Synopsis
Agrone:
"Welcome home…prince Ariel."
The name struck like thunder.
Grey (blinking):
"...Ariel?"
Itarim (stepping back):
"Wait… what did you just say?"
Agrone smiled with a gentleness that contrasted the weight of his words.He said nothing at first. His eyes, deep like still waters, held a reflection of time long buried. Then, with the same gentleness one might use when waking someone from a lifelong dream, he spoke.
Agrone (reverently, voice carrying the weight of history):
"Ariel… That is your true name.
The land beneath your feet—the city whose bones now lie beneath rubbles—this is Manalith and you… you are its heir."
Itarim (collapsing as he transforms back, eyes filled with defiance):
"You've got the wrong person."
Agrone(quietly, with certainty):
"No… I'm afraid I don't have the wrong person.Only the energy of a pure blood of the royal family of Manalith can resonate with these pillars"
He gestured toward the glowing glyphs. The stones around Itarim pulsed in response, dimming as Itarim returned to his normal state.
Grey (stepping forward, voice low):
"... So what you're saying is he's royalty a d you are master Agrone?"
Agrone(serious):
"Yes though Ariel or as he calls himself Itarim is not just royalty. He is the last survivor of the royal family,the last in his entire clan"
A long silence stretched between them.
The wind stirred, brushing the surface of the pond like a soft sigh. The ripples shimmered beneath the pale sky. In the hush, the weight of the truth coiled itself around them like fog.
Agrone (softly, without pity):
"If you wish to leave, you may…
But I doubt the phantoms will let you go easily."
He took a step closer. His expression was no longer gentle—it was measured, forged in discipline, radiating an intensity like tempered steel.
Agrone:
"You are not ready to face them.
Not yet. What you've seen is only a glimpse of what lies beyond."
He gazed at them in their eyes, His robes fluttered around him like silk in the wind,his aura pressing against theirs.
Agrone:
"Stay. Let me shape you into more than survivors,I will shape into independent lethal weapons In return… I will give you the answers you seek."
A pause.
"About your power.
About the phantoms.
About what destroyed this city"
Itarim's fists clenched by his side. Grey exhaled through his nose. The weight of choice hung heavy in the air—but neither of them turned away.
It had been several days since the name Ariel tore the veil from Itarim's unknown past. Since then, he and Grey had remained within the hidden heart of the ruined city—Manalith. The pond, the glowing pillars, and the ever-watchful eyes of Master Agrone had become part of their daily routine.
The silence of the city no longer weighed on them. They had become part of it and today, they will become part of something new.
Under the morning sky, where clouds dragged long shadows across broken rooftops, Agrone stood barefoot atop a lone, flat stone. His arms were folded, and his long sleeves caught the wind like banners. Itarim and Grey stood opposite each other, tension thick between them.
> Agrone (calm, instructive):
"Before we begin your training in earnest, you must understand the world you live in."
He traced a glowing line in the air with his finger. A map began to form from light—an outline of the continent, pulsing at its edges like it was alive.
Agrone (his voice carried like a teacher before a battlefield):
"The continent is divided into Seven Great Territories, each ruled and influenced by a powerful village or kingdom."
He pointed at the northern region first.
"To the north: the kingdom Frostenveil, where the tundra spirits rule beside humans. They are known for their ability to manipulate spiritual forces and have easy access to spiritual world."
Next, the east.
"Their lies the kingdom Zepharune, where scholars from all over the world gather to further broaden their intellect. To them knowledge is everything therefore the have no need for currencies and obtain goods from each through the exchange of valuable information ."
Down to the south.
"South lies Emberhollow, its a forest mostly occupied by beasts and is ruled by the beast emperor he his known for taken on challengers who do wonder into the forest though no e have ever been able to defeat him."
Then the central region.
"At the continent's heart is the kingdom Solhara, a city of law snd order. They are they hold the most influencial political seats in the continent and are vastly known for advanced tier magic—but not the strongest."
He paused, his gaze narrowing.
"Then… there are the two most feared.though these are not kingdoms but villages"
He drew a glowing arc across the west.
"In the west is Dragonoth—beast kin by blood. Their Primal Forms are ceremonial, gained only through the Royal Rite. Their features are marked by silver—silver hair, silver eyes, and markings that bind them to their lineage."
A pulse in the light-map shifted focus north-westward.
"And here—"
He tapped the space where the ruins of Manalith lay.
"Manalith. Your home, Ariel.
Our Primal Forms are not forged in ceremony, but awakened through instinct. The we undergo we call the rite ritual unlike Dragonoth that grants their markings or rite to their offspring after they have successfully formed a primal core here in Manalith you must have mastered your primal form to a certain level before you can undergo a rite ritual"
Agrone (his eyes on Itarim now, quiet but firm):
"Their features are marked by Long hair, pupils slit like beasts, fangs , and nails like the claws of predators.Eyes that burn amber. When we awaken… we no longer look human...We are what the others call 'Human Beasts.' And they fear us for it."
The light-map dissolved.
Agrone stepped down from the stone and motioned to the clearing.
Agrone (with conviction):
"But even such power must be tempered.
You both have awakened your Primal Forms—and while that's impressive… it's also dangerous."
He turned to face them fully now.
"So today… we begin your training."
A pause.
"You will face each other. And you will fight without using your primal forms...No transformations, No crutches."
"Because if you cannot survive without your strength, you do not deserve to wield it."
Grey (stepping forward slowly, his voice measured):
"No holding back... but no transformation. Got it."
Itarim (smirking, stretching his shoulders):
"This should be fun."
They both trembled faintly as they took their positions and took their stance, as if they had been itching for a fight all along.
Agrone (final instruction):
"Your goal is simple—force the other to yield.show me not just strength, but intent and Control.
If you can fight a Class A Beast without your Primal Form… imagine what you could do with it."
He raised his hand—then dropped it.
"Begin"
Like a starting gun, the word cracked the air.
Grey moved first—no flash, no shout. A single step, then a blur. He was upon Itarim in a breath. A fist lashed out, knuckles aimed for Itarim's ribs.
Itarim pivoted, letting the blow slip past him, and responded with a sharp elbow toward Grey's jaw. Grey ducked, swept his leg, and forced Itarim to hop backward.
No words passed between them. They had trained together, eaten together, laughed—yet now, in this moment, they were simply opponents.
The air filled with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, feet grinding into soil, breath caught between effort and awareness. Itarim darted in, spinning low, and aimed a palm strike at Grey's center. Grey blocked it but was pushed back two steps. He grunted, clenched his jaw, and surged forward again.
They clashed again. Then again.
Their movements, while grounded in raw talent, began to reveal more. Where Itarim fought like a beast—wild, intuitive, unpredictable—Grey moved like a blade being forged, refined by pressure, molded by repetition.It was as astonishing site.
Grey launched a feint to Itarim's right, then twisted, aiming a hammering fist toward his shoulder. Itarim caught the wrist with one hand, spun Grey's momentum into a throw, and slammed him into the dust. Before Grey could recover, Itarim leapt—and froze.
A fist hovered just beneath his chin. Grey had thrown it from the ground, aiming to catch Itarim in his moment of triumph.
Both froze.
Neither had landed a decisive blow.
A standstill.
Agrone's voice cut through the stillness. "Enough."
They broke apart, panting, bruised, sweat dripping from their brows. Their eyes met. No enmity. Only respect.
---
Thus began a routine that would carry on for days.
At dawn, they sparred. At noon, they trained. At dusk, they reflected.
Agrone pushed them harder each cycle, introducing new dimensions to their battles.
"Today," he said one morning, placing a blindfold in each of their hands, "you fight without sight. Feel the battlefield with more than your eyes."
It was brutal. Missteps, missed punches, accidental strikes to the jaw.
But it taught them awareness—the rustle of fabric, the shift of footfalls, the whisper of motion through air.
Another day, Agrone handed Grey a long wooden staff, and Itarim a pair of short blades.
"You must learn to fight outside your comfort. No warrior is complete with fists alone."
Grey fumbled with the staff at first, his movements sluggish compared to his barehanded speed. Itarim twirled the twin blades with natural ease, but had to learn how to control the precision.
Weapons clashed. The blades sparked off the reinforced wood. Itarim moved fast, slicing through air, but Grey began predicting his angles, using the reach of the staff to hold him at bay.
Each fight ended in exhaustion. Sometimes Grey stood last, other times Itarim. Neither achieved domination.
And that was exactly Agrone's intention.
"You two are not rivals," he said, sitting beside the pond as the boys nursed bruises. "You are mirrors. One reveals the weaknesses of the other. Through each other, you will break past your current limits."
Their bodies hardened. Muscles learned to respond to intent. Minds sharpened under pressure.
Agrone introduced terrain. Some fights were held in the broken streets, with tight alleys and collapsed archways.
"Control your footing. Know your space."
Other days, they trained on platforms suspended above shallow water.
"Balance is not just physical—it is mental. Who panics, loses."
At night, Agrone spoke of philosophy, of ancient Manalithan strategy.
"The Primal Form is not your strength. It is your inheritance. But it should be a crown, not a crutch. Learn to fight as though you never had it, and when the time comes, you'll be unstoppable."
They listened. They absorbed.
And slowly, they changed.
Grey's movements became more fluid. He could sense Itarim's intentions from the faintest twitch of muscle.
Itarim's blows became precise—less reliant on brute force, more on flow, timing and momentum.
Then came the beasts.
Agrone released them to go after Class B beasts into a restricted part of the near by forest, one at a time. Their task? Defeat the beast—without the Primal Form.
The first was a six-eyed panther, cloaked in shadow. Fast and brutal.
Grey distracted it with feints while Itarim leapt from above, striking nerve points Agrone had taught them.
The second was a burrower—all muscle and claws. Grey used the staff to keep its strikes wide, while Itarim baited it into traps with broken rubble.
Each fight made them sweat, bleed, adapt. No battle was clean.
But they never backed down.
Six months has passed since they started their training and they had grown into lethal weapons though they still had much to learn.
One evening, as stars blinked into the night sky and both boys sat side by side at the pond's edge, Grey leaned back on his elbows.
"Feels like years since we got here."
Itarim nodded, brushing his white hair from his eyes. "I still don't know if I believe what he said. That I'm royalty. That this… was my home."
Grey glanced at him. "Whether you believe it or not, those pillars responded to you. And Agrone's not the kind of guy to lie."
Itarim looked down into the water. His reflection—golden eyes, wild hair—was not the boy who'd left the village. Not the boy who'd faced pirates. Not the boy who had awakened to power.
But maybe, just maybe, it was someone closer to who he was meant to be.
Agrone appeared behind them.
"You're both progressing faster than I expected."
He stepped forward and looked into the water.
"But the true test will come soon."
They looked at him.
"What do you mean?" Grey asked.
Agrone's voice was calm—but carried weight.
"There is a war beast that sleeps beneath Manalith and when it rises… it will not care whether you're ready."
Silence fell. The wind stirred the surface of the pond. The training was only the beginning.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING....
The light of dawn filtered through the treetops, casting shafts of gold upon the jungle-bathed temple that had become their sanctuary. Itarim stirred first, the breath of the wind across his face rousing him from sleep. The stone room was simple—a cot, a table, and the faint hum of residual energy that lingered in Manalith's ruins. Grey was already up, stretching his arms, his body limber and honed after months of relentless training.
Both had grown taller, their once-loose garments now tight around shoulders and arms. They wore new outfits crafted from the hides and cloths found within the ancient stores of the city. Grey wore dark brown trousers tucked into reinforced jungle boots, with a sleeveless gray tunic strapped across the torso by a chest-binding sash of emerald thread. Itarim, more wild in appearance, wore deep navy trousers and a dark sash tied at his waist, his upper body covered by a short, claw-marked robe with jagged patterns—the markings glowed faintly whenever his beast energy surged.
Without a word, they met in the overgrown courtyard beside the temple. The training grounds had long since become a sacred space of silent rivalry.
Itarim cracked his knuckles. "We doing this full power?"
Grey grinned, wild light dancing in his blue eyes. "Beast energy only. No Primal form. I want to feel everything."
Itarim hesitated, but then nodded. "Fine. But don't cry when I drop you."
They faced each other and in an instant—boom—a burst of pressure erupted between them.
Their auras exploded.
From Grey's body flowed an ethereal storm of silvery-yellow light, threads like lightning swirling around him with flickers of refined, sharp intent. His eyes gleamed like twin moons.
Itarim's aura surged with violent elegance. Violet-blue energy, like tidal waves crashing and bending light itself, radiated from him. It was denser now, thicker than six months prior—like a second skin of primal force.
Their feet crushed the ground beneath them.
Itarim vanished first.
BAM!
His fist came from above, but Grey twisted away, countering with a sweeping elbow that crackled with violet energy. The blow grazed Itarim's shoulder, knocking him back, only for him to use the momentum to pivot and come back in with a knee charged with flashing silver.
They clashed like beasts.
Itarim roared, punching forward with a powered-fist strike Grey caught it—barely. The impact sent shockwaves through the courtyard, rattling the ancient stone and sending birds screaming from the nearby trees.
Grey slid back, boots carving twin trenches in the cracked earth. Blood trickled from his lip, but his grin only widened.
Grey (panting, voice wild): "You've gotten faster."
Itarim rolled his shoulder, the fabric of his robe singed.
Itarim: "You've gotten cockier."
They charged again.
It wasn't a spar anymore. This was a declaration—of growth and pride.
Their movements blurred—strike, dodge, feint, retaliate. Dust spiraled around them. Fists and knees met arms and shins. They began incorporating what Agrone had drilled into them—terrain awareness, rhythm disruption, predictive counters.Their blows became almost invisible, too fast for the eye to follow—each strike was well calculated each having intent and sharpened instinct.
Grey leapt back, catching his breath, then slammed a palm to the ground.
Grey (grinning): "Let's test the limit, then."
A spear of beast energy burst from the earth beneath Itarim—but he was already gone, appearing behind Grey in a flicker, arm drawn back.
Itarim (whispered): "Too slow."
CRACK! A spinning heel strike caught Grey on the shoulder—but Grey twisted with it, absorbing the force, and landed a counterblow to Itarim's ribs.
They broke apart again, breathing hard.
Then suddenly—BOOM—Itarim unleashed a circular pulse of beast energy, knocking Grey off his footing. Before Grey could recover, Itarim lunged—but not for a finishing blow.
He stopped, fist hovering just inches from Grey's heart.
Itarim (softly):
"Yield."
Grey blinked up at him, chest heaving, sweat running down his jaw. Then, slowly, he raised his hands.
Grey (grinning):
"Fine. You got me… this time."
Itarim offered a hand. Grey took it.
They stood, two silhouettes in the rising sun, breath fogging the golden air.
From afar, hidden behind an overgrown wall, Agrone watched.
He had risen later than usual but had instantly sensed the violent pulse of power. The aura spilling through their bodies made his hearth flutter.
Agrone (thinking): Such aura… It's already this density... it's far beyond to the boys I trained when they first areived. It's as though two war spirits are colliding…A rare smile touched the corner of his lips.
Agrone (quietly to himself):
"Good. They're ready."
Then— Agrone made his entrance
"Enough!" Agrone's voice rang through the battlefield.The earth trembled.
A deep, reverberating boom echoed beneath the soil. Birds fled the trees in a shrieking storm of wings. The wind changed, carrying with it the scent anget
Both boys turned.
He stepped into view, arms folded, face unreadable.
The very air bent around his presence—calm yet commanding, like a windless storm cloud that had simply decided not to rain… yet.
Both Grey and Itarim froze mid-exchange, fists halted inches from impact. Their breathing came in ragged bursts, beast energy surging like wildfire beneath their skin. The violent hues of silver-gold and violet-blue aura coiled around them like warring dragons, crackling against the trees, burning tiny grooves into the soft earth beneath their feet.
They turned—slowly, like cubs caught after misbehaving.
Agrone stood just at the edge of the glade, arms folded beneath the wide sleeves of his emerald-tasseled robe, his expression unreadable but radiating pressure.
His bare feet made no sound as he stepped forward. The aura around them instantly stilled as if bowing to an apex predator.
Agrone (voice low, eyes piercing):
"Who gave you permission to unleash your beast energy?"
Neither of them spoke.
Itarim, still panting, broke eye contact first. Grey stood rigid, his fists clenching in quiet frustration.He turned to Itarim, whose violet-blue aura still pulsed faintly at his shoulders.
Agrone (sternly):
"And you—heir of Manalith—how dare you allow your emotions to bleed into power so recklessly?"
Itarim winced slightly at the word "heir." It still sat foreign in his heart.
Grey (quietly):
"We didn't transform… we thought using beast energy without going primal wouldn't be—"
Agrone (cutting in, voice heavy like falling stones):
"Intent matters. Will matters. Do you not understand?"
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, then reopened them—calmer now, but the weight in his voice never lifted.
Agrone (softer):
"You are not playing with swords and sticks. Beast energy is alive—it feeds off emotion, thought, instinct. The more you wield it in chaos, the more chaos it leaves behind."
His eyes drifted between them.
Agrone (pointing to the broken clearing around them):
"You left this glade scarred."
"And if I hadn't intervened, one of you might've ended up worse than scarred."
Grey's jaw tensed.
Itarim, still staring at the cracked stone behind them, exhaled slowly.
Agrone (walking between them now):
"Your control has grown… yes."
"But so has your arrogance."
He looked at each of them in turn, like a blacksmith studying flawed steel.
Agrone:
"From this day forward, you will not use your beast energy unless I give you direct instruction. If I find even a flicker of aura where it doesn't belong—training ends."
They both stiffened.
Agrone (pausing, his voice deepening):
"You may have inherited monstrous potential…"
"…but if you cannot command it, then you are not warriors—you are disasters waiting to happen."
Silence.
The wind rustled leaves at the edge of the clearing. The echo of his words seemed to settle into the bones of the forest itself.
Itarim (softly, after a pause):
"…We understand."
Grey (nodding):
"We got carried away."
Agrone (finally letting his arms fall):
"Good."
Agrone gestured toward the outerplane of the city beyond. "The phantom wardens that roam the outskirts of the ruined city. You will fight them. But," he raised a finger, "still no Primal forms. Only beast energy."
Itarim's eyes sparkled. "About time we had real targets."
The scene shifts to the outer planes of the city
Agrone walked past them, eyes shadowed beneath his hood.
"If you wish to survive what's coming, you must surpass even your limits without transforming. I want to see your true beast without the form."
Itarim raised an eyebrow, Grey stayed silent.
Meanwhile somewhere in the distance, a phantom warden stirred.
The boys exchanged a glance.
Agrone (sternly):
"They are powerful. But they're incomplete. Hollow."
He spun on his heel.
Agrone:
"Your orders are simple: engage, endure, learn. Do not transform. Do not release your aura past 30%. If I sense more, I will intervene. And your training
Itarim clenched a fist.
Grey gave a small nod.
Then Agrone raised a hand.
A low hum trembled through the ground.
From the shattered corridor of buildings just ahead, two shapes emerged—tall, silent, and faceless. Their bodies were drenched in a shimmering purple energy like ethereal fire.They emitted a dark pulse about them.
Agrone (softly, like a whisper lost in wind):
"Begin."
Itarim lunged first, his body low, fast, silent.
His fist shot upward in a tight hook aimed directly at the Warden's jaw. The impact made a dull thud, like punching solid marble. But the Warden staggered a half-step back—just enough.He pivoted and ducked a returning slash, rolling under the Warden's arm and rising into a leaping knee strike at its chest he landed a hit but still no fall.
Meanwhile, Grey had already closed the distance with the second Warden.
A blur of angled steps, hands raised in a soft martial stance. When the Warden's blade came down, he didn't block. He redirected, sliding under the force with a dancer's precision, letting the weapon crash into stone behind him.
Grey (internal):
"It gives off wide openings after every swing. I just need to wear it down—"
He unleashed a flurry of palm strikes to its midsection—each one precise, targeted at joints. Stone cracked like spiderwebs beneath his touch.
Back to back now, the two boys adjusted positions without a word.
Grey (low, without turning):
"We can break them. Just pressure the center."
Itarim (grinning):
"Tch. Already ahead of you."
He grabbed the Warden by its arm as it lunged again, pivoted, and used its momentum to hurl it into a nearby pillar. The force made the ground tremble slightly as dust rose from the impact.
Grey followed his up by leaping off the rubble, somersaulting mid-air, and bringing down a double-heel kick straight into the back of his Warden's neck.
CRACK—!
It dropped to one knee, but retaliated quickly, swinging wildly.
Grey ducked, slid, came up on its flank, and used a series of pressure point strikes along the torso, weakening its posture.
Itarim charged againWith speed and force,this time fists glowing faintly wrapped with beast energy.His blows were sharper and well calculated.He moved like someone born in the heat of battle.
BOOM.
The pillar behind the Warden crumbled from the force of a missed punch.
Grey planted a foot on a half-collapsed wall and pushed off, launching himself horizontally with all his weight behind a corkscrew punch.
SMASH—!
His Warden dropped.
Dust billowed.
But the second Warden—Itarim's—stood.
Cracks riddled its form, but it moved with desperate speed, slashing wildly.
Itarim ducked, rolled, and slammed his heel into the side of its knee. The construct faltered.
Grey:
" End it already"
In a Itarim appeared in front of the wardenwith a clean, brutal uppercut that collapsed the wardens core.
The Warden crumbled as it dissipated into nothing.They stood, breath labored, shoulders squared.Sweat leaking out their faces.from far above, Agrone watched, arms folded, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
Agrone (thinking):
"Good. They've finally begun to understand... strength is not just in power. It's in control."
Meanwhile beneath the earth, far beneath the ruins of Manalith, the war beast stirred.
Its breath deepened.
Its slumber neared its end.
And the tremor of its awakening reached Agrone's feet.
He made his way to the boys, arriving at their present location as of he teleported his voice cutting through the roaring energy.
Agrone (calm, resolute): "That's enough."
Their eyes darting to him. Both were bruised, bleeding—but standing tall. Stronger. Sharper.
Agrone: "You've surpassed what most achieve in years. But your final trial begins soon."
A long pause.
Agrone (grim): "The beast beneath this city has stirred twice now. The seal that kept it dormant is cracking. You may not have another six months. Perhaps not even six days."
He turned to Itarim.
Agrone (firm): "This city may have fallen. But its bloodline lives through you. You were born not just to survive it—but to face what ended it."
He then turned to Grey.
Agrone: "And you… were not born of this place. Yet the city has accepted you. Perhaps because your purpose and his are intertwined."
He looked between them.
Agrone (softly): "When the beast rises, everything You've learnt up till now will be put to the test"
The two boys exchanged a glance. And deep beneath the earth…
The war beast opened its eyes.