The morning sun bathed Brown Island in a warm, golden hue. The salty breeze from the ocean rustled the palm trees, and the calls of seabirds filled the air like music. Brown Island was a quiet, peaceful place — a sanctuary for the retired, the weary, and those seeking peace. Among its narrow paths and cozy wooden homes, a young man jogged with purpose, sweat glistening on his brow.
"Good morning, Marcus!"
"Still running like the wind, eh, lad?"
"Don't punch down any trees today!"
Marcus waved and laughed, his teeth flashing in a bright smile as he jogged past the familiar faces.
"Morning, Mr. Toka! Morning, Granny Lila! And don't worry, I'll leave the trees standing — mostly!"
'I love this island… everyone's so warm here. It feels like one big family.'
The locals adored Marcus Graveblood — a tall, athletic young man with sharp black eyes, jet-black hair, and a gentle, ever-sunny disposition. His presence made people feel lighter, like the sun had peeked out just for them.
Marcus made his way to the clearing near the edge of the island. A lone, battered tree stood tall there, its bark worn smooth from repeated impacts. The roots curled like tired fingers into the ground — a silent partner in Marcus's daily ritual.
He cracked his knuckles and positioned himself in front of it.
"Alright, old friend. Let's dance."
'Consistency. Strength. Discipline. That's what the old folks taught me. If I want to master fire Prana completely… I have to earn it. Every. Single. Day.'
He struck. Punch after punch echoed across the clearing. His fists slammed into the tree's hardened trunk, each impact echoing like a war drum.
'One… two… twenty… hundred… keep going…'
His arms trembled, but he pushed on. Sweat poured down his face, soaking into his shirt. He moved like a machine fueled by willpower and purpose.
A thousand punches. No shortcuts. No breaks.
Then, as if flipping a switch, Marcus dropped to the ground and started pushups.
"One… two… three… four…"
Then squats. Then crunches. Then planks. Then a flurry of body-weight drills that would make any military general proud.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Marcus was drenched, panting, and smiling.
'Maria would kill me if she saw me this sweaty tracking dirt into the house.'
He stood, brushed himself off, and ran toward home.
Their home was small, perched on a gentle slope overlooking the sea. The roof was thatched, and the wooden door bore little carvings Maria had etched when he was a child. As he entered, he called out with his usual cheer.
"I'm home!"
From the dining table, Maria Graveblood lifted her gaze. A kind smile curled her lips. Her long silver hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her aged face, though lined, still radiated elegance and warmth.
"Welcome home, dear."
Marcus walked over, kissed her forehead, and sat down beside her.
"Tired?" she asked softly.
"More like alive," he grinned. "I broke a new record today!"
Maria chuckled. "You always were full of fire."
There was a brief pause. Then, her smile faded ever so slightly. Her fingers, once so steady, trembled slightly as she reached for her cup of tea.
"Marcus," she said, her tone now quiet and serious.
He blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"Yes, Mom?"
She looked at him with clear, glistening eyes.
"My time is coming to an end."
Marcus froze. The words struck harder than any punch he had delivered earlier.
'No… no, not yet…'
"What… what are you saying?" His voice was small, almost childlike.
Maria smiled — a calm, serene smile that seemed to accept everything.
"I've lived a long, fulfilling life. You've been the brightest light in my world, Marcus. And I want you to know, it's okay."
He clenched his fists. "You're not allowed to say goodbye like that."
"I'm not saying goodbye," she whispered. "I'm just... letting go."
That night, the two sat on the porch beneath the starlit sky. They talked for hours — about the past, the people of the island, Marcus's childhood mishaps, and even old legends of powerful Prana users.
Maria leaned against him, her voice growing softer.
"You're destined for greatness, my boy. You carry fire in your soul. Not just literal fire — but the kind that warms others."
'Please don't go… I'm not ready yet…'
But Maria just smiled and slowly drifted to sleep in his arms.
Marcus carried her inside, laid her gently in her bed, and tucked her in. Her chest rose and fell once… then was still.
She never woke up.
The next morning, the sun rose to find Marcus crumpled by her bed, clutching her hand, tears streaming down his face like rain from a broken sky.
"Mom… please… please just open your eyes…"
He sobbed like a child, his shoulders shaking with grief. There was no composure, no strength, only a son who had lost his world.
'I knew it was coming. But nothing prepares you for this…'
Later that day, the entire island came together. People cried, shared stories, and paid respects. Marcus led the burial, digging the grave with his bare hands, refusing help. He buried Maria beneath the tree overlooking the ocean, the same one she loved to sit beneath during sunsets.
After everyone left, Marcus sat in silence, staring at the grave.
'Thank you for everything, Mom. I'll live a life that would make you proud.'
When he returned home, a small package lay on the table. There was a note taped to the top in delicate handwriting:
"For your next journey. You always looked stunning in this. Love, Maria."
He opened the box slowly.
Inside was a perfectly tailored, navy blue three-piece suit. It shimmered faintly in the light — durable, flexible, made for battle but stitched with care.
Beneath it was a ship ticket, set for the mainland.
Marcus picked up the jacket and held it against his chest.
'You knew… you knew I'd leave after you were gone. And you still found a way to give me strength.'
A small laugh escaped his lips, followed by more tears.
The next morning, he stood before the mirror, dressed in the suit. It fit like a second skin. Sleek, refined — it looked like it belonged to a noble. Yet it moved with him perfectly, as if tailored for combat.
He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and looked around the house one last time.
"Thank you… Mom."
As he walked to the port, residents of the island gathered along the road.
"You're leaving?"
"You'll always have a home here, Marcus!"
"Kick some ass out there, alright?"
He grinned, waving. "I'll come back stronger, I promise!"
'This island raised me. These people made me who I am. But now… it's time to find my own path.'
As he stepped onto the ship, the horn blew and the vessel slowly drifted away from the island. He stood at the railing, wind in his hair, staring at the shrinking outline of Brown Island.
The sun blazed in the sky. The sea stretched endless before him.
Marcus Graveblood, swordsman, fire wielder, and sunny-hearted warrior, had taken his first step into a world far larger than he'd ever known.
And he wasn't looking back.