The field lay in ruin.

  The leader of the bandits sprawled unconscious among trampled grass, soot-blackened skin blistered where flame had kissed too close. Around him, the rest of the robbers lay scattered—groaning, bound, or trembling—most of them “pacified” by a silver blur of teeth and mass, and an emerald streak that chirped indignantly as it circled above.

  Leo prowled between them, tail low, eyes sharp.

  The bird settled briefly on the girl’s shoulder, feathers still faintly glowing.

  Nerion, however, wasn’t looking at any of them.

  He stood beside the fallen leader, staring at his own left hand.

  Four faint embers flickered above his fingers before sputtering out.

  “…Not enough,” he muttered.

  He closed his fist slowly. The heat faded, leaving behind only frustration.

  “It still feels wrong,” he whispered. “Restrained. Forced.”

  Fire.

  Of all elements, .

  Nerion had expected water. Ice, perhaps. Something flowing. Something gentle. Something that fit the Free Flowing Fist like breath fits lungs.

  Instead, his body had answered fire.

  Aggressive. Explosive. Devouring.

  He let out a quiet breath.

  he thought—not for the first time.

  Mikael’s Path of the Interceptor Fist

  And yet—

  He glanced again at his hand.

  Even with two Heavenly Gates opened, his magic barely carried the weight of a mere Adept. Effective against the unprepared. Dangerous in an ambush. But laughable against the monsters that stalked the continent.

  Against .

  He sighed.

  he thought.

  Before he could sink further into the thought, something the back of his head.

  Hard.

  THWACK

  “Ow—!”

  Nerion staggered forward a step, hand flying up instinctively. He spun, ready for another attack—

  And froze.

  A small girl stood before him, fists clenched, face flushed red with fury. The emerald bird perched on her shoulder glared just as fiercely.

  Leo growled instantly, placing himself between them, fangs bared.

  “Hey—!” Nerion snapped. “What was that for?!”

  The girl pointed accusingly at him. “You !”

  Nerion blinked. “…Excuse me?”

  “You enslaved him!” she shouted, voice shaking with outrage. “A Blizzard Direwolf of noble lineage, treated like a pet! Ordered around like a servant! Master was right. Humans really are disgusting!”

  She stepped forward, eyes blazing.

  “I’m taking him with me. Right now.”

  Leo paused mid-growl.

  Then tilted his head.

  Nerion stared.

  Leo stared.

  They both looked at her.

  “…What?” Nerion said slowly.

  “That wolf,” she continued, jabbing a finger at Leo, “is far too proud to follow someone willingly. You him. I know it.”

  Leo made a confused noise. A low

  Nerion rubbed his temple.

  “Alright. Stop. Just—stop for a second,” he said, holding up both hands. “Leo isn’t my slave. He isn’t my pet. He’s my partner.”

  Leo huffed affirmatively.

  “He chose to come with me,” Nerion continued. “We’ve known each other for years. He saved my life. I saved his. That’s it.”

  The girl hesitated.

  Her bird chirped rapidly.

  She froze. “Wait… really?”

  The bird chirped again, more insistently.

  Her shoulders sagged slightly.

  “…You could’ve said that sooner,” she muttered. Then, louder, “Do you being misunderstood everywhere you go?”

  Nerion stared at her.

  he thought distantly.

  He exhaled, then laughed despite himself.

  “You hit first and ask questions later,” he said. “That’s on you.”

  The girl puffed up again. “Well—!”

  Leo chose that moment to sit down between them and wag his tail once.

  Firmly.

  The girl looked at him. Then at Nerion. Then back at Leo.

  “…Hmph.” She crossed her arms, looking away. “Still weird.”

  Nerion smiled faintly.

  he agreed silently.

  He couldn't help but find it slightly funny. This small, ‘’ girl was a wild thing, possessed of a confidence that bordered on the divine. He wondered what kind of ‘’ could have raised a creature like her.

  “Achoo…”

  The sound echoed softly, swallowed almost at once by leaves, bark, and the slow breath of the forest itself.

  “Mmmh. Curious,” the old man murmured. “Someone, somewhere, is thinking of me.”

  He stood upon a platform grown—not built—into the body of an impossibly vast tree. Its branches stretched outward like the ribs of the world, vanishing into layers of shadow and moonlight so dense that distance itself lost meaning. The air here was heavy with ancient scents: sap older than kingdoms, wet moss steeped in centuries of rain, and something sharper beneath it all—raw, untamed Natural Energy of Heaven and Earth

  This was not a forest meant for humans.

  Below, the canopy spread endlessly in every direction, an ocean of leaves layered upon leaves, broken only by towering trunks thicker than city walls and roots that rose like stone arches from the earth. Massive shapes moved far beneath the foliage—too large, too slow, too deliberate to be beasts one could name easily. Winged silhouettes glided between unseen thermals, their cries deep and resonant, echoing like distant horns.

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  No roads cut through this place.

  No maps endured.

  No civilisation survived here long enough to leave bones.

  And yet the old man looked perfectly at home.

  He leaned lightly against the bark behind him, his skin so similar in texture and hue that, at a glance, one might have mistaken him for part of the tree itself. Deep wrinkles traced his face like fault lines in ancient stone, and his posture bent slightly forward, not with weakness, but with age so profound it had reshaped even pride.

  Long white hair spilt down his back, tangled with beads of wood and leaf. Nestled among it—easily overlooked unless one knew where to look—were five small horns, worn smooth by time.

  His eyes were cloudy at rest.

  But when he lifted his gaze to the heavens, they reflected something vast and distant, as though the stars themselves were staring back through him.

  “That girl…” he muttered, lips quirking faintly. “Always vanishing the moment I turn my back. Such a headache, she causes”

  He sniffed again, then chuckled, a sound like bark creaking in a warm wind.

  “She’ll say she’s ‘exploring.’ Or ‘learning.’ Or that she was ‘called by curiosity.’” A pause. “All lies, of course.”

  Somewhere far beyond the forest’s edge, a small figure walked paths she should not yet know.

  Thankfully, she was not alone.

  “At least Little Green has enough sense to follow her,” the old man continued. “Without her, I might actually worry.”

  He lifted a gnarled hand and waved it dismissively at the stars.

  “Well. A little hardship never hurt anyone worth remembering. If she grows believing the world bends at her will, she’ll break the moment it doesn’t.”

  A beat.

  “Besides,” he added, voice lowering, “it’s not as though she can truly be harmed.”

  Something vast shifted in the deep forest below. A presence—not approaching, not retreating—merely acknowledging his thought.

  “I’m certain he’s watching her,” the old man said with quiet confidence. “Always lurking where she cannot see. We are spoiling that brat rotten.”

  “Go on then, little sprout,” he whispered. “See what the world of men has become.”

  He laughed then, a deep, rumbling sound that sent birds scattering from distant branches.

  “Hahahahaha…”

  The forest did not stir in protest.

  It listened.

  Above, the stars continued their silent vigil.

  And somewhere in the vastness between root and sky, the old man—older than empires, older than gods—returned his gaze to the heavens, not in worship, but in remembrance.

  Of a time before order.

  Of a time before balance.

  Of the one who came before all names.

  Leo peeked out from behind Nerion’s leg, silver-blue ears flattened, eyes tracking the girl with wary intelligence.

  The girl crouched slightly, hands clasped behind her back, leaning forward as if trying to coax a skittish animal.

  “So,” she said brightly, “your name is Leo. Hmmm. That’s not bad.”

  She nodded to herself. “Short. Simple. Strong. I suppose it fits.”

  The emerald bird fluttered down to her shoulder, tilting its head inquisitively.

  “And this is Little Green,” she continued, gently stroking its feathers. “She’s my best friend. I named her myself.”

  Her eyes returned to the wolf, glittering with interest. “Do you like your name, Leo? We could change it, you know. I’m very good with names. You could come with me. I promise my home is much better than staying with this runt.”

  Leo whimpered softly.

  Then, without hesitation, he retreated fully behind Nerion, pressing close enough that his flank brushed the boy’s calf.

  Nerion blinked.

  “Please don’t scare him,” he said instinctively—then stopped short, something clicking into place.

  “…Wait.”

  He turned slowly toward the girl.

  “You understood that,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

  She straightened, chin lifting proudly.

  “Of course I did.”

  Nerion stared. “You can talk to him.”

  “Talk him,” she corrected smugly. “And with her. And with the others.” She gestured vaguely toward the surrounding forest. “Beasts have thoughts, feelings, opinions. Most humans just never bother to listen.”

  “That’s—” Nerion took a half step closer, eyes bright. “That’s incredible.”

  Before she could react, he reached out, excitement overtaking restraint, and caught her hands lightly in his own.

  “Can you teach me?” he asked, words tumbling out. “If I could talk to Leo properly, all the time—”

  She yelped and jumped back, nearly tripping over a rock.

  “Hey—! No—don’t—!”

  Nerion froze, hands snapping back to his sides.

  “I’m sorry,” he said immediately, heat creeping up his neck. “I didn’t mean to— I just got excited. I didn’t think.”

  She hesitated, then exhaled.

  “…It’s fine,” she said, a little stiffly. “I’m just not used to that. I overreacted.”

  A pause. “Probably.”

  She waved one hand dismissively.

  “And I can’t teach you anyway,” she added. “Not because I don’t want to. I just… don’t know how. I’ve always understood them. Ever since I was little.”

  “Oh.” Nerion nodded, disappointment flickering but not lingering. “That makes sense.”

  He offered a small smile. “I’m Nerion, by the way. What’s yours, little girl?”

  She puffed up slightly. “I know. I heard them yelling your name earlier.” Then she added, pointedly, “And I’m not a little girl. My name is Evelin.”

  “Alright,” Nerion said easily. “Evelin.”

  She studied him for a moment, then glanced back at the bound children.

  “So,” she said, seriousness slipping into her voice at last, “what do we do now? These men were trying to kidnap children. Is that… normal in Ansara?”

  “No,” Nerion answered at once. “Not at all.”

  He followed her gaze. “It started recently. The authorities are investigating. That’s why security in the city is tighter.” His eyes hardened slightly. “Which makes this even stranger.”

  Evelin frowned. “Stranger, how?”

  “They shouldn’t still be operating so openly,” he said. “Not unless they’re desperate—or being protected.”

  The children shifted nervously behind them.

  Nerion turned back to the unconscious men and crouched, searching their pockets with practised efficiency. Weapons. Coins. Nothing useful.

  Then his fingers brushed parchment.

  He unfolded it slowly.

  A series of symbols. Disconnected phrases. Words that refused to make sense together.

  “A code,” he muttered.

  Evelin leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could smell fresh leaves and something faintly sweet.

  “You can read that?”

  “No,” Nerion admitted, sighing as he folded it again. “Not yet.”

  He straightened and rubbed his shin absently.

  “Looks like the fish wasn’t big enough after all,” he said. “I’ll need better bait.”

  Evelin blinked. “Fishing?”

  She squinted at him, then reached out and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

  “Are you unwell? Do you have a fever or something?”

  Nerion startled, then laughed softly.

  “I thought you didn’t like being touched.”

  She withdrew her hand quickly, cheeks warming. “That was different.”

  Their eyes met.

  For a heartbeat, Nerion forgot what he’d been about to say.

  Her face was unassuming—freckled, ordinary even—but her eyes…

  They were dark. Deep. Like mirrors that reflected too much, and black holes that swallowed the rest.

  She noticed him staring and stepped back.

  “Anyway,” she said quickly, crossing her arms. “You were saying something strange again.”

  she wondered privately.

  Leo shivered unconsciously and pressed closer to Nerion.

  “Right,” Nerion said, shaking himself. “Sorry.”

  He turned to the children.

  “Alright,” he said gently. “You’re coming with us. And when we get back to the city, I’ll need you to do exactly what I say. Can you do that?”

  They nodded, wide-eyed.

  He cut their bonds and, using the same ropes, efficiently secured the remaining kidnappers.

  Evelin watched him work, head tilted, expression unreadable.

  “…Weirdo,” she muttered under her breath.

  Nerion smiled faintly.

  “Hmph… That brat better not try anything funny.”

  The voice carried a low, rasping edge, more displeasure than concern.

  “Humans…”

  A pause.

  “Always the same. Conniving. Kidnapping their own young, as if that rot were new.”

  High above, beyond where moonlight thinned into pale haze, a tall shadow drifted among the clouds. Its outline wavered, never quite settling into a single shape, as though the sky itself refused to define it. From that height, the field below was little more than a smear of motion—two small figures, a wolf, a flicker of green.

  The shadow’s gaze lingered.

  “…This land,” it murmured. “This feeling.”

  Another pause, longer this time.

  “No. It can’t be.”

  The clouds closed around it once more, swallowing the silhouette as quietly as it had appeared.

  The rest of the night passed in uneasy silence.

  When dawn finally crept over the eastern hills, the gates of Siracusa began to open once more. Iron chains rattled, portcullises groaned upward, and the city guard took their positions with practised precision. Merchants gathered. Caravans waited. Another day was supposed to begin.

  Then the shouting started.

  At first, it sounded like confusion—high, frantic voices carried by the morning wind. Guards stiffened. Spears were lowered. Swords slid free of their scabbards as shapes emerged from the mist beyond the road.

  Children.

  Five of them came running toward the gates, barefoot and dishevelled, clothes torn and faces streaked with dirt and tears. They screamed as they ran, voices breaking with panic and relief alike.

  “Help us—please!”

  “We were taken!”

  “I want to go home!”

  “I want my mama—please, I want my mama!”

  The cries cut through the gathered crowd like knives.

  People turned. Merchants froze. Soldiers along the walls leaned forward, eyes widening.

  The City Guard froze as the realisation struck. These were the missing children. One guard moved instinctively to intercept them—perhaps to quiet them—but he stopped short, realising it was already too late to intervene.

  Before he could react further, horns sounded from the wall above. Orders followed immediately.

  A corporal from the Kingdom’s Army—stationed there to assist the city guard—strode forward, voice sharp with authority.

  “Hold your ground!” he barked. “Lower weapons! These are the abducted children!”

  He knelt as the first of them reached the gate, hands raised in a calming gesture.

  “Easy,” he said firmly. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

  He rose and turned sharply to the guards.

  “By order of Brigadier Serena De Vainilla of the Royal Army—and the County Governor—all recovered children are to be escorted immediately to the Governor’s annexed manor. No exceptions. Post a full escort. No one approaches without clearance.”

  The guards moved at once.

  As the children were gathered, wrapped in cloaks, and led away amid sobs and whispered reassurances, the corporal’s gaze drifted back toward the road they had come from.

  Smoke rose in the distance.

  A thick, unmistakable column, dark against the pale morning sky.

  His jaw tightened.

  “Investigate,” he ordered.

  A detachment moved out swiftly. They didn’t have to go far.

  Just beyond a low rise, they found them.

  A cluster of men lay bound together, ropes cinched tight around limbs and torsos. Joints were dislocated with cruel precision—arms twisted, shoulders wrenched, legs forced into angles that denied any hope of resistance. Some groaned. Others stared blankly at the sky.

  One of the city guards inhaled sharply.

  He recognised them.

  The Greedy Wolves.

  Their leader lay among them, beard matted with blood and soot, face swollen and burned. His limbs had been positioned deliberately, every joint compromised—alive, but broken.

  In front of them burned a bonfire.

  Not large enough to destroy evidence.

  But a signal. Large enough to be seen, as if afraid of the ‘gift’ being found missing.

  The corporal studied the scene in silence.

  “This wasn’t a fight,” he said finally. “This was a message.”

  Behind him, Siracusa stirred—alarms ringing now, messengers running, authority mobilising at last.

  And somewhere beyond the city walls, unseen and unthanked, the ones who had delivered that message were already gone.