Chapter 1: The Fire of Departure
Greed — it is the one feeling that separates man from man. Some say it is mankind's darkest truth, the flaw that leads to ruin. Others claim it is merely a myth, something spoken of by those who have forgotten what it means to dream. But this story does not follow a man consumed by greed. No — it follows one who harnessed it. Not for wealth, not for glory, but for something far more elusive: purpose.
Nestled deep within a forest lost to the maps of the world lay the village of Listeron. Time had long forgotten this quiet place, and its people had grown to accept that fate. They lived without war, without ambition, without want. The world spun on, yet here, everything stood still — until the fire.
It began with a whisper of smoke at dawn, curling up from the baker's roof. Then came the roar of flames, the shrieks of panicked birds, and the sudden terror in every villager's eyes. Mothers gathered their children, men scrambled with buckets, and chaos poured into every corner of the square.
But amid the bedlam stood a tall figure with silver-threaded hair, his presence like an unshakable pillar. Aslan Graves — seventh chief of Listeron. His commands were sharp, unwavering.
"Move the children first!" he barked. "Guard the eastern path! Bring water—NOW!"
Then, turning toward the massive oak at the village's edge, he raised his voice and called, "It's time. Your turn."
A rustle above. From the tangled branches of the tree leapt a boy, his silhouette slicing through the rising smoke. One hand clutched a thick rope, the other gripped a peculiar device hissing with steam. He swung across rooftops like a shadow reborn, landing atop the flaming bakery. With a hiss, the device exploded with vapor — and the fire died.
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
"Ron! Ron! Ron!"
Their hero. Their miracle. Ron Graves — the chief's only son. He was just seventeen, yet tales of his genius in machines and maps had already begun to spread beyond the trees. A boy born of fire and invention.
"You did well," Aslan said, as Ron descended, his expression unreadable. "Now come. We have things to discuss."
The fire was gone, but something heavier lingered in the air.
Inside the Graves' wooden home, silence stretched between father and son. The scent of smoke clung to their clothes.
"What is it you wanted to tell me?" Aslan finally asked.
Ron looked down at his hands, fingers still smudged with soot. "I'm leaving tomorrow."
The words dropped like stone in water.
Aslan stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled deeply. "Still just a child," he muttered. "You have no idea what's waiting out there. The world beyond this forest is not kind."
"I'm not going out to find kindness," Ron replied. "I'm going because something is calling."
Aslan turned away, rubbing his temples. "Foolish... you're just like her."
Ron didn't respond. He knew which "her" his father meant — his mother, lost years ago, the one whose blood ran wild through his veins.
That night, he packed. Maps. Tools. Rations. And at the bottom of the bag, a worn page — a sketch of five smiling faces, drawn in childish lines. A memory of days gone by. Elsewhere in the house, Aslan held an identical drawing in his weathered hands, staring at it in the dim light.
"Where did I go wrong?" he whispered.
Sleep came slowly.
Then came the nightmare.
Shadows writhing in forests. Faces of friends—lifeless, cold. Blood-soaked leaves. A voice echoing through the dark: "Don't repeat the mistake."
He jolted upright. His shirt was damp with sweat, chest heaving.
Dawn had arrived.
He stood at the edge of his bed, taking in the room one last time. A desk, cluttered with sketches of machines and maps. A wooden chair carved by his own hand. This room had held his dreams — now it would hold only dust.
Ten years earlier…
"Captain Ron! To the treehouse!" a younger, smaller version of Ron shouted, waving a wooden sword as he led a group of children through the village paths.
They played like warriors, defenders of make-believe kingdoms. That day, his sword had fallen near the forest's edge. When he went to retrieve it, he saw something odd — a cabin hidden between the trees, worn by time yet standing firm.
Curiosity tugged at him.
The next day, he returned with his friends. He spun tales of secret treasure, cursed ghosts, and ancient guardians. They approached the cabin slowly, hearts pounding.
Inside, they found not ruins, but warmth. The hearth glowed, the chairs were set, and on a small desk rested a dusty book: The Strange Tales of Alfred.
Ron opened it. The words danced on the page — stories of explorers, monsters, and a kingdom hidden in the sky. Beside the book was an old photograph. The man in it stared back with a mysterious smile.
"Is that the author?" Ron whispered.
Then a voice from downstairs.
"Someone's here," Chika hissed.
They scrambled into a wardrobe, barely shutting the door before footsteps creaked up the stairs.
The man entered. He paused, looked around… and then, as if he'd sensed them, spoke.
"No need to hide. I won't harm you. You may go now."
They ran.
But Ron returned.
Again. And again. He learned the man's name: Sven. And Sven, amused by the boy's boldness, began to tell him stories — tales of Alfred the explorer, of a world beyond maps, of keys to hidden doors.
Soon, the others returned too. They made it their secret club. Days passed in laughter, in wonder, in dreams.
But dreams often end.
A villager spotted them. The whispers reached Aslan.
One cold morning, he stood at the cabin door, armed not with weapons but with words.
"The children will not return," he said firmly. "And you — be gone by dawn."
Sven only nodded.
That night, Ron came one last time.
"I don't want you to go," he said.
Sven smiled and handed him the book. "This is Alfred's final tale," he said. "Someday, you'll finish it."
Then he vanished into the forest.
Now
Ron stepped outside. The sun bathed the village in soft gold. Three figures stood waiting — his childhood friends. But before they could greet him, a familiar presence stepped forward.
Aslan.
He didn't speak at first. Then he reached into his cloak and held out a small cloth pouch and a black iron key.
"This belonged to Sven," he said quietly. "It's the first piece of the puzzle. I once chased it, too."
Ron blinked. "You?"
Aslan nodded. "But I turned back. You… maybe you'll go further."
He stepped aside. "Go. And when it gets hard, remember — someone is waiting at the end of the road."
Behind him, the villagers watched in silence. One whispered, "We're really letting them go?"
Another replied, "They're not ours to keep."
The four friends — Ron, Chika, Leo, and Mare — stood together at the forest's edge. Wind tousled their hair. The road ahead was shrouded in mist.
Ron turned, his eyes bright with fire.
"Let the search begin."
And together, they vanished into legend