Radom was a town built to endure, not to thrive.

  It crouched at the edge of the Frontier like an old wound that refused to close, its streets scarred by decades of war between Ansara and Rhodar. Stone buildings leaned inward as if conspiring to collapse, roofs patched and repatched with whatever could be scavenged. The air always carried dust, smoke, and the distant echo of horns from beyond the Radon Woods.

  At the town’s northern edge stood the orphanage.

  It was an unremarkable structure—grey stone, cracked walls, ivy clawing stubbornly across its sides—but it endured when better buildings did not. Its true heart was not within its walls, but behind it.

  The backyard sprawled wide and untamed, pressed up against the looming shadows of the Radon Woods. Weeds grew waist-high. Rocks jutted from the soil like broken teeth. It was a harsh place, but it was theirs.

  Children ran through it barefoot and laughing.

  Their clothes were patched and thin, their knees perpetually scraped, but their voices rang clear and bright. Some laughed too loudly, as if daring the world to silence them. Others watched from the edges, cautious and quiet. All of them carried the same invisible weight: survival.

  They played at heroes.

  They always did.

  “NERION!”

  The shout cracked through the yard like a whip.

  A small figure burst from behind the orphanage, darting into the open space with reckless speed. Nerion—five years old and already infamous—ran as if the ground itself had offended him. His brown hair hung wild around his face, matted with dirt and sweat, his tunic stained beyond hope of cleaning.

  He laughed as he ran.

  Behind him thundered Silvestre.

  At nine, Silvestre was enormous for his age—broad, heavy, and strong in a way that made adults uneasy. His cheeks burned red with fury as he charged forward, fists clenched.

  “You put a roach in my stew!” he bellowed. “I’ll crush you!”

  Nerion skidded to a stop behind a massive boulder near the woods and spun around, grinning.

  “You should chew faster,” he shouted back. “Or maybe you like extra meat!”

  The other children froze, eyes wide, then burst into laughter despite themselves.

  “Besides, fatty, you know you had it coming. Who told you to take part in Miriam's rations for today?”

  Silvestre blushed a bit after the accusation. He knew he shouldn’t have done that, but he was a bit too big for his own good, his own hunger betrayed him at times, and his own strength made him think he was entitled a bit more of the rations.

  He quickly got his wit back, roared and leapt.

  His fist slammed into the boulder.

  CRACK.

  A jagged fissure split the stone, spiderwebbing outward from the impact. Dust and fragments rained down. The laughter died instantly.

  Several children stared in awe. One whispered, barely audible, “Level 9 already. He’s close to First Rank…”

  Silvestre flexed his bleeding knuckles and smiled, proud and dangerous. His Qi rolled thickly around him, unfocused but heavy.

  “One hit,” he said. “That’s all you get.”

  Nerion’s grin faltered—only for a heartbeat. Then he flipped backward, landing lightly and laughing again.

  “You missed,” he said. “And Elisha would say your stance is awful.”

  That name hit harder than any blow.

  Silvestre stiffened. His shoulders sagged just a little.

  Elisha had been gone a year, but his shadow remained. Twelve years old. TAO Grandmaster. Protector. Brother. To the younger children, Elisha was a true legend, less a person than a promise—that someone strong stood between them and the world.

  “He’s not here.” Silvestre snapped, though his voice lacked conviction. “At the very least, he's not coming back soon enough to save you.”

  A new voice cut through the tension.

  “That’s enough.”

  Myra stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed.

  She was fifteen, beautiful, tall and lean, her presence calm but absolute. Her dress was simple, her reddish hair tied back, her expression unreadable. The children fell silent immediately.

  Even Silvestre looked away.

  Myra stepped forward, her gaze moving from the cracked boulder to Silvestre’s bleeding hand, then to Nerion’s muddy grin.

  “You’re stronger than most men in Radom,” she said to Silvestre. “And that makes this worse, not better.”

  Silvestre swallowed. “But he…”

  “And you,” she continued, turning to Nerion, “are not clever enough to keep provoking people who can break stone.”

  Nerion opened his mouth.

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  “Don’t,” Myra said flatly.

  He closed it.

  She sighed. “Buckets. Both of you. One hour. Then you can go fetch pops at the tavern, otherwise there is no dinner for you.”

  They obeyed without complaint, lifting heavy pails filled with rocks and trudging toward the edge of the yard. Punishment was familiar here. Fair, but unavoidable.

  As they stood in silence, Silvestre muttered, “You’re going to get yourself killed someday.”

  Nerion smiled faintly. “Not today.”

  Silvestre rolled his eyes, but a small chuckle escaped his lips.

  Radom gave its children little—thin clothes, thinner meals, and no promises. And yet, in the orphanage yard, laughter still took root. Their eyes were bright, not because life was kind, but because they refused to let it be otherwise.

  Twilight settled heavily over Radom.

  The tavern crouched near the southern road, its beams darkened by smoke and age. Inside, the noise was thick—laughter, argument, the dull percussion of cups striking wood. Frontier men drank as if tomorrow were a rumor, not a certainty.

  The air was a suffocating miasma of stale booze, unwashed bodies, and boastful bravado, as frontier-bound warriors loudly recounted feats, most of them only half-true, their voices slurred and thick with drink.

  In the farthest corner, half-hidden by shadow and neglect, sat Mikael.

  He slouched over the table, chin resting on his chest, one hand loosely wrapped around a bottle long since emptied. His hair hung in grey tangles, his coat smelled of old ale and rain. He snored softly, rhythm uneven, unimpressive.

  No one looked at him twice.

  The door opened.

  Silvestre and Nerion came inside, greeting the patrons one by one.

  “You’re here to pick up the old drunkard again, eh Nerion?” asked a man, laughing boisterously with a red nose.

  “You know it, he spends most of the day here, what are we to do? Sister Myra sent us for him?” answered Nerion shrugging his shoulders.

  “Myra, such a cute little lass. I know she cares for you, but she should have married a while back, get herself a good man that provides for her. That way she could give you some money here and there. She’s the prettiest lass in town, I know she doesn’t lack suitors,” said another inebriated man, picturing himself wedding the most beautiful lass in town.

  Nerion and Silvestre simply laughed at the comment while looking at each other.

  As the boys went to Mikael’s table, the tavern keeper had called Silvestre to help him move some crates and barrels in the morning, a couple of coins for his work, which Silvestre was happy to agree with.

  Suddenly, the door opened once more.

  Cold air followed two young men inside, along with the unmistakable gleam of polished armor. Their boots were clean. Their cloaks bore the marks of noble houses far from the Frontier.

  Conversation faltered.

  One of them surveyed the room with open disdain. “So this is Radom,” he said. “I imagined worse.”

  A man near the hearth snorted. “Careful,” he muttered. “Town like this survived because it had to.”

  The noble’s gaze snapped toward him. “Survived?” He laughed once. “This place would’ve burned if not for that Murmur brute the King paraded as a hero. Lirian, was it?”

  The name did not cause outrage.

  It caused silence.

  Radom remembered.

  Nerion didn’t know why, but the famous name of Radom’s liberator caused a small ache in his heart.

  The second noble rested a hand on his sword. “Funny, isn’t it? A frontier hovel saved by a barbarian, and now it pretends to matter.”

  A chair scraped back.

  A local warrior stood—scarred, thick-armed, drunk enough to forget fear. “Watch your mouth,” he growled. “You breathe because of that man.”

  The noble moved.

  Qi flared—white and sharp, two small whitish snakes of energy surrounding his leg.

  CRASH!

  The kick struck like a hammer. The warrior was lifted from his feet and thrown through a table. Wood exploded. The man did not rise.

  The tavern froze.

  “A TAO Grandmaster,” someone whispered. “Barely twenty years old…”

  Most commoners in Radom were regular men, not even Master level.

  The noble rolled his shoulder, unimpressed. “See? Even their defenders are weak.”

  The second noble, a level 15 TAO Master drew a jewel-encrusted sword, a weapon clearly designed more for flair than mettle, and his voice dripped with aristocratic scorn. “We are geniuses from Trafalgar, here to crush the Rhodar dogs, yet you disrespect us?”

  In truth, both young men were nothing more than entitled bullies, too craven and fearful for the actual blood-soaked fields of the frontier. A patron muttered under his breath, “Cowards, all bark…”

  The Genesis Stone pulsed.

  Once.

  Mikael stirred.

  He lifted his head slowly, eyes unfocused, as if waking from a long, unpleasant dream. He blinked at the shattered tables, at the blood on the floor.

  Then he stood.

  He swayed as he walked, boots scraping unevenly across the floor. He stopped far too close to the noble in armor, squinting up at him.

  “Ah,” Mikael slurred. “A post. Didn’t see you there.”

  He vomited.

  Ale and bile splashed across polished steel, dripping down engraved plates. The tavern gasped—then laughter broke out, sharp and uncontrollable.

  The noble’s face twisted.

  “You filthy animal,” he hissed, raising his sword.

  Nerion quickly came close, “Sir, good sir, please don’t bother with this old drunkard. He’s but a fool that only knows how to drink. Why don’t you let me clean you, just five copper coins, and I’ll leave your armour good as new.”

  The man, however, was furious, when Nerion was touching his ‘shiny’ armour with some oil-stained cloth Nerion got from who knows where.

  The Master threw a kick at Nerion, who was sent backwards several meters while spitting some blood. He struck the floor hard and did not rise. Silvestre ran towards Nerion, and checked up on him.

  Some of the patrons got up angry, but the Grandmaster stepped forward trying to intimidate them.

  Mikael raised both hands, staggering backward. “Forgive me, Milord. I’m nothing. Less than nothing.” He laughed wetly. “Just an old drunk. Town’s full of them. However, you hurt this child of mine, now he can’t work anymore. Why not pay some coin for compensation?”

  “Compensation? You dare? Do you think I don’t dare take your head, right here and now? I did hear, however, about that beautiful ‘elder daughter’ of yours. If she joins us for a night, maybe I could let bygones be bygones,” answered the Master who had kicked Nerion.

  “Myra, you say. Only for dirty armour? If you add some coin for booze, I might be inclined to a deal.”

  The noble hesitated—just long enough to sneer.

  “Let’s move to the back,” he said. “Fat boy, go call your big sister, tell her that she better come herself preparing to ‘pay’ to get this old man back. She could make more money than she’ll ever see in her life.”

  Silvestre stayed where he was, fists clenched, eyes fixed on Nerion’s still body.

  The nobles dragged Mikael toward the alley while laughing. Angry voices rose around them; not only at the nobles’ cruelty, but at the very suggestion that Myra’s name could be dragged into it.

  However, things like this were nothing new to the Frontier.

  The door closed.

  No one heard the first impact.

  SNAP!

  A soft sound—like stone meeting bone.

  Then another.

  The door opened again.

  Mikael stumbled back inside alone. His coat was torn. One knuckle was faintly reddened. He walked to the counter and dropped a heavy pouch of gold.

  “Trafalgar’s Lords are truly generous tonight,” he boomed with a loud, theatrical laugh. “They paid for all the damages and topped up my booze fund! Then they bravely headed off to fight valiantly for the King!”

  He laughed while coming close to Nerion, and looking at him, asked,

  “Do you want to sleep on the floor tonight?”

  Nerion got up, not an injury in his body, “See, pops. It was more realistic this time. Nothing like thick sauce. Elisha taught me that,” said Nerion as he showcased a second, smaller bag from his ragged tunic, some coins tinkling inside.

  Silvestre and Mikael laughed and then sauntered together out of the tavern towards the Orphanage.

  Moments later, one of the waiters went outside to fetch another barrel of ale, when he noticed something odd.

  He turned his head and couldn’t help screaming from fright.

  The nobles were hanging embedded in the solid stone wall, their expensive armor torn open, their bones shattered, and their teeth scattered like white pebbles on the ground.

  Mikael’s hearty, drunken laughter echoed chillingly in the night, the Genesis Stone’s silent, steady pulse beating on his chest.