They’re the ones bleeding authority. Still, if the trend continues, I’m sure House Salinas will go for the jugular, sooner rather than later.”
A man leaned in close. “The order came from the Kingdom’s Brigadier herself.”
Nerion stopped.
He looked around. The Caravans were completely stalled. The Inns were overflowing. Guards doubled, of course. And the Merchants calculating losses, not lives.
Children did not feature in most conversations — only as leverage.
Nerion felt something settle in his chest. he thought.
He turned away from the Mint. After all, there would be no caravan to Ansem. Not soon anyway. Elisha would have to wait a bit more.
With the city gripped by paranoia and the inns filled to capacity by stranded merchants, Nerion found himself unwelcome. The city guards were already eyeing "unaccompanied minors" with suspicion—some to protect them, others to suspect them.
“We can’t stay here, Leo,” Nerion whispered.
He retreated from the silver towers and the frantic crowds, heading back out through the northern gate just before the heavy portcullis dropped for the curfew.
The road outside the city was quiet again, dusk bleeding into night.
He walked until the lights dimmed behind him.
Only then did he stop.
The wind carried the scent of dust and distant smoke.
Nerion realised.
He smiled faintly.
In the Governor’s manor, every candle burned bright, yet the main study felt dim all the same.
Heavy drapes muffled the night beyond the tall windows. The air smelled faintly of wax, ink, and old wood—scents of administration and sleepless nights. At the centre of the room stood the Governor himself, rigid and silent.
Saras De Vainilla, a TAO Centurion and acting governor of Siracusa, did not sit.
He stood.
Before him, in the place of honour, sat two figures.
The man was vigorous, broad-shouldered, with black hair and sharp green eyes that carried both warmth and weight. His face bore no wrinkles, no hint of age, though he had passed his fiftieth year long ago. Power rested on him naturally, like a mantle he had worn for decades.
Oliverio De Vainilla. The Rose Emperor.
At his side sat a young woman with similar features—dark hair braided neatly down her back, posture straight, expression composed. Her beauty was evident, but it was not what held the room’s attention.
What commanded respect was her presence.
Even Saras, blood of the same House, did not dare meet her gaze for long.
For Serena De Vainilla was a Brigadier of the Royal Army of Ansara.
Not by lineage, but by merit.
Only the gravity of the situation had drawn her back to Siracusa. Under any other circumstances, House Vainilla would never have allowed her to entangle herself in something so unsavoury.
Oliverio broke the silence.
“Are the reports confirmed?” he asked, voice low but edged with concern. “And how far will this reach?”
His daughter answered without hesitation.
“They are confirmed, Father.” Her tone was steady, precise. “The High Command has not reached a unified response yet, but deliberations are underway. The implications are… significant.”
She paused briefly.
“For us, however, this is also an opportunity.”
Oliverio’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. I know him. I’ve known him since the beginning of his military career.” A hint of pride surfaced, quickly restrained. “If matters escalate, he will be involved. And if he is, House Vainilla will not be on the wrong side of history.”
Saras swallowed quietly.
Oliverio leaned back, fingers steepled.
“It is still a loss,” Serena continued, her voice softening just enough to mark sincerity. “A great one. Legends do not fall often. And when they do, the continent trembles.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment.
“For over sixty years, he stood as a shield for the Kingdom. Whatever his flaws, his loyalty was never in doubt.” A pause. “In the end, his body failed him. AEON called him back.”
Oliverio closed his eyes briefly.
“A Seneschal,” he said. “There are few events more disruptive.”
“The state funeral will be held in Ansem,” Serena added, “and observed in every Templo parish across the continent. They will not allow this to pass quietly.”
Nor should they, Saras thought, though he did not dare say it aloud.
Oliverio exhaled slowly.
“So,” he murmured, “the world shifts… and Siracusa bleeds at the edges.”
He opened his eyes again.
“And we will be judged by how we respond.”
The candles flickered, though no wind touched them.