Plop. Plop. Plop.
Water dripped from the stalactites above, echoing through the still cave like a ticking clock. A young man lay flat on his back beneath shafts of light, unmoving.
He appeared to be in his early twenties—fair skin, a collared white shirt, overalls, and a flat cap.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
With each beat of his heart, he stirred.
His eyes crept open. He sat up, blinking.
He tried to recall the previous night. He'd been walking home from the steel factory—then, darkness.
Now he was here—a cave.
Rosario rose, brushed the dirt off, and scanned the stone walls. The cavern split into two tunnel paths, one at each end.
He picked up a rock, marked the wall behind him, and chose the left.
The passage narrowed. Shadows thickened.
He moved lightly—steady, silent. Alert.
Then, the tunnel widened into a vast chamber.
At its center lay a carved circle, inscribed with rectangular patterns and strange symbols. Rosario stepped closer. Some of the markings looked eerily familiar—like sketches he'd once seen in a textbook. Ancient. Wrong.
He stepped into the circle.
The symbols began to glow.
Then—
A searing pain shot through the back of his left hand.
And the chamber vanished into black.
Rosario jolted upright—this time in the middle of a cobbled street.
Dawn light spilled between the buildings, and the scent of warm bread drifted from a nearby bakery.
People passed without staring—just another young man waking up where he shouldn't be.
He rubbed his eyes, heart still racing.
A dream? No… not just a dream.
He stood, legs shaky, and ducked into the bakery. The warmth inside hit him like a blanket—flour, sugar, steam.
He grabbed a loaf from the counter, tossed a few coins beside it, and nodded to the shopkeeper without a word.
Rosario stepped out of the bakery, loaf in hand, and started down the sloped street.
The city was beginning to stir. A milk cart rattled past, steam curled from rooftop vents, and somewhere down the block, a dog barked at a passing chimney sweep.
Kartha—the Empire's mountain capital—was built in five concentric rings, each stacked like a stone bowl atop the last. Rosario's neighborhood was situated in the fourth ring, part of the working-class crescent that encircled the outer slope of the city.
His boots echoed as he crossed one of the small canal bridges. Eight rivers flowed down from the summit like silver veins, fed by springs beneath the palace. He glanced up.
There it was.
The royal palace crowned the mountain's peak, glittering in the early light. Its gem-studded walls caught the sun like a blade flashing from a scabbard. Even from this distance, it looked surreal—like something painted onto the sky.
A few other workers passed him—men in aprons, women in coal-smudged boots—but no one spoke—nods and tired glances.
Rosario picked up his pace, cutting through a shortcut alley lined with drying laundry.
He reached Eagle Street a few minutes later. Eight homes, close and quiet, with a shared garden out front and a worn communal yard behind.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Rosario stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
"Rosario!" his mother called from the kitchen. She came rushing out, apron still on, worry carved into her soft features. Ash-brown hair pulled back, flour on her hands. "Where were you? I was worried sick!"
From the living room, a gravelly voice chimed in. "He's fine, Lillian. He's a grown man. Let him stumble home drunk once or twice."
Rosario peeked into the living room. His father sat on the couch, pipe in mouth, paper folded on his lap. Still broad-shouldered despite his age, Jackson Steelheart looked every bit the factory manager he was—sharp black eyes, weathered hands, and the kind of calm forged by decades of hard work.
"I wasn't drunk," Rosario said, brushing past. "Just tired."
He dropped the bread on the counter and headed upstairs.
In his room, he locked the door and stared at his hand.
Nothing. No mark. No burn. Just skin.
He sighed.
Was it all a dream?
After a quick shower, he threw on a pair of loose black cotton pants and a collared white tee. When he came back down, the scent of toast drifted through the house.
"Sit," his mother said, plating breakfast. "You're not leaving on an empty stomach."
He took the toast, spread thick with her usual strawberry-mint jam, and sat silently while she moved around the kitchen.
Halfway through, he heard a knock at the door.
Just as he reached for the handle—
THWACK.
The door slammed in his face.
"Ow—"
"Oh my gods, are you okay?" came a soft, high voice.
Anyone else might've mistaken it for a woman's—but Rosario knew it well.
Lox Faelix.
Same age. Brown eyes, brown hair, delicate features. Dressed not unlike Rosario. Most people mistook him for a girl at first glance—but no one dared tease him twice.
Lox brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. "You're late," he said flatly. "I've been waiting twenty minutes."
"Sorry, I was…" Rosario hesitated. "I overslept."
Lox turned on his heel. "Let's go."
—
They walked in silence, boots tapping against cobblestones. Mist still clung to the gutters as the early sun filtered down across the quiet city.
Lox shot Rosario a sideways glance. "You're quiet."
Rosario didn't respond. Just kept walking, eyes forward.
Lox didn't press. But he knew that look—Rosario was chewing on something, and whatever it was, it wasn't small.
They crossed a narrow bridge spanning one of Kartha's eight canals. The water below ran clean and fast, fed from the springs beneath the royal palace. At the summit, barely visible through the haze, the gem-studded towers of the palace caught the light like stained glass.
The city had five rings, each one circling the next like a cut of bone. They were walking the edge of the third now—close to where noble houses started.
Lox adjusted his coat, keeping his voice casual. "My father used to say the third ring smelled like perfume and piss. That was one of his more poetic moments."
Rosario raised an eyebrow.
Lox shrugged. "He was less thrilled when I joined the conservatory. Even less when I… committed."
He said it lightly, but Rosario caught the undercurrent.
Most people didn't talk much about castratos—especially not former ones. But Lox had a way of defanging awkward truths with timing, precision, and razor-sharp poise.
A pause.
"…He screamed, you know," Lox added, almost fondly. "Stormed through the street shouting, 'I'll be damned if I raise a son with no balls! Karthor himself is probably weeping into his beard!
Rosario blinked. "He said that?"
Lox nodded. "Three times. Once from the roof."
A cat darted across the street ahead of them. Somewhere nearby, a lamplighter extinguished one of the street lamps with a long pole and a soft hiss.
The streets remained quiet. Most folks were still asleep—or already training.
They kept walking.
Eventually, the road opened into the Central Plaza, where the Kartha Martial Dojo loomed over its surroundings like a fortress grown from the stone itself.
Its steep black-slate roofs cut the morning haze like blades. Broad wooden beams, carved with old runes, framed the structure, and its foundation stones were massive—far older than anything else in the middle ring.
That was because the dojo wasn't Karthan by origin.
It had once been a temple-fortress of the Varnathi—a fierce mountain people known for their martial discipline. The Empire conquered them decades ago during the third expansion. But instead of razing the site, they preserved it.
Brick by brick, the fortress was rebuilt inside Kartha's walls.
The reason? Respect.
The Varnathi had impressed even their conquerors. Their unbreakable will, their ritualized combat—the Empire admired it so much that they adopted it wholesale. The martial academies, the training halls, even the ranks of sword savants—all borrowed from Varnathi ways.
Now, steam vents hissed where sacred fires once burned. Imperial banners hung where prayer chimes once rang.
The old spirit hadn't died. It had been… forged into something new.
Rosario and Lox entered through iron-riveted doors, flanked by statues of Varnathi warrior-monks. Inside, the air pulsed with motion—wood on wood, footwork pounding, instructors barking through the din.
Bronze plaques lined the walls beneath fading Varnathi script, a silent merger of two legacies.
To the west: the Sword Hall. Four sparring rings, polished smooth by generations of sweat and training. At the far end, the Savant's Ring—raised on immovable stone slabs, said to react faintly when blood is spilled.
To the east: the Armorer's Wing. Apprentices hammered ferralyte blades beneath the hiss of coal burners. The scent of oil and metal clung to everything—sharp and disciplined.
Above them all, perched like a hawk, sat Instructor Sharp.
The Instructor's Watch was little more than a raised dais of dark pine and brass, but Sharp's presence made it feel like a throne. Cross-legged and unmoving, he surveyed the hall with a gaze honed by decades of war. Slanted eyes, streaks of gray in his hair, and a stillness that felt more dangerous than calm.
He didn't need to speak.
Everyone knew who he was.
A legend. A sword savant.
Not born into nobility—carved from conquest and survival.
The dojo wasn't just a training ground.
It was a crucible.
A monument to the conquered.
And now—home to Kartha's sharpest steel.
—
Rosario and Lox joined the warmups below. As they stretched and struck in rhythm with the others, Sharp remained silent—watching from above, still as stone.
When the drills ended, the class moved to the gymnasium, where four sparring rings stood like battlegrounds waiting to be claimed.
Their turn came.
Lox stepped forward—top of the dojo's ranking board, 122 wins. Rosario trailed behind with 97.
Strangers often underestimated Lox. With his soft voice and delicate frame, he looked more like a court performer than a fighter. But anyone who stepped into the ring with him learned fast.
Despite being a castrato, he was a swordsman to the bone. His father and Rosario's had served together—both Sword Savants. In an empire full of sword masters, that title was rare.
Rosario gripped a wooden longsword. Lox raised a training rapier low and wide.
They locked eyes.
No bow. No words. Just breathe and relax.
Rosario moved first—lunging with an upward arc. Lox twisted, countered with a thrust. Rosario leapt, blade overhead, hammering down. Lox rolled, sprang up, and rushed in.
Wood cracked.
They broke apart, breathing hard.
Something had changed.
Rosario was sharper now—his stance tighter, balance smoother, strikes faster. Lox's brow lifted.
"You've gotten stronger," he said. "Guess I'll stop holding back."
He surged forward in a blur. Rosario sidestepped, but Lox swept low. Rosario rolled, came up mid-spin, parried on reflex, and struck back.
Lox spun into a riposte—but Rosario was already there, blade slipping past his guard.
The wooden sword stopped just shy of Lox's throat.
They held the pose for a beat.
Lox blinked. "Is this how you treat your betters?"
Rosario smirked, stepping back. "Only when they're slow."
By noon, the city had come alive. Shopfront bells rang in staggered rhythm as vendors wheeled carts into the street, shouting prices over the hiss of frying oil. The scent of grilled coocoo and sweet dough clung to the air.
Rosario and Lox turned down a narrow lane and reached Eagle Street. Lox's house sat near the middle—modest, ivy on the fence, a crooked mailbox that hadn't been straight in years.
Inside, the sound of bickering hit them immediately.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"No, it's not! Mom bought it for me!"
Two boys—Lox's twin brothers—were locked in a tug-of-war over a dented ball in the hallway.
Lox didn't break stride. He hooked both of them into a headlock with one fluid motion. "Outside. Now. Share it, or I'm setting it on fire."
The boys groaned but obeyed, tumbling out the back door in a blur of limbs.
Rosario stepped in, slipping off his boots. Before he could take another step—
Knock knock.
"I got it," Lox said, brushing past.
He opened the door to reveal a short young man with ash-black hair and sharp gray eyes. Quiet as always.
Luck Thorne.
He stepped in without waiting, kicked off his boots, and squinted. "Where were you two? I waited all morning."
"I was late," Rosario said, sliding into slippers.
"You didn't see me out front?" Lox added.
"I just woke up," Luck muttered. "I even went to the sword hall. Thought maybe you both dropped dead without me."
He sniffed the air. "Is Uncle cooking?"
He always seemed slightly out of frame—even now, his voice barely rose above the floorboards. But he had a way of appearing exactly when you forgot he existed.
"Yeah," Lox said. "Come on."
They slid open the back door.
The yard behind the Faelix home opened into a shared garden ringed by a dozen houses belonging to different families. Vines tangled through old wooden fences. A few kids ran circles around a half-deflated ball.
At the far end stood Barker Faelix—sleeves rolled up, apron on, tending the grill. Coocoo skewers sizzled beside thick cuts of bogo meat. His wife, Kaela, in her usual flowing blue dress, arranged plates at a long wooden table.
Barker grinned as they approached, green eyes crinkling.
"Smell that?" he said, flipping a skewer. "That's happiness. That's what that is."
"Good morning, Barker," came a voice from behind them.
A man in a crisp suit approached—tall, polished, hair parted sharply. Silver spectacles gleamed in the sun.
"Callen," Barker said. "Back for more, are we?"
Callen Trask gave a sheepish smile. "Mira's getting the kids ready. We're heading out to visit family—but when I smelled this from the corner, I figured they could wait."
Kaela chuckled as she poured drinks. "You never change."
Barker's grin dimmed slightly. "How's work?"
Callen hesitated. "Busy. The powder mill's rerunning full shifts. More gunpowder, more orders. The usual."
Barker raised an eyebrow. "Since the emperor died?"
Callen nodded once.
"Rumors are ugly," he added quietly. "Some folks think it wasn't natural."
"Callen," Kaela warned gently, not looking up. "We're cooking. Don't bring shadows to the table."
He nodded and smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes.
After lunch, Rosario stepped away from the backyard noise, quietly slipping through the side gate while the others laughed and joked by the grill.
Too many voices. Too much warmth.
He needed air. Stillness.
He used to blame the war for that—those years on the front lines that taught him how to stay alert even when nothing seemed wrong. But maybe it was always in him. Some people thrived in crowds.
Rosario thrived just fine in silence.
By the time he reached home, the streets had settled into their lazy afternoon hum. His parents weren't back yet.
He climbed the stairs, stripped down, and stepped into the shower. Steam poured across the tiles, curling into the corners like mist from the cave.
He braced his hands against the wall, eyes fixed on the back of his left hand.
Still nothing.
No mark. No burn. Just skin.
But he'd felt it—during the match with Lox. Faster. Sharper. Something humming under his skin that hadn't been there before.
He shut his eyes.
Darkness.
Then, a flash—like a blade slicing straight through it.
His eyes flew open.
A sigil glowed faintly on his hand—black and angular, the shape of a sword hilt barely visible beneath the water.
Rosario jerked back with a sharp breath. The glow faded just as quickly.
No crackle of energy. No surge. Just... the echo of something waiting.
He finished the shower, toweled off, and stepped into his room. On the wall hung his longsword, resting in its mount—a gift from his father when he finished service.
The weapon was nothing fancy. Ferralyte steel, matte black, forged in a neighborhood forge by men with cracked knuckles and steady hands.
He picked it up, breathing slowly.
The memory flashed again—blade through void.
He swung.
Nothing.
No gust. No force. No glowing arc across the room.
He stared at the sword, at his hand. Waiting.
Still nothing.
"…Right," Rosario muttered, setting the blade back into its mount.
Whatever this power was, it wasn't interested in performing on command. Not yet.
He grabbed his coat.
If there were answers, they weren't in this room.
The public library stood between the central market and the mayor's office—not as massive as the dojo, but grand in its own right. A three-story building of pale stone, its rectangular windows rose like rows of teeth. Columns framed the entrance, spiraling into delicate carvings overhead.
Inside, it buzzed with quiet energy—scholars whispering in debate, clerks fetching scrolls, students buried in books. The scent of old paper and ink hung in the air—warm, dry, familiar.
Rosario drifted past the history shelves, trailing his fingers along cracked leather spines, until one title caught his eye:
Prehistoric Times: A Study of Ancient Civilizations
By Lucerna Astelline.
He pulled it free and found a seat in the back, far from the windows.
The book creaked open.
It is said that thousands of years ago, our ancestors lived under one great nation.
A singular empire that ruled all five continents.
They possessed marvels of technology that even the greatest minds of our time cannot comprehend.
Some records spoke of an age when gods walked among mortals, and man wielded power not seen since the dawn of creation.
Rosario frowned. The diagrams beside the text—spirals, glyphs, angular lines—weren't quite the same as the ones in the cave. But they had the same feel. The same mathematical elegance. As if they weren't written, but constructed.
He flipped ahead. One passage described "godmarks"—symbols that appeared on the bodies of chosen warriors, granting them gifts from a forgotten age. Some called them blessings. Others, weapons.
His hand tingled faintly.
He looked down.
Nothing.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
A lost empire.
A sword-shaped sigil.
And now… him.
He shut the book slowly.
Too many questions.
He tucked the volume under his arm and rose.
Whatever this was—whatever he'd stepped into—it wasn't finished with him yet.
And he wasn't walking away.