The morning sun barely peeked through the dense canopy above the cave, its dim light casting long shadows over the dirt-packed ground. A crude fighting pit had formed, a ring of drunken bandits howling with laughter and sloshing their booze as they watched the "lesson" unfold.
Zander stood in the center, or rather, he tried to. His body swayed, his legs barely holding him up. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut from the beating, and blood trickled from his split lip and nose.
Across from him, Roadie stretched his arms, grinning like a beast. "You still standing, kid?"
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers.
"Five silvers says he drops in the next punch!"
"Nah, the brat's stubborn, I'll give him ten more seconds!"
"Oi, kid, just stay down! You're already uglier than before!"
Zander coughed, spitting a bit of blood onto the ground. His chest heaved, pain screaming from every inch of his body, but his silver eyes still held defiance. He wiped his mouth with his chained wrist and raised his fists again.
Roadie chuckled. "Damn, you really don't know when to quit, huh?"
Without warning, he lunged forward. His fist slammed into Zander's gut, knocking the air from his lungs. The boy gasped, knees buckling, but he refused to fall.
The bandits roared with laughter.
"Oi, oi! He's still up!"
"Stubborn little rat!"
"Bet he doesn't last another hit!"
Roadie took a step back, rolling his shoulders. "I'll give you one last chance, kid. Stay down."
Zander coughed again, his body trembling, but his legs refused to give in. He wiped the blood from his lips and lifted his fists once more, though they shook like leaves.
Roadie sighed, shaking his head. "Tough bastard."
Zander wiped the blood from his mouth, his body trembling from exhaustion. His breaths were ragged, each inhale burning his lungs. The jeering crowd, the stink of alcohol, the dust swirling beneath his feet—none of it mattered.
He had felt worse.
"My life…" He coughed, his voice hoarse but steady. "My life has beaten me way worse than this."
Roadie's grin faltered for a split second.
Before anyone could react, Zander lunged forward.
His vision blurred, his body screamed in agony, but he pushed through. His fist shot forward with every ounce of strength left in his body—and landed square on Roadie's jaw.
The impact barely made Roadie stagger, but the entire cave fell silent.
Then—
Zander collapsed.
The bandits howled with laughter.
"Hah! Did you see that? The brat actually landed a hit!"
"Not bad, kid, but that's all you got!"
"That's it for him, he's done!"
Roadie stared at the boy lying on the ground, struggling just to breathe.
But in his mind—
Not bad, kid.
Even without Rhu, even in that battered state, you still fought back.
You still refused to lose.
Roadie exhaled through his nose, rolling his jaw where the hit had landed. It barely hurt, but that wasn't the point.
When you awaken your core, you might even be as good as me.
No.
You might be better than me.
The cave was alive with the crackling of fire and the echoes of drunken laughter when a terrified bandit stumbled inside, his face drained of color. His breathing was ragged, his clothes soaked in blood, not his own, but the blood of those who had fallen.
"Roadie!" His voice cracked with panic.
Roadie, leaning lazily against a barrel, narrowed his eyes, clearly irritated at the interruption. "What?" he muttered, taking another swig of his drink.
The bandit shook like a leaf in a storm as he stammered, "T-The cart we were supposed to attack, it was a trap!"
A silence settled over the cave, the air thick with tension.
The escaped bandit swallowed hard. "T-The knights of Ravenhart… they were waiting for us. And there was a kid....a kid in a mask."
Some of the bandits exchanged amused glances. "A kid?" one of them chuckled. "What, did a brat scare you that bad?"
The bandit whirled on him, his eyes wide with terror. "If you were there, you would've pissed your pants!" His voice cracked.
"That kid was a monster! He wore a red mask, an Asura skull mask! And he cut through us like meat! No mercy! No hesitation!"
The laughter died instantly.
The cave felt colder.
Zander, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, lifted his head. His sharp eyes studied the bandit before he spoke. "Then how did you escape?"
The bandit froze.
His breath came out uneven, like he didn't want to say the next words.
"...I didn't."
A shiver ran through the room.
The flames in the torches flickered, casting eerie shadows against the stone walls.
The bandit's lips trembled as he finally forced out the words.
"He left me alive to deliver a message."
Zander's gaze sharpened. "What message?"
The bandit's hands curled into fists. His whole body shook.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke.
"Death is coming."
The cave went deathly silent.
Roadie stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt floor as he approached the trembling bandit. The poor fool barely had time to react one moment he was gasping for breath, the next, Roadie's blade flashed.
A sharp, wet sound filled the air.
Blood sprayed against the stone walls as the bandit collapsed, clutching his throat. His eyes were wide, terror frozen on his face as he gurgled his last breath.
Silence.
Every bandit in the cave stiffened. The fire crackled, but no one dared move.
Roadie wiped the blade lazily against his sleeve, then turned to the others with a cold smirk. "You did your work," he muttered to the corpse, kicking it aside. "Now go join your companions."
He then turned his gaze to Zander.
The boy stood stiff, his hands trembling slightly, his face pale. He had just watched Roadie execute a man in cold blood.
Roadie tilted his head, watching Zander's reaction with amusement before breaking into a grin.
"Well, would you look at that?" Roadie chuckled, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "You were right, kid." He stretched his arms and sighed. "Looks like we actually need to start using our brains from now on."
He took a step closer, his voice laced with amusement. "So, Brain, from now on, you'll decide when we raid and when we don't."
He lifted his blade again, this time pointing it straight at Zander.
Zander's throat went dry.
The cold steel of the sword gleamed under the dim fire. The weight of Roadie's gaze, the way he had just killed without hesitation, it all sent a shiver down his spine.
For the first time, Zander realized, he wasn't just in the company of bandits.
He was in the company of a monster.
Zander felt his breath hitch. His hands clenched into fists, but his fingers were clammy with sweat. He had seen death before—he had seen people cut down, torn apart, screaming for their lives.
But this?
This was different.
Roadie hadn't just killed the man, he had butchered him. Like a farmer cutting the throat of livestock, as if the man had never been anything more than meat waiting to be carved.
No hesitation. No second thought.
The blood still pooled at Zander's feet, dark and thick, soaking into the dirt floor. The air smelled of iron, sharp and suffocating.
His heart pounded as Roadie's blade hovered near his throat. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to remind him just how easily his life could be snuffed out.
Roadie's grin widened as he watched Zander's face.
"Scared, are we?" he teased, tilting his head. "I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."
Zander forced himself to steady his breathing.
He had two choices. Break down or play along.
Swallowing hard, he looked up at Roadie and forced a smirk onto his face.
"Well," he muttered, his voice dry, "if I'm the brain, maybe don't point a sword at me. Wouldn't want to make yourself any dumber."
The bandits around them erupted in laughter.
Roadie chuckled too—but there was something in his eyes.
Something that told Zander he had barely passed the test.
High above the world, suspended in the heavens like a forgotten god's crown, floated a colossal island. At its heart stood a magnificent castle,its towers piercing the clouds, its spires kissed by sunlight.
The entire structure radiated authority, beauty carved in stone. Two vast rings of orichalcum—an ancient, near-extinct metal in Celestia. The circles hummed with latent energy, a quiet testament to power long buried and not yet forgotten.
A figure soared toward the island, wings white as starlight cutting through the sky. The messenger, fresh from his narrow escape from the prison on the Forsaken Continent, landed at the castle's edge with a whisper of wind. His boots touched down with a reverence he didn't feel.
Finally. Swarga.
He began to walk, eyes locked ahead.
Just deliver the message about the Amaris prison break to Lord Seraph and be done with it. Her little "warning" isn't worth repeating. It felt more like a threat anyway...
The gate loomed before him, tall, ornate, rimmed in living silver. The guards took one look and bowed without question. Silent, obedient. He passed through, neither grateful nor surprised.
The castle's halls echoed as he moved through them, gilded with divine symbols and steeped in a cold, ceremonial silence.
At last, he stood before the great door.
He paused, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, smoothing the creases in his robe, making sure everything was in place. This was not a room one entered lightly.
With a soft creak, he pushed the door open , just enough to slip inside.
The moment he stepped through, the chamber responded. Lines of light bloomed across the walls like veins awakening, casting a warm, ethereal glow that spilled across the stone floor. Slowly, the brilliance settled revealing the figure seated at the center.
Lord Seraph.
He sat behind a long, obsidian desk carved with symbols older than language. His posture was immaculate, regal without effort. Pale, white-toned skin shimmered faintly beneath the light, and his hair—silver-gray, like mist before dawn flowed to his shoulders. Matching gray eyes flicked across parchment with measured calm, moving only as his quill danced silently in his hand.
He didn't look up. He didn't need to.
Seraph paused.
Without lifting his gaze, he set the quill down with deliberate grace. His hands rose, fingers interlacing slowly, and he brought them to rest just below his chin. Then, at last, his eyes lifted, gray and unblinking, like storm clouds that judged rather than wept.
"So," he said, his voice calm as still water. "Amaris has escaped."
A beat of silence passed, heavy enough to press into the messenger's chest.
"If you are here then, she must have left a message," Seraph continued, the corners of his mouth unmoving.
"So let me hear it."
His eyes fixed on the messenger's, unwavering, demanding truth, not performance.
The messenger froze.
His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
He had come here to deliver a simple report. Amaris escaped, nothing more. Drop the truth at Seraph's feet and vanish before questions followed. But Seraph already knew, of course he did. And worse, he knew what the messenger had left out.
The chamber felt colder now. Not from the air, but from the weight of that gaze.
"I…" he stammered, eyes darting to the side, then back to Seraph. "She did leave something. A message. But…"
He hesitated, throat tightening. The words burned now, as if speaking them would set something in motion he couldn't stop.
"It didn't feel like a message," he muttered. "It felt like a threat."
Seraph didn't react with alarm. His voice remained steady, almost gentle.
"It's all right," he said. "Let me hear it."
The messenger swallowed hard, then spoke the words like they might poison the air.
"She said… The next Divine Bane is here. And in a few more years, the last Sovereign will come for your heads."
The silence that followed wasn't empty it was absolute. The kind of stillness that came before a storm.
Seraph slowly exhaled.
"You've done well," he said, nodding toward the door. "You may leave."
The messenger didn't argue. He turned and vanished as quickly as dignity allowed.
Alone now, Seraph rose from his chair and approached the towering window. The sky stretched endlessly before him too bright, too calm.
"So," he murmured, eyes narrowing, "the light i saw that day… it was from Kaal."
He turned his gaze toward the far wall, where a charred piece of parchment hung like a sacred relic. Edges burnt, ink faded, but still legible. A prophecy, half-destroyed.
"The dawn of the prophecy has come," Seraph whispered. "this is not looking good for us. If the clan elders get to know of this there might be a war, just to capture him alive"
He plucked his quill from the desk and set a fresh sheet of parchment before him.
"I must find him," he said, more to the paper than the room. "And end him before he is existence is known by more Aryans."
And once again, the quill began to move elegant, precise, as fate took form beneath its tip.