“Matsu!”

  Grandpa Salatin’s voice echoed through the trees as the young boy darted between trunks and leaf piles. They were on a day trip to the forest, just beyond the farm's edge.

  Matsu was running wild in the crisp autumn air, leaping into heaps of colorful leaves, searching for treasures to add to his growing collection of “cool things.”

  Mostly junk, Salatin would say—but to him, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Matsu found joy in discovery.

  “Matsu, come over here,” Salatin called again, a note of restlessness in his voice.

  It took a few more shouts before the boy finally came bounding over, cheeks flushed and hair full of leaves.

  The sun hung low over the farmland, casting long shadows across the drying soil. A gentle breeze stirred the wheat stalks as little Matsu crouched beside his grandfather, a rusty watering can cradled in his small hands.

  Beside him, Grandpa Salatin knelt, holding a tiny seed between his fingers.

  “You know what this is?” the old man asked, eyes crinkling under the brim of his straw hat.

  Matsu leaned in, curious. “A seed?”

  Salatin smiled softly. “A dream.”

  Matsu blinked. “Huh?”

  The old man placed the seed in his grandson’s palm, curling the boy’s fingers around it.

  “Dreams start small, like this,” he said. “Sometimes they grow fast, sometimes they take years. But if you don’t care for them…”

  He gestured to a wilted sprout nearby—brown, brittle, lifeless.

  “They wither.”

  Matsu looked down at the seed, now holding it with tender care.

  Salatin pointed toward the forest. “There are all kinds of dreams out there,” he said, settling back on his heels. “Big ones, small ones. Loud, quiet, strange, simple—it doesn’t matter what kind you choose, only that you’re willing to nurture it.”

  He reached over and helped Matsu dig a small hole. “Pick your seed, plant it deep—and someday, it’ll grow into something beautiful.”

  Matsu nodded solemnly and placed the seed into the soil.

  “Grandpa?” he asked softly. “When will Grandma come back home?”

  Salatin paused, his smile gentle, eyes glistening. He placed a weathered hand on the soil, caressing it as if greeting an old friend.

  “She already is, Matsu.”

  The boy looked closer.

  There, resting peacefully beneath a simple stone, the name was carved:

  Aspen Molfo.

  The wind whispered through the wheat, carrying with it the scent of earth and memory.

  ***

  Matsu’s eyes fluttered open slowly as a crumpled piece of paper smacked him on the forehead.

  “He’s asleep,” a boy taunted.

  The classroom burst into snickers.

  “Matsu! Wake up!” the teacher barked, her voice slicing through the room.

  Matsu slowly lifted his head from the desk. His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy and unfocused.

  “…Huh?”

  Laughter exploded around him.

  The woman strode over, arms crossed. “Don’t sleep during Bible studies,” she scolded. “You’ll invite misfortune.”

  She leaned closer. “What makes you so sleepy all the time, anyway?”

  “I worked all night on the farm,” Matsu replied flatly. “Hoeing the ground. Washing the crops—so they’ll be ready when the rain comes.”

  “The rain won’t come,” said the boy who had thrown the paper earlier. Jinto.

  “It will,” Matsu snapped.

  “Farming is stupid,” Jinto scoffed. “Working your whole life for nothing.”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jinto smirked. “Come outside and do something about it.”

  Matsu hesitated, then nodded.

  The class followed them out, murmuring with excitement.

  They stood facing each other in the dirt. Jinto cracked his knuckles, slamming his fist into his palm.

  “Come on, break it up!” a girl shouted from the side.

  “Shut up, Rika,” Jinto said, grinning. “I’ll show everyone the knight training I’ve been doing.”

  Matsu swallowed.

  Why am I doing this? He thought. I just want to go home… back to the farm.

  “Here I come!” Jinto shouted, charging forward.

  Matsu didn’t attack. He only defended—blocking, stepping back, redirecting every strike.

  “What’s wrong?” Jinto taunted between blows. “Scared?”

  Matsu ignored him, but then he noticed something on the ground.

  “Stop!” he suddenly shoved Jinto away.

  Jinto stumbled and fell backward.

  “You almost stepped on the flower,” Matsu said, kneeling down and gently fixing its bent stem.

  “I don’t care about some stupid flower!” Jinto snarled.

  He rushed Matsu from behind.

  “Watch out, Matsu!” Rika cried.

  Too late.

  Jinto’s fist slammed into Matsu’s back.

  Matsu didn’t even flinch.

  Jinto yelped instead, clutching his hand. “Ow! What the hell—how tough is your body?!”

  “What are you talking about?” Matsu asked, genuinely confused.

  “Damn you!” Jinto yelled, charging again.

  Before he could reach him, the teacher stormed in and punched both boys square in the face.

  “Enough, you idiots!” she shouted.

  “Yes, ma’am,” they both said instantly, holding their aching faces.

  ***

  Classes finally ended for the day.

  Sunlight washed over the students as they poured out of the building. Matsu walked ahead of the others, quick and quiet, already eager to get home.

  Behind him, voices rose in excited chatter.

  “Someday I’ll become a knight,” Jinto bragged, puffing out his chest. “I’ll become so strong my name will be known in the upper levels.”

  “Get real, Jinto,” Rika laughed. “You’d have to beat Matsu first.”

  The class burst into laughter. Jinto scowled.

  Matsu quickened his pace, pretending not to hear. He didn’t want another confrontation.

  “I’m leaving this place someday,” Rika said cheerfully. “I’ll buy expensive clothes and live in a big city.”

  “I-I want to travel the world,” Lolo added shyly, “and taste all kinds of desserts.”

  Everyone laughed joyfully again.

  With every dream spoken, Matsu’s steps grew faster.

  Then—

  “How about you, Matsu?” Rika called out.

  He slowed, about to answer—

  A thunderous crash cut him off.

  The ground shook as a carriage tore down the hill, wheels screaming, barreling straight toward them.

  Its wheels spun with gold, polished so sharp the villagers could see their poor reflections in it. The horses, snorting and sleek, were draped in matching gilded tack that glinted menacingly in the sun.

  When it landed in the square, everyone stopped moving. Conversations died. Kids dropped their sticks. Farmers froze mid-swing.

  The Heavenly Knight emerged with a hiss of steam and pride.

  Sir Caldras.

  A walking monument of arrogance, he strode with armor polished to a blinding sheen, bright enough to make onlookers shield their eyes. Atop his helmet fluttered a vivid blue feather, while strands of golden hair spilled defiantly from beneath the steel.

  He stepped forward and said nothing.

  Then he pointed at an old woman’s vegetable cart and knocked it over with a flick of his hand.

  Cabbages rolled. Beets splattered. She gasped, dropping to her knees to gather what she could.

  “No permits,” Caldras said, voice cold and honey-smooth. “Selling without tribute to the Level Above is treason. You know this.”

  “It’s for food, not trade,” she whispered.

  “I did not ask,” he replied, and raised his hand again.

  That’s when Matsu stepped forward.

  “Hey.”

  Everyone turned.

  Rika and Lolo headpanned. That idiot…

  Matsu didn’t know why his mouth opened. Maybe it was instinct..

  “Those vegetables took weeks to grow,” he said.

  Caldras turned his masked face toward him. Slowly.

  “And who are you?”

  “I'm just a regular farmer.”

  “Then speak like one.”

  Caldras shoved Matsu aside with a swift sweep of his arm.

  Matsu flew backward like a rag doll, crashing into a water barrel. The wood splintered, water spilling out as he tumbled into the dirt.

  Laughter rippled through the crowd of knights.

  “That's what he gets for messing with knights,” Jinto scoffed, arms crossed, earning him an angry look from Rika.

  A smear of mud clung to Caldras’s gleaming armor. His face twisted in disgust. Without a word, he pulled a cloth from his belt and began furiously scrubbing the stain, as if the boy's very touch had defiled him.

  Then suddenly, a pair of steps

  “You do always fall over… Matsu,” said an old man, amused and completely unfazed.

  “Shut up, Grandpa,” Matsu muttered, soaked and sore.

  The old man strolled over to the old woman, crouched down to help her, and “accidentally” stepped on Caldras’s armored foot.

  A vein popped on the knight’s forehead.

  “Thank you, Salatin,” the woman said softly.

  The soldier standing nearby twitched at the name.

  Caldras turned, placing a hand on Salatin’s shoulder as he unsheathed his blade.

  “Hey, Old man. Watch where you’re going.”

  “Wait—Lieutenant!” the soldier stammered. “That’s the Living Legend… Salatin Molfo the Mountaincrusher!”

  Caldras froze.

  “…What? This old man is the Mountaincrusher?”

  He looked Salatin over again, now with fresh eyes—and a growing film of sweat on his brow.

  “Well… he’s older than I expected. And a lot shorter,” he added, gesturing dismissively.

  “Huh?” Salatin grunted, clearly didn't appreciate the comment.

  The air shifted. A murderous aura rolled off him like thunderclouds. The soldier next to Caldras nearly collapsed from fear.

  More sweat.

  “Ah… look at the time,” Caldras stammered, backing up. “Guess we should, uh… get back to camp.”

  And just like that, the Heavenly Knight and his retinue retreated, leaving the villagers in stunned silence.

  Salatin snorted.

  The crowd erupted into applause.

  Salatin turned around, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “You hanging in there, you brat?”

  Matsu nodded, as he layed on the ground dirty.

  ***

  Matsu walked home beside his grandfather, following the dirt path that wound through the village and connected directly to their farm. Salatin kept an easy pace at his side, straw hat tilted low, staff tapping softly against the ground.

  When the farm finally came into view, Matsu slowed—just as he always did.

  It was beautiful.

  Back on the land, the air carried the thick scent of scorched soil and stubborn weeds. Summer had been cruel. Rain in Level 2 was rare, and when it did come, it needed to fall hard enough to break the earth. Cracks split the ground like tired veins. Rows of vegetables lay half-dead, sunburnt, clinging to life with the same quiet defiance that defined the farm itself.

  At the field’s edge, the scarecrow leaned at a weary angle, straw-stuffed arms outstretched as if even it was tired of holding on.

  Yet to Matsu, it was perfect.

  The creaking windmill.

  The uneven fence with the missing slat he never got around to fixing.

  The crooked tree at the crest of the hill bent just enough to shade the porch.

  All of it felt right.

  “I told you not to go picking fights with knights,” Salatin grumbled as they walked uphill.

  “I can’t fight?,” Matsu muttered. “But you’re allowed to?”

  “It’s different,” Salatin replied without looking back. “I’m an adult.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Matsu asked.

  Salatin snorted, squinting beneath his wide straw hat. His white beard stuck out like a nest of angry bristles.

  “It means you keep getting hit. One day you’ll knock some sense into yourself.”

  They stepped inside the house.

  As Salatin ladled potato soup into wooden bowls, Matsu sat at the table, staring into the rising steam.

  “Why does everyone have such big ambitions?” he said quietly. “Everyone in my class has these big goals. They all want to escape their lives and become something more.”

  “Then go with them,” Salatin muttered, setting the bowl before him. “No one’s shackling you to the soil.”

  Matsu shook his head.

  “I like the soil,” he said softly. “It’s where I belong.”

  They ate in rare silence, spoons tapping gently against the bowls as they scraped up every last bit of soup—the room filled with its rich, earthy scent—simple, warm, familiar.

  After a while, Salatin spoke again.

  “Come on. Don’t you have any dreams at all? Try to think of something.”

  The question lingered in the air.

  It wasn’t the first time Salatin had wondered. He had watched the boy grow—work, laugh, stumble, and rise again. Yet never once had Matsu spoken of ambition, and that silence unsettled him.

  Matsu paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.

  “A dream, huh?”

  He thought for a moment, then grinned.

  “I know—having beetroot soup tomorrow.”

  Salatin sighed, then shook his head.

  “Not that. A real dream. Something you strive for. Something you want to accomplish.”

  Matsu frowned, thinking harder this time.

  After a long pause, he shrugged.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Nothing wrong with that, it took me fifty years to realize my dream.”

  Matsu tilted his head. “What! You have a dream, Grandpa?”

  Salatin didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted down to the simple ring on his weathered hand. He stared at it for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “It was a joke between Aspen and me, we talked about all the time, it’s something I will do when the time is right,” he said softly.

  “Really, really tell me,” Matsu asked, eyes wide with curiosity, nearly bouncing off his stool.

  “No,” Salatin replied with a smirk, bringing another spoonful to his mouth.

  “…Huh?” Matsu blinked.

  “It’s a secret,” the old man teased, sticking out his tongue like a mischievous child.

  Matsu groaned and slumped back in his seat. “You’re the worst.”

  Salamin chuckled, “I can tell you this much,” the old man added, a rare seriousness creeping into his tone. “I regret not traveling more when I was your age. There’s more to this world than this patch of dirt — more than even I can teach you.”

  Matsu tilted his head. “Then why stay here?”

  “Don’t mistake comfort for purpose, Matsu,” Salatin said, eyes glinting in the lanternlight. “The soil gives life—but it can also keep you buried if you never look past the fence.”

  Matsu sat conflicted, unsure what to say.

  They finished their meal in lighthearted silence, the flickering lantern casting soft shadows around the room.

  ***

  Matsu wandered through the forest, his mind clouded with thoughts he couldn’t quite name. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he had to reach that place.

  His footsteps carried him beyond the forest’s edge, where trees gave way to stone, and stone to emptiness.

  He had arrived.

  The Void - Level 1

  It stretched out before him, like a vast and endless sea of nothingness. A silence more complete than any he’d known pressed in from all sides. No birds called. No wind stirred. Only a pale, ghostly glow pulsed from deep within the chasm.

  “Don’t ever go near the void,” Grandpa had warned..

  But Matsu didn’t step forward. He only stood there, motionless, eyes wide, breath shallow. Something in that nothingness pulled at him, held him captive—not with force, but with the weight of understanding.

  Why was he so weak-minded?

  Was it because he lacked ambition?

  While others pushed forward, striving for more, Matsu… was. Not exceptional. Not gifted. Mediocre in most things. Just normal. The only thing he’d ever truly been good at was farming—and he loved it. The quiet rhythm of soil and sun brought him peace.

  But still, some part of him whispered that something was wrong. That being content wasn’t enough. That there should be more.

  He hated that voice. But he couldn’t silence it.

  A sudden gust cut through the stillness—

  sharp, unnatural.

  Matsu staggered, gravel shifting beneath his feet. His heart lurched.

  Then—nothing.

  Air rushed past him as the ground gave way.

  He was falling.

  “Shit!” he gasped, arms flailing. The crater walls blurred past his eyes as he headed into the darkness.

  He shut his eyes, bracing for the end—

  for bones to break, for breath to leave, for the void to finally take him.

  But instead—pain.

  A sharp jolt rattled through his body as he struck something solid.

  Rough.

  He groaned, breath stolen from his lungs.

  Opening his eyes slowly, he realized—

  He was alive.

  Beneath him, the ledge was thick with grass, tangled with vines clinging to the crater wall.

  He’d landed on a ledge jutting from the crater's inner wall. Just meters below Level 2.

  Matsu stared into the void for a moment longer, then muttered, “Lucky.”

  Matsu’s steps stirred the soft grass beneath his feet, the vines brushing against his legs as he moved cautiously along the ledge. The eerie silence of the void pressed around him, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional drip of unseen moisture somewhere deeper in the crater.

  Then, something caught his eye.

  Amid the thick tangles of vines curling along the stone, a shape, half-hidden, lies beneath layers of green and dirt.

  He paused, heart quickening. Kneeling, he reached carefully into the foliage, fingers brushing past leaves damp with dew.

  His hand closed around something solid—rough wood, weathered and worn smooth by time.

  He pulled it free.

  A wooden shovel.

  Its handle splintered in places but remains sturdy; the blade is chipped yet whole, stained dark from years of use. The faint scent of earth clung to it, as if it had been resting here, forgotten, just waiting.

  Matsu turned it over in his hands, feeling the familiar weight.

  “Extra lucky,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath.

  Matsu turned the wooden shovel over in his hands, tracing the worn grain with his fingertips.

  Then, faintly—almost like a whisper just beyond hearing—he heard something.

  A voice, low and ancient, murmuring in a language he didn’t know.

  The words it muttered didn’t sound harsh or kind, but they stirred something deep inside him.

  The shovel seemed to hum, a pulse vibrating through the wood and into his palms.

  A warmth spread from his hands, climbing through his arms, settling in his chest.

  Then—just as suddenly—it stopped.

  The voice faded, the warmth vanished, and silence returned.

  Matsu blinked, chest heaving, mind racing.

  “What the hell was that?” he whispered, eyes wide, gripping the shovel tighter.

  Suddenly, voices drifted in from the edge of the cliff. Matsu froze, then pressed himself against the cold stone wall, heart pounding. He recognized one of them—Sir Caldras.

  Hidden in the shadows, Matsu listened.

  “These Level 2 scum are getting bold,” Caldras muttered, his voice low and sharp. “Especially that old man.”

  He paused, peering into the dark void beyond the battlements.

  “We strike at dawn.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the men.

  “But what do we tell the Captain?” one asked cautiously.

  “We say it was bandits,” Caldras said flatly. “And we leave no witnesses.”

  Matsu’s breath caught in his throat. He stifled a gasp, eyes wide.

  Then the voices disappeared.

  Matsu looked up at the stone cliff wall. It was high, and he had to hurry before it was too late.

  He needed to hurry.

  The words “we strike at dawn” echoed in his skull, louder than the pounding of his pulse. His breath came in ragged bursts. He looked up. The ledge he’d fallen from now loomed like a cliff face, the rim barely visible against the dark sky.

  His first thought was the vines.

  He rushed to them, hands trembling, gripping the thickest strands he could find. They looked strong—twisted and anchored deep into the stone. Hope flickered in his chest.

  He pulled.

  The vines snapped like wet thread.

  Matsu hit the ground with a thud, landing hard on his ass. “Agh—dammit!” he hissed, pain shooting up his tailbone.

  He sat there a moment, fists clenched, trying to ignore the sting in his back and the panic rising in his throat.

  “Why?” he growled under his breath. “Why am I always like this?”

  He scrambled to the wall again, this time going straight for the stone. Jagged edges, finger-width cracks, rough patches—anything he could dig his hands into. He climbed. Slipped. Climbed again. His fingers bled, knees scraped, dust choking every breath.

  He slid back down. Again.

  Again.

  Every time he reached higher, his grip gave way.

  “Come on, come on…”

  He stared up at the ledge, despair pressing down like a second gravity. The people in the village—Grandpa—they had no idea. No idea that a knife hovered above them, ready to fall.

  And he couldn’t even climb a wall.

  He slumped back, chest heaving.

  “Why am I so useless?” he whispered.

  The void didn’t answer.

  Matsu gritted his teeth. The handle of the wooden shovel dug into his blistered palms as he drove it again into the stone. Sparks flew. Dust filled his lungs. Again. And again. And again. The only thing he could think about was their dreams.

  “I must save them, no matter what,”

  ***

  The village square buzzed with early morning life—tools clinking, roosters crowing, tired laughter humming through dust-filled streets.

  “Where is Matsu?” Lolo asked shyly. Matsu's seat was vacant; he hadn’t appeared in class.

  ”He probably got scared after that beating I gave him,” Jinto said, resting his head on him arms.

  “He is probably working on his precious farm,” Rika said, yawning.

  Then came the horns.

  Long. Low. Ominous.

  The class ran out of the building, wanting to see the commotion.

  Sir Caldras’s carriage rolled in once more, golden wheels flashing in the dawn light. But this time, the knights came not as symbols of power—but as a weapon.

  “Attack!” he barked.

  Steel glinted. Swords were drawn.

  But then—Salatin stepped forward.

  He wore no armor. Carried only farming tools. He rolled his shoulders. Cracked his knuckles.

  “You want the village?” he said calmly. “You have to go through me.”

  The soldiers stopped, frozen in fear.

  Caldras raged, “He’s an old man. Just attack already!”

  They charged.

  But they didn’t get far—

  Jinto stepped forward.”

  “We’ll help you, Mr. Molfo!” he shouted, raising his wooden sword. Several village boys followed suit, shaky but determined.

  “This is insane,” Jinto yelled. “Aren’t Heavenly Knights supposed to protect people, not attack them?”

  Caldras chuckled.

  “That’s true,” he said. “But I don’t see you as people. Just trash.”

  Jinto’s face flushed with rage. “Why you—”

  “Wait,” Salatin said, lifting a hand. His voice was steady. Kind.

  “You kids. You’ve got courage. But this fight—it’s mine.”

  The air was still—just for a heartbeat—before the chaos began.

  Sir Caldras raised his gleaming sword. “Cut them down!”

  Steel boots thundered. Half a dozen Heavenly Knights surged forward, arrogance shining on their blades. Villagers screamed, scattering. But Salatin didn’t move.

  Not at first.

  He stood barefoot in the dirt, knuckles cracking like thunder, eyes calm.

  The knights paused, confused.

  Salatin picked up a rusted garden fork behind him. Its prongs gleamed dully in the morning light. He rested it over one shoulder like a war axe.

  “You brought swords to a farm fight,” he muttered, and smiled.

  The first knight lunged—fast, but not fast enough. Salatin stepped in, pivoted, and rammed the fork through the man’s breastplate, lifting him clear off the ground like a bale of hay. The knight shrieked, armor sparking as he was flung sideways into a trough.

  Another came at him from the right—swinging high. Salatin ducked, came up with a rakel, spinning it in his hand like a quarterstaff. CLANG!—it met the knight’s blade with a screech of metal. Then WHUMP—Salatin smashed the flat end into the knight’s helmet like a gong, sending him spinning into the mud.

  Two knights charged at once.

  Salatin kicked a hoe off the ground with his foot and caught it midair. He swept it low like a scythe, knocking one man’s feet out from under him. As the second knight brought his blade down, Salatin spun—using the hoe’s momentum to whip around and slam the handle into the man’s jaw with a CRACK. Teeth and pride flew.

  From the ground, the first knight tried to grab his leg.

  Salatin stomped on his chest.

  Hard.

  The sound the knight made was somewhere between a gasp and a croak.

  Three knights remained.

  Salatin reached down to his belt and drew his favorite sickle, the blade curved like a crescent moon, the handle worn from decades of honest work. It wasn’t just a tool. It was an extension of his will.

  One knight tried to flank him.

  Salatin turned just in time to parry the blade with his sickle—then stepped in and headbutted the man straight in the nose. Blood sprayed. As the knight staggered back, Salatin whipped the sickle around in a tight arc, slashing through the straps of his breastplate, sending the armor clattering to the ground like discarded hubris.

  The second knight tried to use his height advantage—bad move.

  Salatin grabbed his pickaxe from the side of the shed and hurled it, spinning end over end. It stuck deep in the knight’s shoulder pauldron with a meaty thunk, sending him crashing down like a felled tree.

  The last knight stood behind a catapult, frantically loading a massive boulder. With a strained shout, he fired.

  The stone hurtled toward Salatin with a thunderous roar.

  Salatin tossed aside his tools and planted his feet. As the shadow of the boulder fell over him, he drew back his fist—

  GROWTH PUNCH!

  BOOM.

  His punch split the boulder apart in midair, shards exploding outward like rain.

  The last knight froze, trembling. “M–Mountaincrusher…” he whispered.

  Salatin began to walk toward him, dragging his sickle across the stones, the metal screeching with every step.

  “I grow potatoes tougher than you,” he said.

  The knight’s sword clattered to the ground.

  Salatin grabbed him by the collar, lifted him effortlessly with one hand, and tossed him into a haystack.

  Then turned to Caldras.

  Sir Caldras was no longer smug.

  "How can an old man be this strong?" he muttered through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow.

  Though Salatin’s face remained calm, the strain of battle was beginning to show. His age was catching up with him.

  “I must say, I’m impressed,” Caldras said, regaining his composure as he stepped back and reached for something at his side. “But it ends here.”

  He drew a long, gleaming spear from his back.

  “Lieutenant… Are you really using that!?” one of his men gasped.

  Caldras gave a sly smile. “Mmh. You should be honored, old man. To die by my Artifact.”

  Salatin’s eyes widened. “An Artifact!?”

  Without warning, Caldras shifted into a strange, rigid stance. His feet planted firmly, his body coiled like a spring.

  “What is he doing?” Jinto thought, eyes narrowing. “He’s too far away to—”

  Suddenly, Caldras thrust his weapon forward with a fierce cry.

  “CADMUS SPEAR!”

  The spear came alive in his hands, elongating in a flash of light. It shot forward like a lightning bolt, the tip screaming through the air toward Salatin.

  He had barely a second to react.

  With a grunt, Salatin raised his pickaxe just in time to block the enchanted strike, metal clashing against metal with a resounding clang that echoed through the valley.

  The villagers watching from afar gasped in awe and fear, their eyes wide at the magic unfolding before them.

  The spear snapped back to its original length with a hiss of magic, but before Salatin could launch a counterattack, another thrust came—this time aimed straight at his face.

  But something was different.

  The spear didn’t extend like before. Instead, it moved in an unpredictable, serpentine pattern, almost as if it were alive. Salatin barely caught the whispered name carried on the wind—

  “THESEUS SPEAR!”

  His eyes narrowed.

  This one was cruel in a different way. The spear twisted mid-thrust, its shaft oscillating unnaturally, changing trajectory with impossible fluidity. It weaved around Salatin’s defenses, striking at his arms, his side, his legs.

  Blood splattered the ground as shallow cuts opened along his body, each one delivered with surgical precision. Salatin did his best to block, spinning his pickaxe in desperate arcs, but the spear's unpredictability made it nearly impossible to read.

  “Damn it… It’s like fighting a snake,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  Caldras advanced with cold confidence, the Artifact dancing in his hands like a living thing. “You’re holding up well, old man. Most would’ve fallen after the first strike.”

  Caldras continued his relentless assault with the Theseus Spear, its twisting, unpredictable strikes dancing around Salatin like a blur of silver. He was hoping to exhaust the old warrior—to wear him down through sheer attrition. But no matter how many cuts he landed, Salatin refused to fall.

  Bleeding, bruised, and breathless, he still stood tall, defiant, unbroken.

  “Tch,” Caldras groaned. “Why won’t you go down?”

  This was taking far longer than he had planned. The villagers were still watching, and his soldiers were growing uneasy.

  Then, Caldras got an idea.

  A cruel smile curled across his face.

  Without warning, Caldras spun and pointed his spear at the cluster of villagers—specifically, a young girl, no older than ten, trembling behind her mother.

  “Let’s see how long your heroism lasts,” he sneered.

  With terrifying speed, the spear shot forth like a javelin of lightning, straight toward the girl.

  Gasps erupted from the crowd.

  But before the weapon could reach its mark, Salatin moved.

  Faster than anyone thought possible, he threw himself forward, his boots kicking up dirt as he dashed across the battlefield.

  No...

  With a cry, he placed himself between the child and the incoming spear.

  A sickening thunk echoed as the spear pierced straight through his abdomen.

  Time seemed to freeze.

  Salatin stumbled, then fell to one knee, the spear buried deep in his body. The villagers screamed. The little girl sobbed behind him, untouched, unharmed.

  Caldras lowered his stance slowly, watching with satisfaction. “Now that’s more like it.”

  But to his surprise, Salatin did not fall.

  He planted one hand in the dirt and pushed himself back up, as the spear snapped back to its original size, blood pouring from the wound.

  His voice came low, pained—but unwavering.

  “You… will not… touch them, the new generation must live on...”

  Caldras sneered. “You're dead, old man.” He raised his spear to finish the job—

  CRACK.

  The ground beneath him suddenly split open with a thunderous snap. A blur shot upward from the earth.

  WHAM!

  A shovel struck him square in the jaw like an uppercut from the underworld, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground.

  Everyone froze.

  A young boy, covered in dirt from head to toe, stood in the crater, panting heavily. He gripped a worn, wooden shovel, steam rising from his body where sweat met the cold air.

  Caldras groaned, spitting blood as he pushed himself back up, dazed and furious. “Another nutjob trying to protect this farm.”

  The boy straightened, eyes blazing.

  He pointed the shovel defiantly at the lieutenant.

  This farm is my dream, I won't let anyone take it.”

  Matsu’s voice echoed like a thunderclap, defiant and unafraid. The villagers stared in shock, whispers rippling through the crowd.

  Salatin looked at the boy, barely standing, blood dripping from his wound—yet a smile touched his lips.

  Caldras moved like a storm—relentless, brutal, calculated.

  Matsu tried to hold his ground, shovel in hand, but he was outmatched. The Theseus Spear danced around his defenses with unnatural grace, carving shallow cuts into his arms and sides. Each strike was faster than the last, forcing Matsu to retreat, dodging just inches away from fatal blows.

  "You thought you could challenge me?" Caldras growled, fury burning in his eyes. "You're nothing but a dirt-covered peasant."

  Matsu’s breath came in ragged gasps. His muscles ached. His hands were slick with sweat and blood. But even as he was pushed back, he was watching.

  Studying Caldras movements.

  And then, Caldras stepped back—switching to the Cadmus Spear. The air shifted.

  Matsu's eyes locked onto the warlord.

  This is the long-range one. It stretches. But…

  He remembered. The last time Caldras used it, the spear had lingered just a moment before returning to its original form.

  That was the flaw.

  Caldras shouted, “CADMUS SPEAR!” and thrust the weapon forward—its length extending like a bolt of light, aimed directly for Matsu’s chest.

  Matsu didn’t move.

  He waited.

  Waited—

  Now.

  At the last possible second, Matsu spun his body and slammed his shovel down in a precise arc—

  CLANG!

  Wood struck metal. The Cadmus Spear, still mid-extension, was knocked violently downward by the force of the blow, crashing into the dirt beside him, throwing up sparks and dust.

  The momentum shifted instantly.

  Matsu didn’t hesitate.

  Using the recoil of his own strike and the spear’s halted momentum, he launched himself forward like a rocket.

  Caldras’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What—!?”

  Too slow.

  Matsu roared through the air, both hands on his shovel.

  THWACK.

  The shovel came down with a bone-rattling impact, crashing into Caldras’s skull.

  The knight collapsed like a stone pillar, his body crumpling in the dust.

  “Who the hell are you?” the fallen knight muttered, barely unconscious.”

  “I told you, I'm just a regular farmer!” Matsu exclaimed

  ***

  They sat silently on the roof in the evening, watching the sunset. They listened to the leaves rustling in the wind, enjoying each other's company. The knights had fled as fast as they came.

  “This is what it means to be a farmer, being able to look at your farm at the end of the day, thinking I did this.”

  Matsu lingered for a moment before saying.

  “Hey, Gramps.”

  "Mmmh?"

  "Is life always going to be like this?"

  Grandpa looked at the boy.

  “I don’t know; it is you who decides that, but if you want to continue being a farmer, then I guess so."

  He clenched his fist in frustration.

  “But this world, it’s not meant for farmers like us; the rest of the world treats us like trash."

  Grandpa looked calm at the sunset.

  “I know, it's tough. Even though I have little family left. Even though some people treat me like crap, and even though I don't have enough money to put food on the table.

  Matsu could see a smile at the corner of his eye

  ”Somehow, this old man still finds happiness."

  Matsu felt reassured.

  “Then I’m okay living like this.”

  "Mmh?"

  “If it means I’ll be with you."

  Grandpa blushes, "Idiot.”

  They continued to look at the sunset in silence. Looking at their farm with happiness.

  Grandpa sighs

  “Don’t worry, soon your worries will disappear.”

  Matsu glances at his grandpa before salvation continues.

  “ Someday, there will be someone who will change this world."

  Matus looked at his grandpa.

  "I just know it,” Grandpa's voice rang with conviction.

  The boy smiled.

  And from that night, Matsu hoped he would meet this "person," the one who would change the world.