The morning mist still clung to the treetops when I finished sharpening my knife. Dew prickled my fingertips, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and pine. Snow sat nearby, licking the last of the dried meat from her palm, humming softly like nothing dire could happen in a world this calm. I flexed my fingers, testing grip and movement—sword techniques like these are still too easy for me; past-life muscle memory cheats, and I felt it in the way my wrist curled and my feet slid into stance without conscious thought.
A low tremor shivered through the ground. I looked up in time to see the village—the ring of hollowed trunks and woven branches that sheltered Snow's people—shudder. Someone screamed a single cracked sentence that split the morning quiet: "The barrier has been breached!"
The sky above the village wavered like heat. For a second, the world held its breath. Then, a piercing crack rent the air, a sound like ice snapping underfoot, and the barrier that had shimmered for as long as any fox-kin could remember cleaved open like a shell. Pale threads of Astralis unravelled, and something huge pushed through.
"How could this be?"
"What?!"
A roar hit us like a physical thing. Not one beast—many. Black shapes crashed through the wound in the sky and slammed onto the earth. Bears, massive and frantic, their fur laced with sick sparks of corrupted Astralis, poured into the clearing. Mothers shrieked and scooped up kits. Hands that had never learned to hold a blade brandished spears. The people scattered like leaves in a storm.
Snow's small hand clamped over my sleeve, nails digging in. "Kawa—what do we do? Papa—" Her voice cut off as another roar rolled over the hollow.
"Stay behind me," I said it sharply and surely because I had to be sure. My knife was already in my grip; astralis hummed through my veins and leapt into the metal, licking the blade in hungry blue fire.
The first bear charged, a living mountain of snapping jaws and flailing claws. I let my past life do the rest; phantom-step instincts slid me sideways, so the beast slammed through empty air and missed my flashing form by a hair. I stabbed—not ceremoniously, not grand, simple, brutally.
Leaf Splitter.
The blade arced, hot and clean, and the bear's hide parted like wet cloth. It dropped with a sound like a tree falling in frost. The villagers' screams stuttered and died as they stared. A child put a hand to his mouth and giggled, because he didn't yet understand the mess of death.
More bears came. They came in a tide. I felt the pull of the crowd behind me—Snow, Leo, a hundred terrified faces—but the pocket of the fight contracted around me like gravity. This was where I belonged.
I moved through them like a practised instrument. Wind urged my boots; fire licked the knife's edge.
Polaris, Vega, Sirius, Capella, Aldebaran—my hands flowed through the sequence so fast they were almost a blur, each position a note in an old song. I finished the last sign and barked, "CRIMSON GALE GOD STYLE—SCARLET CYCLONE!"
A blast of slicing wind erupted from the blade in a spiralling halo; bears were ripped from their feet and shredded by invisible razors. The air filled with the smell of fur and earth and the metallic tang of blood. People staggered back, eyes huge. Snow's mouth hung open. Leo's jaw worked as if he had forgotten how to speak.
A smaller bear lunged from the right. I opened my palm.
"O gale that rends the silence—tear through all before you, 「Wind Slice」."
A crescent of compressed air shot forward, parting fur and bone as cleanly as a razor. It spun the creature sideways; it died before it hit the ground.
I didn't look for praise. I watched for the next opening. A massive alpha charged, far bigger than the rest, all muscle and corrupted Astralis, and I stepped into a new sequence—Arcturus, Alnitak, Vega, Castor, Deneb—both hands held in loose claw shapes, fingertips curved inward but not touching. I sealed the sign with one last thrust and said, "TERRA GOD STYLE—LANDSLIDE SWEEP!"
The blade struck low, and the earth answered; a wave of upheaval slammed into the alpha, stumbling it, grinding its legs into the dirt like a landslide swallowing a rock. I followed its momentum, spinning the knife in a low arc—Dragon's Tail—and took its legs away. It crashed down, bellowing a sound that shook the leaves loose from the trees.
A corrupted bear with glowing, infected wounds lunged toward a fleeing mother. I snapped my hand forward and murmured—
"O light that pierces the void—strike with the brilliance of eternity, 「Starlight Bolt」."
A thin spear of violet light streaked from my fingertips and pierced its skull, leaving a clean, bloodless hole before the beast even understood it was dead.
They kept coming, more than I could comfortably count. I moved between bursts of hand-magic and the knife slashing pure steel—Phantom Step to vanish and reappear where the momentum of the battle wanted me; Butterfly Slash to thread through joints; Silent Step Slash to end a charge before it began. I murmured as I moved, not because the hand signs were easy—those demanded focus and burned Astralis from me—but because the pure sword techniques came from a place deeper in muscle and bone. "Too easy," I said once, soft enough that only I heard. The memory of another life was a cheating tutor, and my blade moved with that old teacher's calm.
When I needed flame, I let Astralis rush the knife and watched it blaze. Vega, Polaris, Altair, Rigel, Deneb—five precise positions traced through my palms and wrists; the knife shivered as Astralis pushed into the metal and ignited like a second sun. I finished the chain and called, "INFERNO GOD STYLE—BLAZING FANG!"
Heat swallowed a charging bear, the piercing thrust vaporising flesh and bone along a straight, terrible line. The blast threw others back with the force of an explosion.
A young foxkin tripped, and a bear barrelled toward him. I lifted my left hand sharply.
"O shield of flowing tides—repel all that assails, 「Aqua Barrier Pulse」."
A water shell of shimmering Astralis burst outward, knocking the bear off its feet and giving the boy enough time to scramble behind a stump.
Another bear tried to flank me, jaws snapping. I curled my fingers and whispered—
"O darkness that clings to the soul—trap the movement of all, 「Shadow Bind」."
Darkness coiled under its paws, freezing it mid-lunge like tar solidifying instantly. My knife ended it in a single quiet stroke.
At one point, the alpha reared back and shoved a cub toward the crowd with a snarl, like a warning. The small fox-kin dove and saved the child with a blurred leap that would have been comical if the situation wasn't brutal. I caught a glimpse of that little motion—fear braided with reckless courage—and something cold thawed a fraction inside me.
The corrupted ones were stronger. Astralis writhed through their bodies like acid lightning. One charged with a roar so distorted it rattled my teeth. I thrust my hand out—
"O life that flourishes unseen—mend all souls with gentle light, 「Healing Bloom」."
Soft, pale-green light expanded from my palm. It didn't cure corruption—but it slowed it. The raging Astralis tangled inside the beast stuttered, faltered, giving me just enough time to sidestep and bring the knife across its neck.
To outpace the alpha's lunges, I bent into the Umbral sequences, hands moving—Polaris, Vega, Sirius, Capella, Aldebaran — until the world seemed to fold. I finished with a whisper: "UMBRAL GOD STYLE—SHADOW STEP." Shadow unstitched me from the world for a fraction of a heartbeat and let me place my knife behind a charging flank. Veil Slash cut clean. The bear folded like a puppet with its strings cut.
The last bear broke into a desperate sprint toward the children hiding under a collapsed hut. I simply raised my hand.
"O brilliance that shatters the night—explode with heavenly radiance, 「Starlight Burst」."
Starlight detonated from my palm in a silent explosion—no sound, no fire—just pure radiant force. The bear flipped twice before crashing into the earth, unconscious before it hit the ground.
Heat and steam soaked the clearing when the last of them hit the ground. Huffs and rattles filled the air where feet had stamped and birds had fled. Some huts splintered, one burned, and the smoke's smell mixed with the copper tang of blood. The fox folk emerged from hiding, hesitant at first, then like waves pressed against a shore. They moved toward the fallen beasts slowly, as if afraid the fallen might rise.
Snow flew at me, throwing her arms around my waist. Her breath was ragged and hot against my chest. "Kawa," she sobbed. "Kawa, you saved us."
I patted her hair the way you do when a thing is done and needs no ceremony. "You're safe. All of you—get to the centre. We'll move the injured. Keep those who can fight near me."
Footsteps pounded through the soft dirt as Leo pushed forward. His hair was matted, and he had eyes like a man who had seen his whole life teeter and been given it back by someone else. He dropped to his knees in front of me, and it was theatrical in the most honest way—forehead burying into the soil as he clasped his hands.
"You—" he choked out, voice cracking under the weight of what he couldn't articulate, "you saved my daughter… You saved us. I—how can we ever—"
"Get up," I said. "You don't have to bow. Help carry the wounded first."
He lifted his head, tears shining brightly in the morning. Snow squealed like an animal and leapt, throwing herself back into Leo's arms. He laughed wetly, a broken thing becoming whole for a moment.
I sheathed my knife, feeling the residue of Astralis cooling inside me like spent fireworks. The sun had climbed higher, casting long, warm stripes across the battered ground. Smoke curled up in lazy ribbons from where thatch smouldered, and the larger ruins still smoked.
"First," I told Leo, voice levelling, "we tend to the wounded tonight."
Leo's grip on my sleeve was sudden and desperate. "Please—stay. We have nothing to give in return but our lives. Let me give you a place to rest. Let me feed you tonight."
"It's alright," I said.
"The damage is too severe, we will rebuild this place. I have an idea."
"Yes, young master," Leo bowed.
"Young master?" I whipped around, confused.
"Yes, from today onwards, you are our young master!" A foxkin sounded out, wagging his tail.
"Thank you, young master!" They all said in union, bowing.
"As long as you all are safe," I smiled back.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Now then," I began, standing on the small stone podium I'd raised earlier that evening, "I was thinking it's about time I teach you all how to fight."
The foxkin glanced at one another, determination flickering in their eyes—even if faint.
"If anyone disagrees with my decision," I added, "speak now or forever hold your peace."
A timid voice rose. "But why do we have to—"
"Look," I cut in with a sigh, "I'm not staying here forever. I've got a family too. Have any of you actually thought about what's going to happen after I leave?"
The foxes exchanged uneasy glances. Leo's worried expression crept back, and Snow curled up in a corner, quietly reflecting. Judging from their weary faces, it was clear none of them had considered this.
"You," I said, pointing at a random foxkin. "Who are you?"
"Fr… Frostveils," he mumbled.
"That's right. You Frostveils have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and soon—no one left to protect you. Monsters and beastmen won't spare you out of pity. And your barrier? Destroyed."
I swept my gaze across them. "At this rate, you're all doomed. Are you truly okay with that? Being wiped out just because you're weak? You were lucky to survive this long… and now you're willing to throw those lives away? Well? Are you just going to give up?"
Silence fell—heavy, suffocating.
Then, a voice cracked through it.
"No! We're not going to give up! I don't want to die like that!"
A small smile tugged at my lips. That's the answer I wanted to hear.
"That's right. You don't want to give up. So what are you going to do about it?"
"But we're fox folk," someone protested. "We're not as strong as tiger men, or as clever as owls… we're just—"
"You're just clever enough to stand back up and tear your enemies apart again and again," I finished firmly.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"That's right! We Frostveils have nothing to lose!"
"We'll take revenge tenfold!"
Fists shot into the air as the tribe roared, "We're not going to give up!"
I smiled. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
Taking a breath, I continued, "Starting tomorrow, a new city will replace this old town. I'll design the format of this advanced settlement myself."
They all nodded, eyes wide with anticipation.
"We'll divide into five main divisions: healers, architects, workers, scouts, and chefs."
Snow perked up instantly at the mention of chefs, licking her lips.
"And one more thing," I said. "Becoming a warrior is compulsory for everyone."
The Frostveils hung on every word.
"With that, we begin tomorrow." I bowed slightly—and the clearing erupted into cheers.
"To a better Frostveil!" I shouted.
"To a better Frostveil!" they roared back, voices echoing off the frosted trees.
It's time, I thought, resolve crystallising. Time to rebuild this place into a city of marvels—one that would impress even the engineers back on Earth.
~~~~~~~~~~
The morning air bit like a blade as I stepped into the ruined plaza. Frostveil still lay in ruins, walls cracked, rooftops collapsed, snow and ice clinging to everything. The silence was heavy, but today, it would be broken—not by monsters, but by practice.
Snow padded to my side, ears twitching nervously. Her little frame was bundled in a cloak, and her eyes, wide and bright, were fixed on me. I didn't need to tell her what today was. She already knew.
The villagers began emerging from the shelter behind us. All of them—children, the elderly, even Snow's grandmother. She sat there, deceptively calm, one hand resting on her cane, the other folded over a fan. At first glance, she looked serene, poised, harmless. But I had learned the truth long ago. Calm was only her mask. Beneath it hid a spark of insanity, a wild gleam that had killed deer in the forest before they even knew she was there. Today, she would see her potential, and I would give her the tools to match it.
"Everyone," I said, voice carrying across the plaza, "today we begin warrior training. Not with magic. Not with tricks. Pure skill, pure steel, and pure will. We learn to fight, to survive, and to protect Frostveil."
Eyes widened. Little jaws dropped. Some shuffled nervously, others straightened with rigid determination. I didn't flinch. They would need this clarity if they were to survive.
"Good," I said. "Now, everyone, gather your weapons. Wooden swords for those still learning, real practice swords for those strong enough. Today, you will master the Pure Sword Techniques. Listen carefully, practice relentlessly, and remember: technique matters more than strength."
I moved through the group, demonstrating each movement with careful precision. "Phantom Step—move lightly, swiftly, as if you vanish, reposition, strike from angles your opponent cannot predict. Leaf Splitter—precision, a slash to break through obstacles or weak points. Butterfly Slash—a flowing combination, hitting multiple targets rapidly, like wings. Silent Step Slash—quiet footwork, instant strike, perfect for ambushes. Dragon's Tail—low sweeping strike, knocking enemies off balance. Wind Whirl—spin to redirect attacks while striking surrounding enemies. Crane's Beak—a sharp thrust to vital points. Rising Moon—an upward slash designed to break high guards. Crossing Comet—strike diagonally across your opponent's line of sight. Iron Veil—deflect, parry, and open your foe for a riposte."
The children, Snow included, mimicked the movements awkwardly at first, arms trembling, feet slipping on ice. Bram swung too hard, tripping himself. Mira moved too slowly, hesitating with every stroke. Jiro grinned like this was a game, slashing wildly. Lira's movements were stiff, precise, almost robotic. Snow's swings were surprisingly graceful, though she tended to spin herself off balance. Eltan, old as he was, moved methodically, each strike measured.
I corrected grips, adjusted postures, and emphasised flow over brute force. "Keep your core steady! Feet grounded! Eyes on the target! The sword is an extension of your body!"
Then I moved on to assassin training. I reached into my boot and pulled out a small knife, sharp and balanced. I slid it silently into my palm. "Always carry a knife," I said, showing them how to tuck one into a shoe or sleeve. "Silent, precise, lethal. You will train with this as you would with your sword—strike, move, vanish. Every one of you must learn to fight like an assassin if the moment demands it."
"The world will know that this land of assassins will not be provoked."
Snow's eyes widened as I demonstrated slipping the knife into my boot, flipping it out, and striking a dummy with a perfect Silent Step Slash. Bram tried, fumbled, dropped the knife, and nearly stabbed himself. Mira squeaked, gripping her tiny blade, trembling. Jiro giggled and attempted to vanish with a Phantom Step, falling flat on his face. Lira rolled her eyes but copied anyway, perfect form, still stiff as a board. Eltan's movements were careful, calculated, and precise.
We spent hours moving through Phantom Step drills, Leaf Splitter targets, Butterfly Slash sequences, each technique repeated over and over until muscles burned and lungs heaved. I walked among them, correcting, demonstrating, pushing, guiding. Sweat froze on brows, clothes dampened with effort, but no one stopped. The old ones faltered, the young ones stumbled, but they endured. By midday, every villager had swung their swords, twirled, stabbed, parried, swept, and learned at least a dozen
variations. I moved them through spear training, helping each choose the weapon that best fit their build, and constantly reminding them always to carry a knife for emergencies. "A sword or spear alone will not save you," I told them. "A true warrior is adaptable."
Snow copied my every movement, though she was small, and yet she struck with unexpected speed and precision, landing cuts on the dummies that made me grin. Bram was clumsy, but his enthusiasm was raw and powerful. Mira was careful, Jiro impulsive, Lira precise, and Eltan deliberate.
By the end of the day, the plaza looked like a battlefield. Snow was panting, exhilarated, and covered in light scrapes. Bram had dirt on his face and elbows. Mira's hair was mussed, her hands red and sore. Jiro was laughing, exhausted but happy. Lira's expression was serene, and Eltan was stoic as ever.
"Tomorrow," I said, finally lowering my own sword, "we continue. Every day, until you can fight without fear. Until Frostveil rises again."
Snow grinned, her tail wagging despite exhaustion. "We'll do it, Kawa!"
I nodded, watching the villagers gather their weapons, panting and trembling, but alive. "Yes," I said quietly. "We will."
By midday, the plaza had quieted from the morning's chaos of swords and dummies. Snow padded beside me, small hands crunching over the frost, her tail flicking nervously as she scanned the group. The villagers who had been chosen for healer training were gathering around the crates I had prepared: bundles of herbs, cloths, splints, and various makeshift tools. Not all of the villagers joined—those still mastering the Pure Sword Techniques were continuing elsewhere—but the ones here were capable, and today, they would learn to save lives.
"Everyone here," I began, voice carrying over the cold air, "today you will learn to heal. Not with magic, not with luck, but with skill, knowledge, and care. A sword can only protect a body; if the body fails, it doesn't matter how skilled you are in battle. Listen closely, observe, and practice relentlessly."
Snow crouched beside me, ears flicking forward, eyes wide. She already understood the seriousness of it. Her small hands clasped the edge of her cloak, shivering not from cold, but anticipation. I nodded to her.
I opened one of the crates and laid out the herbs: peppermint, yarrow, lavender, and others, each chosen for its usefulness in wound care and pain relief. I demonstrated the first lesson: cleaning a wound.
"Always start by removing debris," I instructed, picking up a cloth and carefully wiping a mock cut I had prepared on a training dummy. "Then apply pressure to stop bleeding. Only after that do you wrap and secure the wound. Too tight, and circulation stops. Too loose, and the wound reopens. Precision is more important than force."
Snow leaned forward, tiny fingers gripping a small doll, and tried to mimic my movements. "Like this, Kawa?" she asked, carefully dabbing the cloth against the doll's arm. I nodded approvingly. "Exactly. Keep your motions steady. Observe what you're doing, not just what I'm showing you."
The other villagers stumbled. Cloths slipped, herbs fell into the snow, fingers fumbled. I let them try and correct only when necessary, saving most of my attention for Snow and Granny.
Granny, who had been sitting calmly a few paces away, finally rose. Calm, composed, hands folded neatly in front of her, fans tucked under her arms. I gestured to her. "You've got potential," I said, lifting a small box from the crate. "These are yours."
Inside were two sharp, razor-edged folding fans. Snow's eyes went wide, ears flattening as she squeaked softly. "Granny—those are… dangerous!" I smiled. "Exactly. Use them carefully. Now show us what you can do."
Granny rose slowly, unfolded one fan in each hand, and moved toward a dummy. With a series of precise flicks, she demonstrated cleaning the wound and guiding bandages, the fans slicing the air with terrifying grace. Snow's jaw dropped, and she clutched her doll tighter. The rest of the villagers stepped back, unsure whether to admire or flee. I chuckled softly, shaking my head. Calm, deadly, and slightly insane—just as I had predicted.
I turned back to Snow. "Now, you try. Step by step. Cleaning, pressure, wrapping. Use the herbs wisely. Know their effect."
Snow's small hands worked carefully, sprinkling crushed peppermint on a simulated wound, dabbing gently, and wrapping the cloth snugly but not too tightly. "Like this?" she whispered. I nodded. "Exactly. That's perfect."
We moved on to herb identification. I laid the herbs out and went through each one: smell, texture, and appearance. Snow leaned close, sniffing each, memorising the differences. "Peppermint eases pain and calms," I said. "Yarrow stops bleeding. Lavender soothes infections. Learn what each does, how to prepare it, and when to apply it. Mistakes can be deadly."
I then staged mock injuries: scraped knees, sprained wrists, deep cuts on dummies. Snow knelt beside me, guiding her group, instructing others quietly, her small voice precise and confident despite her age. She held bandages, applied pressure, checked circulation, and adjusted wraps with a care that made me nod approvingly.
Granny wandered among the trainees, fans flicking lightly now and then. When someone faltered, she snapped a fan open gently, startling them into proper form. Snow squeaked in surprise the first time, then giggled nervously. "Granny's terrifying," she whispered, clutching her doll. I smiled. Yes, terrifying, but the villagers were learning from fear as much as instruction.
We spent hours cycling through the drills: cleaning wounds, identifying herbs, wrapping cuts, stabilising limbs, and applying splints. I corrected posture, technique, and timing constantly. Snow's hands were sore, her coat damp with snow and sweat, but her eyes sparkled with pride each time she succeeded.
Next, I introduced emergency drills. I staged someone "injured" in the middle of the plaza, another "sick" with a high fever. The trainees had to diagnose, treat, and stabilise before I signalled the next "casualty." Snow ran from one simulated patient to another, instructing quietly, her small fingers deftly tying bandages and adjusting splints. Granny hovered nearby, correcting technique with gentle, terrifying fan flicks, occasionally nudging trainees into better form, and Snow was both awed and slightly terrified every time.
By late afternoon, the group was exhausted. Herbs scattered, splints half-tied, bandages dusty and damp, yet they had grasped the basics. Snow's cheeks were pink, her small body trembling with fatigue, but her eyes shone with accomplishment. She had learned the fundamentals of keeping someone alive. She had begun to understand the weight of responsibility, of care, and of life itself.
I gathered the group briefly. "Tomorrow," I said, voice steady, "we continue. We refine, we test harder, and we push further. Healing is just as vital as fighting. Frostveil will survive not on swords alone, but because we can save each other. Remember that. Learn it. Live it."
Snow leaned against me, whispering, "We'll do it, Kawa." I nodded, letting her small hand squeeze mine. I looked over the trainees, exhausted, muddy, and dusted with snow, and felt a sense of pride. Today was just the beginning, but by the time this city rose, they would not only fight—they would survive.
The scent of snow and dirt still clung to our clothes from the morning and mid-day training, but it was time for the next part of our day: chef training. Snow trotted beside me, tail flicking, ears alert. She had watched the healer drills with awe, and now her curiosity burned bright—what, exactly, did it take to feed a whole village?
I gathered the villagers assigned to this task. Not all could be chefs; only those with the patience and steadiness for kitchen work. The rest would continue with combat, healing, or scouting. The chosen few shuffled toward me, glancing nervously at the crates of ingredients and tools I had laid out: knives, cutting boards, clay pots, bundles of herbs, and assorted root vegetables and forest plants.
"Today," I announced, sweeping my arms over the assortment, "you will learn to cook. Not just for survival, but to sustain each other. You will learn to identify edible plants, prepare them safely, and create meals that are actually edible." I let my voice hang on the last word for emphasis. Some villagers shivered. Edible? That had been a rare concept in Frostveil. Most meals had been whatever could be scavenged.
Snow's eyes widened. "We're really going to cook? Really?" she squeaked, bouncing on her small paws. I chuckled. "Yes, Snow. And I'll be watching your every move."
First, I started with herb and plant identification. I laid out leaves, berries, roots, and mushrooms. "Some of these are edible. Some will make you violently ill. You must learn to tell the difference."
Snow leaned forward, sniffing, poking, and occasionally dropping something back into the snow. "Kawa… are all of these safe?" she asked, tilting her head. I shook my head. "No. That one is edible, that one will make you sick, and that one… you'll want to avoid entirely. Taste is not always a safe guide. Observation and knowledge are."
The villagers took turns practising identification, fumbling constantly. One girl accidentally sniffed a mushroom and recoiled in disgust. One boy dropped a root, misjudging its weight and almost hitting Snow. She squeaked and scrambled back, ears flat, tail puffed, but giggled nervously. "Be careful!" she cried.
Next, I moved on to cutting techniques. I demonstrated proper grips, how to hold the knife, and how to avoid accidents. "Precision is critical. Too fast, and you cut yourself or ruin the ingredient. Too slow, and you'll never finish a meal in time. Steady, deliberate, controlled movements."
Snow practised with a small wooden knife on a block of soft root vegetable. Her fingers trembled at first, but she focused, adjusting her grip each time I corrected her. "Better… slow, steady… like this?" she whispered. I nodded. "Exactly. That's perfect, Snow."
Chaos erupted almost immediately when the other villagers tried cutting their ingredients. One dropped a knife, clattering against stone. Another accidentally flung a carrot slice across the plaza, narrowly missing Granny's fans. Speaking of Granny, she had positioned herself at the corner of the prep area, fans spread, eyes gleaming with subtle amusement. Occasionally, she flicked one open, letting a gust of air or a light clap of metal nudge a distracted trainee back into proper form. Snow's giggles bubbled up uncontrollably at this, hiding her face behind her hands. "Granny… you're terrifying!"
Once cutting was underway, I demonstrated cooking basics. I placed roots, herbs, and mushrooms into a clay pot over a small fire. "Observe heat, timing, and combination. Too hot, and the food burns. Too cold, and it remains raw. Combine ingredients properly, or the meal becomes inedible."
The villagers watched carefully, attempting to cook their own pots over tiny fires. Steam rose, mingling with the crisp afternoon air. Snow stirred hers carefully, adding a pinch of peppermint leaves she had practised with in healer training. I watched her face light up as a pleasant, edible aroma began to emerge. "Smells… good, Kawa!" she whispered, eyes shining.
Some villagers, however, struggled. One overcooked a pot, filling the air with acrid smoke. Another undercooked one, producing a clumpy, inedible paste. Granny wandered among them, fans flicking, occasionally slapping a pot with a soft tap or nudging a hand to correct the stirring rhythm. Snow could hardly contain her laughter, hiding behind my cloak.
Finally, after hours of trial and error, Snow's pot was ready. She took a careful bite, and her face lit up. "It's… It's really good! Edible! Kawa! I did it!" I smiled, proud. The first truly edible meal of the day. Snow's confidence swelled visibly, her small chest puffed, ears flicking in excitement.
The rest of the villagers gradually improved. By late afternoon, they had produced several meals that, while not gourmet, were edible and nourishing. I reminded them constantly: "Cooking is not about perfection. It's about sustenance, about keeping yourselves and your friends alive and healthy. Every meal you make is a step toward survival."
Granny sat back, folding her fans, occasionally flicking one to nudge a distracted hand or catch a stray vegetable. Snow peeked at her, wide-eyed, giggling nervously. "Granny… why are you like this?" she whispered. I shrugged with a small smile. "She's… unique. Terrifying, but effective."
By the end of the chef training, the selected villagers were exhausted but more confident. Snow leaned against me, licking her fingers after tasting her own pot. "Kawa… I really did it. I can cook!" she whispered, eyes sparkling with pride.
I nodded, looking over the slightly chaotic, slightly triumphant group. "Tomorrow," I said, voice carrying over the plaza, "we continue. We refine technique, expand your knowledge of edible plants, and learn to prepare meals efficiently for larger groups. Today was the first step. Frostveil will not starve—not if you remember what you've learned."
Snow snuggled closer, whispering, "I can't wait for tomorrow…" Her face was smeared with the faintest traces of herb and root, and her smile was radiant.
Chaos, learning, laughter, and tiny triumphs had defined our chef training. The air was thick with heat from fires and faint scents of cooking herbs, mingling with the crispness of the frost. The villagers had made mistakes—but they had also made progress. And Snow, wide-eyed and full of pride, had witnessed and participated in her first real success beyond sword or bandage.
Once the villagers had managed their first edible meals, I decided it was time to try something new—something special—ramen. I clapped my hands, drawing their attention. "Today, you'll learn how to make a hearty noodle soup. It's a simple meal, but it can nourish many, and it can be flavoured in countless ways. You'll start from scratch—no pre-made ingredients. Everything will be made by your hands."
Snow's ears perked up. "Noodle soup? Really? From scratch?" Her tiny hands fidgeted with excitement. I nodded. "Yes. You'll make the noodles, prepare the broth, and season it carefully so it tastes good. Every step matters. Every herb, every pinch, every stir."
I demonstrated first: mixing homemade flour and water, kneading the dough until it was smooth, then rolling it thin. Snow mirrored my motions with intense concentration, occasionally glancing up to make sure she was doing it right. Her small fingers were clumsy at first, but with gentle guidance, she learned to fold and roll the dough evenly.
Next came the broth. I explained that it needed to simmer with certain herbs, roots, and edible forest ingredients, extracting their flavour carefully. "Add too much of one, and it overpowers the rest. Too little, and it's bland. Watch closely, taste carefully." Snow leaned over the simmering pot, sniffing the steam, and carefully sprinkled a tiny amount of crushed peppermint she had learned about during healer training. The aroma was subtle but pleasant.
Finally, the seasoning. I showed them how a little salt, a touch of dried herbs, and the right combination of flavours could transform the soup. Snow's eyes shone as she sprinkled the seasoning into the broth. I tasted it first, nodded, and let her take the first sip. Her face lit up, cheeks pink. "It… it tastes good! I made it myself!"
The other villagers struggled—some overcooked the noodles, some dumped too many roots into their broth, and others spilt seasoning. Granny wandered past, fans folded neatly, occasionally flicking the edge of one to nudge someone back into proper form or lightly tap a falling ingredient. Snow squeaked and giggled nervously, watching Granny's subtle mischief while keeping her own soup from spilling.
By the end of the session, every trainee had managed to create their first bowl of truly edible noodle soup. Snow carefully lifted her own small bowl, inhaled the aroma, and whispered, "I can really cook… and it's good. Really good." I smiled at her pride. "Yes, Snow. Today you learned something powerful—how to create nourishment, how to sustain life, and how small care in preparation makes all the difference."
The forest beyond Frostveil had always seemed ominous to the villagers, a dense wall of shadows and rustling leaves that whispered of unseen dangers. Even standing at the edge, Snow's small form shivered slightly, her white hair glowing in the fading light, ears alert, tail twitching nervously. Today was her first real scout training session, and I could feel her excitement and fear mingling in equal measure.
I gathered the villagers chosen for this segment. "Today," I began, "you will learn to move through the forest, observe, and detect threats before they reach you. You will also see tools you've never encountered before—tools to extend your senses and help you survive."
I reached into my pack and pulled out the first object: a polished, circular disc with a needle spinning on a pivot. "This is a compass," I said. "It always points north, no matter where you are."
The villagers froze. A few instinctively took a step back, mouths agape. One muttered, "It moves… by itself?" Another whispered, "Is it… magic?" Snow's violet eyes widened so much it seemed she might float away. "It… it moves on its own?" she breathed, paw clutching at my cloak. I smiled gently. "No magic. Just a tool. It will help you find your way when the forest confuses you, and when there is no trail to follow."
Next, I held up a cylindrical object with a lens. "This is a telescope. You can see far distances through it—mountains, rivers, forest clearings. You will be able to scout without approaching danger."
Gasps and murmurs rose from the villagers. One boy crouched slightly, shielding his eyes as though the object might bite. Snow staggered back, trembling in awe. "I… I can see… far away?" she whispered. I nodded. "Yes. Far away. Watch, and you will understand."
I handed Snow the telescope first. She lifted it with tiny, careful paws, her white hair brushing her shoulders. Peering through it, her violet eyes widened. "I… I can see the river bend… the top of the hill… everything!" she whispered, nearly bouncing on her paws. I let her absorb it, then demonstrated proper holding technique, adjusting her small grip gently.
The rest of the villagers crowded around, amazement and confusion written across their faces. Some cautiously touched the tools, testing them as if expecting a trick. Others muttered to each other, eyes wide. Granny wandered past with her folded fans tucked under her arm, glancing at the tools with a critical eye. "Hmm… very impressive," she said flatly. Then, with a subtle flick of a fan, she sent a few leaves skittering across the snow, startling a boy who yelped and nearly dropped his telescope. Snow giggled behind my back. "Granny! Stop scaring everyone!"
We began with observation exercises using the telescopes. I pointed out distant trees, broken branches, and subtle movements in the foliage. "Notice the angles of the branches, the colouration of the leaves, the patterns of shadows. These tell you whether something has passed through or if a threat is hiding nearby."
Snow crouched beside me, telescope pressed to her eye, her small hands gripping tightly. She traced every branch, every silhouette, her eyes wide with wonder. "I… I can see footprints… even small ones!" she whispered. I nodded, impressed. "Exactly, Snow. Every small sign is information. A good scout reads it all."
Next, compass-based navigation drills. I handed each villager a compass I had crafted myself. "You will not rely on instinct alone. The forest is deceptive. These tools will guide you, but you must understand them."
The villagers studied the needles warily. Some held them upside down, some shook them, unsure what to do. I demonstrated how to hold it level, align the needle, and identify cardinal directions. Snow's small fingers fumbled initially, but she quickly adjusted, eyes alight. She traced paths in the snow, marking trees and rocks, forming a mental map of the forest edge. "It… it shows which way to go!" she exclaimed, pride and amazement mingling in her voice.
Then came stealth movement drills. I led them into the forest, demonstrating how to move silently across frost-covered ground, how to step lightly to avoid snapping twigs, how to crouch and pause to remain unseen. Snow imitated my movements with determination, tail tucked low, ears alert, and white hair brushing the snow. A few villagers stumbled, stepped too hard, or whispered too loudly. Granny, walking among them, flicked her fan at a stumbling foot or a flailing arm with subtle precision, forcing them to correct themselves immediately. Snow giggled nervously each time, half frightened, half amused.
We introduced reaction drills. I would suddenly step out from behind a tree, pretending to be a predator or enemy. Villagers had to freeze, hide, or retreat silently. Many panicked and stepped clumsily, revealing themselves. Snow crouched low, telescope pressed to her eye, tail puffed, and stayed perfectly still. I motioned her through signals, and she responded with flawless patience. "Good," I whispered. "Observation and restraint keep you alive."
Then I added threat detection exercises. I pointed out subtle signs of danger: broken twigs at unusual angles, disturbed moss, faint scents carried by the wind, the sound of distant footsteps or rustling. "A scout does not wait to see danger. They notice it, anticipate it, and act before it can reach them," I said. Snow's small violet eyes scanned the forest tirelessly, noticing each detail I highlighted.
By early evening, the villagers had learned the essentials: stealth, observation, compass navigation, telescope scouting, threat anticipation, and reaction drills. They were exhausted, frozen in concentration at times, but their confidence grew with each small success. Snow's cheeks were flushed, her white hair glinting in the fading light. She had begun to see the forest not as an ominous, threatening wall, but as a living, readable space.
I gathered everyone in the clearing. "Tomorrow, we will refine these skills. Longer routes, tracking exercises, and emergency scenarios await. Today was your first lesson: see, sense, survive. Knowledge and awareness protect you as much as courage. Remember, scouts protect the village with their eyes and their minds first, weapons second."
Snow leaned against me, telescope clutched tightly in her paws. "I… I can really see everything… and I think I understand it," she whispered, pride and wonder shining in her expression. I ruffled her hair. "Yes, Snow. You can. And with practice, you will become Frostveil's sharpest eyes."
The forest whispered around us, dark and mysterious, yet no longer entirely threatening. With these new instruments, their wits sharpened, and Snow's growing confidence, the scouts were ready to become the guardians of Frostveil's boundaries—keen, watchful, and prepared for what lay beyond the trees.
By the time the scout training ended, the sky had faded to deep twilight, but the village square was still alive with energy. The next group, the future builders of Frostveil, assembled near the rubble of the old town. Their eyes reflected a mix of excitement and apprehension, much like Snow's had earlier when she first saw a compass. Today, they would begin the first step in rebuilding our city—the foundation of everything.
I clapped my hands to gather attention. "This is where we begin. You will learn to clear rubble, assess foundations, and handle tools properly. Every wall, every beam, every stone you place will matter. Frostveil will not rise without precision, patience, and effort."
A few villagers glanced nervously at the broken remnants of homes, the uneven stones, and twisted beams. Some muttered that the work looked "too difficult" or "too dangerous." I shook my head. "Nothing worth building comes easy. You will learn, step by step. And together, we will turn these ruins into a city that will shine like the sun on snow."
I handed out tools I had created from scratch, using knowledge from my past life. Hammers, chisels, saws, and measuring instruments gleamed under the fading light. The villagers' eyes widened. Some were unsure how to even hold a hammer. Snow, still trailing after me, peered curiously at the straight, metal tools. "They… they cut and shape things?" she asked quietly. I nodded. "Yes. And you will learn exactly how to use them safely and effectively."
First, I demonstrated rubble-clearing techniques. Step by step, I showed how to lift stones with leverage, how to avoid crushing fingers, and how to stack debris safely. Snow watched intently, eyes wide, her small hands gripping a stick she pretended was a lever. She mimicked my movements as best she could, pushing a small stone and then laughing when it rolled unevenly. "It moved!" she exclaimed, eyes sparkling with delight.
The villagers tried after me, some clumsily, others more carefully. Granny wandered among them, fans tucked under her arms, flicking debris lightly to test their reactions. "You call that lifting?" she muttered, causing a young boy to stumble backwards, nearly toppling his stack. Snow giggled nervously at Granny's subtle mischief, but it drove her to focus even more intently on her small pile of stones.
Next, I introduced the foundation assessment. I showed them how to check for stability, how to feel for uneven ground, and how to mark areas needing reinforcement. Snow pressed her small hands to the ground, knees brushing the dirt, as I guided her. "You can feel the weakness in the soil," I explained. "Your hands, your eyes, and your mind are your instruments here, just like the compass and telescope in the forest." She nodded seriously, tail flicking in concentration.
Then came tool training. I showed them proper grips, angles, and motions for chisels and saws. We practised cutting small logs and shaping stones. Mistakes were inevitable—chipped stones, uneven cuts, minor splinters—but each error was corrected carefully. I emphasised patience and precision, reminding them that every wall in the future city depended on their skill. Snow held her chisel carefully, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she carved a small, straight groove into a soft stone. "I… I did it!" she whispered, pride shining in her eyes.
We moved on to teamwork drills, since building a city required coordination. I had the villagers work in pairs and small groups, lifting beams, moving stones, and aligning posts together. Some argued over technique, some rushed ahead, but I guided them patiently, showing them how cooperation amplified strength. Snow paired with a slightly older boy, helping him steady a beam. She beamed when they succeeded together, realising the power of working with others.
By evening, the villagers had made significant progress. A small section of cleared ground was marked, some foundation stones were shaped and positioned, and a rudimentary scaffold was in place. Snow leaned against my leg, brushing white hair from her eyes, exhausted but proud. "We… we really did something today," she whispered. I nodded. "Yes. Today was the first step. Tomorrow, we will refine your techniques, expand the cleared areas, and start building structures that will last."
Granny walked past, fans flicking lightly at uneven stones. "Not bad… for beginners," she said dryly. Then, with a subtle flourish, she sent a small pile of rubble tumbling, forcing a pair of villagers to correct their placement instantly. Snow giggled, half terrified, half amused. "Granny! Stop making them fall!" I smiled quietly. It was a small reminder: attention to detail and readiness under pressure would keep them safe, just as in combat or scouting.
Finally, I gathered everyone together. "This is more than clearing rubble and placing stones. This is a learning discipline, patience, and precision. Every effort you put in now builds the city—and yourselves—stronger. Frostveil will rise because of you. And one day, these walls, these streets, these buildings will shine white and gold, a beacon of hope."
Snow smiled, brushing dirt from her small hands. "I… I can't wait to see it," she whispered, looking at the half-cleared area. I ruffled her hair. "You will, Snow. And when it stands, every stone you laid today will be part of something magnificent."
The sun had finally vanished behind the forest. Frostveil was still ruins, but within those ruins, sparks of hope and skill were growing. And I knew that with patience, guidance, and determination, this small band of villagers would lay the foundation not just for a city, but for a future worth protecting.
The hall of the old Frostveil council was dim and cramped, its walls scarred from age and neglect. Yet today it felt alive with anticipation. Around me sat the village leaders, craftsmen, and a few of the brightest villagers—archaeologists and those who would soon become architects. Leo, the village King, sat near the front, posture rigid, his eyes wary but curious. Snow sat beside him, tiny hands clutching his arm, her white hair gleaming faintly in the lantern light.
I cleared my throat. "Today, I'm going to show you what Frostveil can become—not in a year, not in ten, but under guidance and vision. You are about to see a future beyond imagination. A city powered, protected, and elevated beyond anything you've known."
A murmur passed through the room. Leo leaned forward, frowning slightly. "Kawa… you speak boldly. Show us. Convince us why we should trust in this… vision."
I smiled faintly, feeling the weight of my own plan. "Leo, you know Frostveil has always been limited. No astralis, no energy, no means to defend, grow, or prosper beyond survival. That changes today. Frostveil will have a heart—a core of pure energy. Ten per cent of my astralis will be placed inside the Frostveil Temple. This core will power everything: the city's barrier network, street lighting, bathhouses, plumbing, water purification, weapon forging, automated defences… a network that runs the city itself. With this core, Frostveil will be more prosperous than ever, able to sustain itself, grow, and thrive like no other settlement on the continent."
The hall fell utterly silent. The council members blinked rapidly, exchanging stunned glances. Eyes widened, jaws slackened. One of the elder archaeologists whispered, "A… a city that runs on energy itself? Without fire, without labourers constantly tending it?"
"I… I don't understand," another muttered, leaning forward with furrowed brows. "Lights, running water, defences… all powered by something inside a temple? Can such a thing even exist?"
Snow clutched Leo's arm, her small body trembling with excitement, ears twitching. "It… it will really… work?" she whispered, her violet eyes shining.
Leo's tail flicked nervously as he straightened in his seat, ears pricked forward. "Kawa… this… this is… unprecedented. I've never heard of anything like this. It's… brilliant. Astounding. Ingenious."
The council murmured among themselves, voices rising with astonishment and disbelief. "A network of energy… heating homes and bathhouses without wood or fire?" one elder exclaimed. Another added, "Automated defences… a city that protects itself… powered by the core? You've imagined… you've created a concept beyond our understanding!"
Granny leaned forward, fans tucked neatly under her arms, and gave me a wry, amused look. "Kawa, I think you just blew all our minds. And here I was thinking I'd seen everything." Snow giggled nervously, almost bouncing in place, her tail flicking with excitement.
I allowed myself a small smile, letting the words settle in their minds. "I know it may sound impossible. But with the temple core, Frostveil will no longer be at the mercy of the elements, monsters, or scarcity. The city will function, maintain, and protect itself. Lights will shine in every home, water will flow through streets and bathhouses, food and heat will be managed efficiently, and defences will always be operational. You will build and maintain this city, but its prosperity will reach heights the village has never seen."
Whispers broke out again. "A city that can take care of itself, while we live and work… without constant fear?" one architect asked. "Kawa… you've turned imagination into reality."
Snow leaned closer to Leo, ears twitching as she whispered, "It… It's like a dream… a city that takes care of us all." Her voice trembled with awe.
I nodded at them. "Exactly. Frostveil will rise from these ruins as a beacon—white walls, gold trim, starlight conduits, streets you've never seen before, and systems that allow the city to thrive. You will be the ones to bring this vision to life. Every wall, every pipe, every street will reflect your effort and skill, and together, we will turn Frostveil into the most prosperous city the continent has ever known."
Leo exhaled slowly, eyes softening with pride and relief. "Kawa… your vision… it is not just practical. It is revolutionary. You are not simply rebuilding Frostveil—you are creating a city that will endure, flourish, and inspire for generations."
The council's murmurs grew louder, full of awe and admiration. "Such creativity… such foresight… I cannot even imagine all the possibilities," one elder said. Another architect nodded vigorously. "A city defended, sustained, and thriving… all from a single, central core? Genius beyond words."
Snow's ears twitched again, her tail flicking with excitement. "I… I can't wait to see it," she whispered. "I want to live in it, watch it grow…"
I gave a reassuring nod. "And you will, Snow. Every step you take, every stone you lay, every system you operate—it will all contribute to Frostveil's prosperity. This is your home, your city, your future. And together, we will make it stronger, safer, and more magnificent than any could have dreamed."
The room fell into a reverent silence as the weight of the vision sank in. For the first time, Frostveil was no longer just a village clinging to survival. It was a city with purpose, with ingenuity, and with a heart that would sustain its people for generations. And as I looked around the hall, at the awestruck faces of the council, at Snow perched on Leo's lap, I felt the first pulse of hope for a truly prosperous Frostveil.
Night had fully settled over the clearing, the sky a deep velvet dotted with stars. The air was cooler now, carrying the scent of smoke from small fires and the earthy aroma of the forest. Lanterns I had placed around the area cast a soft, flickering glow, illuminating the tired but determined faces of the villagers.
I called out, my voice carrying through the still night. "Everyone, gather! It's time to review what we've accomplished today."
Slowly, they assembled in a loose circle around the stone podium I had set up. Snow was the first, her white hair glowing faintly in the lantern light, eyes wide and sparkling with exhaustion and excitement. Leo followed, his posture stiff but tail flicking occasionally, a mixture of pride and weariness on his face. The other villagers shuffled in behind them, dirt-streaked, clothes rumpled, and bodies aching from the day's relentless training, yet their eyes shone with a fierce pride.
I clapped my hands lightly. "Tonight, we see the fruits of our first day. Warriors, show me what you've learned."
A chorus of voices rose, carrying through the quiet night: "Phantom Step! Leaf Splitter! Butterfly Slash! Silent Step Slash!" Young ones fumbled with their strikes, but the older trainees demonstrated precise, fluid motions. I moved among them, correcting stances and praising effort. Even in exhaustion, their determination burned brightly, reflected in the glint of moonlight off sweat-streaked fur and furrowed brows.
Next, I looked to the healers, a smaller group who had spent the day studying herbs and practising field medicine. "And you, healers?"
"We learned to identify herbs, treat wounds, and prepare poultices," one answered, holding up a small bundle of leaves. Another demonstrated wrapping a crude bandage around a stick, showing careful attention to technique. Snow's small paws clutched her own bundle, eyes shining with excitement. "I… I think I could really help someone now," she whispered, voice trembling with pride.
The chefs stepped forward next, carrying the humble meals they had prepared—smoky, uneven, but edible. Flour dusted their fur and clothes. "We learned to cook safely, and to prepare meals from forest ingredients," one said. Snow's ears twitched and tail flicked rapidly as she leaned closer, eyes wide. "It… it's all real… I can't believe I made this!" She held up a tiny spoon and tasted a piece of noodle, giggling at its rough texture but savouring it nonetheless.
The scouts, still slightly winded from their forest exercises, presented their crude compass and handmade telescopes. "We learned to navigate, spot threats, and move quietly," one said. Another carefully balanced a telescope on a rock, peering through it and whispering excitedly. Snow hopped from foot to foot, mesmerised. "It's like magic… but it's real," she breathed.
Finally, the workers and architects stepped forward, proudly showing cleared rubble, measured foundations, and rough sketches of streets and buildings. "We prepared the palace site and mapped key areas for reconstruction," one said. "We've started planning the layout of the streets and buildings according to Kawa's guidance."
Granny, leaning on her fans with a sly grin, flicked them open and shut in rhythm. "Well, my dears," she said, "you all survived, you all worked hard, and you didn't give up. Even little Snow here looks like she could lead a charge now." Snow blushed fiercely, ears flattening, but a small triumphant smile tugged at her lips.
I looked around at the exhausted yet shining faces. "Look at what we've achieved in just one day. You've trained your bodies, your minds, your skills. You've learned to work together, support each other, and take the first steps toward a more prosperous Frostveil. Tonight, rest. Let your muscles recover, let your minds absorb everything you've learned. Tomorrow, we continue, stronger and more determined."
A quiet cheer rose from the circle. "To Frostveil!" some called, voices tired but proud. Snow echoed softly, "To Frostveil…" her tail flicking nervously.
I let my gaze linger on them a moment longer. Night had fallen, but hope and determination glowed brighter than any lantern. Frostveil was no longer just a village clinging to survival—it was a place where skill, effort, and vision could build a prosperous, enduring city. And tomorrow, we will continue to take the next steps together, under the watchful stars and the cool night air, ready to shape the future of our home.