Dawn came reluctantly to Radom, a dull grey pressing down on the orphanage’s battered yard.

  Twenty children stood in uneven rows, their breath steaming in the cold, feet planted in dust and frost alike. Silvestre, nine and built like a brick wall that refused to move, held the front. His strength was no secret, not here. Beside him stood Nerion—five, skinny, brown?haired—grinning as if the morning owed him something. He was the youngest in the first row and the least impressive to look at, yet there was a sharpness in his eyes that unsettled people twice his age.

  Myra, fifteen, paced before them. Her gaze was calm, but there was steel beneath it, the kind earned too young. Every morning she stood here, measuring bruises, straightening backs, pretending this was just training and not preparation for a world that delighted in breaking children.

  The gate creaked open.

  Mikael staggered in, stinking of cheap ale, cloak torn, hair matted. His boots dragged furrows through the dirt as he crossed the yard. To the children, he was both shield and storm: Radom’s town drunk, feared, despised, and utterly necessary.

  The moment his bloodshot eyes found Nerion’s grin, his mouth twisted. “One minute,” he growled.

  Then he vanished.

  The yard exploded into motion.

  Children scattered like startled birds, too fast, too coordinated for their ages. Some vaulted rocks. Others slid beneath thorned hedges or scrambled up the leaning walls of the storage shed. Nerion darted toward the edge of the Radon Woods, boots barely touching the ground. Silvestre dove behind a boulder, breath held tight in his chest.

  Mikael moved like a curse. One moment, he was laughing; the next, he was behind someone; then, another body hit the ground.

  An eight?year?old, Lucca, nearly made it to the trees. Mikael appeared beside him, grinning like a jackal. A single palm struck the boy’s chest. He skidded backwards across the dirt, wind knocked clean out of him, dumped unbroken in the centre of the yard. Mikael’s aim was always exact.

  Mikael’s laughter echoed as he vanished again.

  Twelve children fell in less than half a minute. Each strike landed squarely, each body deposited in the same place, groaning but intact. Mikael did not cripple his charges. He simply reminded them of the gap.

  Silvestre peeked from behind his rock and found Mikael already there, his smile and missing teeth like windows to his soul.

  Panic flared. Silvestre slammed his hands into the ground, teeth clenched. Qi surged. The earth answered, a slab of dirt rearing upward like a shield.

  Mikael tapped it with a finger.

  The slab shattered. Silvestre flew, landing hard among the others.

  Only one remained.

  Nerion stepped into the open, brushing dirt from his knees. The watching children held their breath. No one beat Father Mikael. Not really.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Mikael said, chuckling. Beneath his shirt, the Genesis Stone stirred faintly. “Grown some hair down there, runt?”

  He blurred.

  Nerion ducked on instinct, rolling as if he’d felt the air shift behind him. He scooped a handful of dirt and flung it upward, bursting it into a cloud. Mikael snorted and blew it aside, already smiling.

  Five seconds.

  Nerion hooked a rock with his foot, swinging toward a shallow puddle left by last night’s rain. Mikael appeared above him, smirk wide—

  —and Nerion spat muddy water straight into his face.

  The yard froze.

  Mikael laughed. He didn’t need his eyes.

  Nerion bolted. He ran straight for the gate, straight for Myra, then slid between her legs at the last possible instant. Mikael’s hand clipped Myra’s shoulder in a careless shove.

  She didn’t even blink.

  “You drunk bastard.”

  SLAP!

  She struck him squarely across the jaw.

  Mikael flew, rolling across the dirt before coming to a stop in a coughing heap. The yard erupted—howls of laughter, tears streaming, children pointing as if they’d witnessed a miracle.

  Mikael pushed himself up, brushing dust from his cloak. Myra’s glare stopped him cold.

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  “You and Nerion,” she said, voice sharp. “No breakfast.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Nerion, rubbing the fresh knot on his head from Mikael’s knuckle, grinned up at him. “I beat you, old geezer. Where’s my prize?”

  Mikael snorted. “Beating me doesn’t matter if you freeze when it counts. Like those tavern fools I broke last night. You fight—or you lose.”

  “We got enough coin for it, though,” Nerion said innocently.

  Mikael’s scowl cracked into a rough laugh. Guts like that were rare, and he liked it the most.

  “Enough,” Mikael said. His voice dropped, and the yard listened. “Nerion slipped me. It’s been a while since it last happened. You’ve earned a reward today.”

  Cheers exploded as the children scrambled into loose lines. Mikael rested a hand over the Genesis Stone, fingers tightening. “You’re my third batch,” he said. “Pulled from Murmur, Rhodar, Ansara, and every rotten borderland in between. You belong here. You belong to me.”

  He raised two fingers. “Two rules. Scrape a copper a day. Don’t die.”

  Silence fell.

  “Honour doesn’t feed you,” Mikael continued. “Strength does. And weakness gets buried.”

  Something lit behind the children’s eyes. Not hope—something harder.

  “Today,” Mikael said, “you learn what makes a true expert.”

  Myra returned with stale black bread and goat’s milk. She skipped Mikael and Nerion entirely. “Scoundrels.”

  Mikael coughed and pressed on. “What’s the best job in Aeonia?”

  “Princess!” Miriam, four years old, the youngest in the orphanage, chirped.

  Laughter rippled.

  “Fighter,” Silvestre said. “Power’s everything. Things like being a baker don't do it.”

  “Half right,” Mikael replied. “Power runs the world. But never underestimate anyone. Even a baker might snap your neck.”

  He straightened. “Aeonia offers two paths, set by AEON Himself. TAO and TIMBER.”

  He stomped the ground. “TAO turns the world’s energy into Qi. Body and soul, hardened. You move faster than eyes can follow. You hit hard enough, hills move.”

  The courtyard’s ground trembled a bit, the children awed by the display.

  “TIMBER,” he continued, “uses Mana. It commands the world—fire, storm, earth. Ansara usually breeds warriors. Qi comes easy here. Mana doesn’t.” He spat. “Places like Luztar, on the other side of the continent, are the opposite. Fire and thunder everywhere. That’s AEON’s balance for you.”

  Mikael raised two fingers and snapped them together.

  A thin spark crackled between them—pale, brief, barely more than a static bite. It flickered once, just enough to light the wick of a nearby candle, then vanished.

  “That was lightning,” Miriam said, eyes wide, voice full of wonder.

  Seeing the children looking at him, he decided to show off a bit more.

  “This world is full of mighty experts. Like me, I’m Radom’s full-time drunkard, and I dare say no one in this town can even touch the hem of my tunic,” said Mikael with pride in his eyes.

  “Showoff,” said Myra, while rolling her eyes.

  All of the children laughed at the comment.

  “STOOOOP!” Mikael’s roar tore through the yard, bending trees, spilling milk, rattling bones and teeth alike. The children stared, wide?eyed.

  “See! This is power.”

  Myra smacked him. “Wasting milk? No booze money for you today.”

  Lucca snickered to Silvestre in a whisper, “I think Myra is the true boss.” Nerion and the children nearby nodded.

  Mikael grinned sheepishly and continued. “TAO and TIMBER have nine great ranks, each rank ten levels. TAO begins with Masters, rises through Emperors, and at the end…

  He paused.

  “...Legends.

  The word settled heavily. The yard seemed to lean inward, children unconsciously stepping closer.

  Mikael jerked a thumb toward Silvestre. “He’s close to Master. One more step, and his TAO path truly begins.”

  Silvestre puffed up at once—only for Nerion to jab him in the belly.

  “Oi!” Silvestre snapped, deflating as Lucca burst into laughter.

  “You want to know what real power looks like?” Mikael continued. “You’ve heard of some of them, I’m sure. Johan III, the Lion King—his roar shakes the Capital. The two Dragon Generals,

  Rafael Son Boromin, The Titan, a TIMBER Arch?Sage. People say he can crush a fortress, or raise one, with a flick of his hand.

  Falma Nil Murmuria, the Master of the Sword. No blade cuts better.

  Templo has the Vicar and the Six Seneschals. That’s the power you pursue.”

  The names settled like weight, spells to the children’s ears.

  “Which is better?” Silvestre asked.

  “A TAO Legend cracks mountains with his fist,” Mikael said. “A TIMBER Arch-Sage commands the mountain to uproot itself. Some fools in Luztar claim that TIMBER is closer to Nature, ergo closer to AEON. That’s just poppycock. It’s not the path. It’s how strong you are on that path.

  Get strong enough, and the Templo’s Vicar opens the damn door himself. Ansara’s Lion King calls you his best buddy. For might makes right in Aeonia. Always has. Get that in your skulls.”

  Nerion tilted his head. “Why not both, then? Be invincible!”

  Silvestre scoffed. “Don’t be daft, Nerion. Even I know AEON’s balance forbids it.”

  Mikael nodded. “Every fool who tried failed. Not one ever rose past the first Rank. Don’t eat more than you can chew.”

  His warning was stern. He’d hate to see any of his children go astray with a broken path.

  Nerion only smiled.

  Mikael’s voice softened. “Last lesson of today, lads. Here’s a story so you don’t end up like those cocky Trafalgar Lords, picking fights with strangers who might be stronger. In the Frontier, you never know who’s a Legend hiding in plain sight.”

  The children held their breaths.

  “It’s said not too long ago, a blind monk from Rhodar begged for alms in some mid-sized town. A tribe bigshot got his shoe dirtied near him, got mocked for it, and lost his cool. He ordered every beggar in town killed to save face. That monk? Turned out he was secretly a Legend. Decided a tribe that rotten wasn’t worth sparing.”

  He paused. “The town is a desert now. It became one in a single night.”

  “Is that for real?” Silvestre whispered.

  “True or not,” Mikael said, “the Frontier believes it. And belief is enough.”

  The kids swore to themselves never to slight a Blind Monk. Nerion smirked nervously, but even he kept this lesson in his mind.

  “Alright, brats,” Mikael said, standing and laughing in his raspy voice. “TAO’s about training your body—running, jumping, hitting harder every day. Start with Qi in your gut, push it through your arms, legs, everywhere. That’s what I can give you.”

  The children got up happy after the lesson.

  Miriam started claiming, “I want to be a powerful mage, like Rafael.”

  Meanwhile, Lucca started bantering with some of the other children, “I’ll become as strong as the Lion King. He’ll welcome me into the palace, hahahaha.”

  Training resumed, and the children fired up to become stronger. Laps. Jumps. Bruises earned honestly.

  Mikael watched, fingers tight around the Genesis Stone. Lirian’s face surfaced unbidden. Truth waited somewhere, and he would find it.

  Hooves thundered beyond the gate.

  “Where’s the coward who bloodied our friends?” a woman shouted.

  Mikael turned.

  They didn’t think a beggar could do such a thing.

  They were wrong. And about to find out.