Atwell Orphanage
Haumea Province, Pele City
Asterion Empire
27th 2914 Asterion World Conquest
6:55 PM
There had not always been dragons in the Valley.
Master Jethro lingered on that thought as he stared into the distance. High above the jagged ridgeline, vast winged silhouettes drifted through the night sky, their scales catching the moonlight in flashes of pale silver and cold sapphire. Each slow beat of their wings displaced the air with quiet authority, carving invisible currents through the heavens. There was unmistakable power there—raw, ancient, and terrible—but woven through it was a strange elegance. They did not thrash or rush. They ruled the sky, gliding as though the world itself had learned to move aside for them.
Beautiful creatures, Jethro thought. And dangerous beyond measure.
At last, he turned his wheelchair away from the horizon and back toward the orphanage yard. The contrast was almost jarring. Where the sky held titans, the ground was alive with children—laughing, shouting, arguing loudly over a simple game of rocks and paper. Smooth stones clacked against the worn board, their edges dulled by countless hands and careless throws. Bare feet scuffed against the stone patio as children darted and spun, their voices rising and falling like birdsong.
Two years.
It had been two years since he had reopened the orphanage.
What had once been the decaying husk of the old Atwell Orphanage now breathed with life again. Cracked walls had been rebuilt, the roof reforged tile by tile, and the courtyard reclaimed from neglect. Under the shelter of the patio canopy, Jethro sat quietly, the midnight sky stretching endlessly above him. Pele City's heat—oppressive and relentless by day—had softened into something gentle, a warm breeze brushing his skin instead of burning it.
For a rare moment, the world felt still.
The children's laughter washed over him, and with it came a peace he had not known in decades. They moved like streaks of color—barely contained energy and reckless joy—utterly unburdened by the weight of history. Watching them, Jethro felt something loosen in his chest, something he hadn't realized was still clenched.
But peace, he knew, was never absolute.
The past never truly slept.
When he closed his eyes, it was not the dragons or the children he saw—it was war. Endless, grinding wars that had scarred worlds and shattered stars. He remembered firestorms tearing cities apart, remembered blood soaking alien soil, remembered the sound of promises breaking louder than any explosion. Time had dulled the edges of those memories, but it had not erased them. The scars they left were not on his flesh alone.
His gaze drifted downward, settling on his legs.
Once, they had carried him through battlefields and ruins alike. Once, they had borne him toward impossible victories and irreversible choices. Now they were still, unresponsive—a quiet reminder of what he had paid. Of what he had given.
Was it worth it?
The question still came to him in the small hours of the night, uninvited and relentless. He had sacrificed everything—body, future, certainty—for a world that might never truly understand the cost.
And yet...
His eyes lifted back to the children. To their laughter. Their squabbles. Their unguarded happiness.
For a moment—just one—he felt something dangerously close to an answer.
A sudden blur of motion pulled him from his thoughts. One of the children broke away from the game and sprinted toward the patio.
"Nero—"
Too late.
The girl skidded to a stop and dropped into one of the empty chairs beside him, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Without hesitation, she reached across the table and snatched a cup of Jambia juice, lifting it triumphantly to her lips.
"Nero," Jethro said, amusement softening his voice, "don't drink too much of that."
She grinned at him over the rim of the cup, utterly unapologetic.
Moments later, the rest of the children followed, swarming the patio like a tide. Small hands reached eagerly for treats, voices overlapping as they jostled for space. The air was filled with excitement, warmth, and the unrestrained energy only children possessed.
Jethro felt his chest tighten again—but this time, it was warmth.
"Master Jethro!" Pascal called out, bouncing on his heels. "Tell us another story!"
Pascal was small for his age, wiry and sharp-eyed, his brown hair perpetually untamed. His Anima was unruly—wild surges, poor control—but when Jethro spoke, the boy could sit perfectly still, hanging on every word.
Jethro leaned forward slightly. "Which one this time?"
"The journey to the Axis Tower!" Nero blurted out immediately.
"No, no," Robin cut in, arms crossed with authority far beyond her years. "Start with the fight against the Blackthorns!"
Jethro lifted a hand, silencing them gently. "Let Pascal decide. He's the one who asked."
All eyes turned to the boy. Pascal hesitated, then broke into a grin.
"Start at the very beginning," he said. "Tell us about Eren the Devourer. The World's Conqueror."
A murmur of approval rippled through the group.
"He's my favorite," Yama added quietly. The boy rarely spoke unless he had something worthwhile to say.
Jethro leaned back, exhaling slowly. "That far back, huh?"
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. He had not lived in those days—few still did—but the story of Eren had shaped his entire life. It was bound to his blood, etched into his lineage. Eren had been the first Conqueror.
And Jethro... the last.
Everything had begun with him.
A boy. An orphan. A dream too large for the world that birthed it.
Jethro opened his eyes and extended one hand. The air before him shuddered, reality itself rippling like disturbed water. A black vortex bloomed into existence, swallowing light and sound alike. From its depths fell a massive, ancient tome. It struck the table with a resonant thud, the wood groaning under its weight.
The children froze, eyes wide.
The book's cover was dark and timeworn, etched with intricate sigils that faintly shimmered as if alive. Power radiated from it—not violent, but absolute.
"What... what is that?" Pascal whispered.
Jethro's voice dropped, reverent and heavy with meaning. "This is the Tome of Akasha. Within its pages, all things are written. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is forgotten."
His fingers traced the worn leather, familiar grooves guiding his touch. He opened the book and turned to a section he knew by heart.
"Before he was the Devourer," Jethro began, "before the Conqueror... he was just a boy. An orphan, like many of you."
The children leaned in.
"He lived in what we now call the Fourth Age of Magic."
"The return of the Golden Age," Yama murmured.
Jethro nodded. "Yes. And with it—the return of the gods."
He met their eyes, one by one.
"Listen carefully," he said. "This is the story of how a boy climbed the Axis Tower to challenge the heavens themselves."
His fingers rested on the page.
"And how he conquered it."