Morning in the Forsaken Wastes arrived slowly, the green moon fading into a pale, reluctant sun. The village stirred with low murmurs and clanking from makeshift kitchens. Mikayle, Ivan, and Yuhan emerged from their cramped hut, stretching and blinking against the new light. Their bodies ached in ways they hadn't realized during the night, muscles tight from the long journey and unfamiliar terrain.
Mira waited just outside, arms crossed, her black hair catching the sun in a faint sheen. "Up and moving, finally," she said, her tone teasing but pointed. "Breakfast is… optional. Don't ask. I didn't cook."
Ivan groaned. "Optional? Why do I feel like that's a trap?"
Yuhan simply adjusted the strap of his satchel, notebook in hand. "Food isn't the concern," he muttered. "Observation is."
Mikayle rubbed his eyes, still waking. "Observation?" he asked, squinting at Yuhan.
"The village, the terrain, the people—everything," Yuhan said, his voice calm, analytical. "We're being tested from the moment we arrive."
Mira smirked. "Not a bad observation. Now, follow me if you want to live longer than your breakfast-free morning." She turned, gliding between huts with a confidence that made the boys stagger to keep up.
They arrived at a larger building near the heart of the village. Its roof was higher, reinforced with sturdier wood and a faint hint of metal binding the corners. A carved wooden emblem—something like a twisted tree with flames spiraling from its roots—hung above the entrance.
"This," Mira said, her voice reverent yet playful, "is the Hall of Awakening. And the man waiting for you inside…" She tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "…is someone who can make even you, Mikayle, cry a little."
Inside, the hall was vast compared to the rest of the village. Sunlight slanted through gaps in the walls, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily in the air. Weapons lined racks along the walls: swords with intricate carvings, wooden training poles, and even a few odd-looking blades that shimmered faintly as though alive. In the center, a large, circular platform was set with concentric markings carved into the wood—some sort of training pattern.
And standing there, arms crossed, was a man whose presence immediately filled the space. Raphel Rumon.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, with silver-streaked dark hair and a face carved with sharp angles, almost as though the wilderness itself had shaped him. His dark eyes scanned the three newcomers like a hawk circling prey. His robe, simple yet functional, rustled as he moved forward.
"You've come," he said, voice deep and even, carrying authority without the need for raised volume. "I am Raphel Rumon. Trainer, guide… and the one who will decide if you live or die in this place—or worse, if you awaken at all."
Mikayle swallowed, feeling the weight of those words, but also a spark of determination flare within him.
Raphel's gaze shifted to each boy, lingering just long enough for them to feel his assessment. "Mikayle," he said, nodding slightly, "there is potential, but raw, undisciplined. You will learn control… or regret."
He turned to Ivan. "You act first, think later. That is both your strength and your weakness. Discipline will temper your recklessness."
Finally, Yuhan. "Observation is your weapon, yes—but knowledge without action is useless in combat. You will learn timing, Yuhan."
Mikayle exchanged a look with his friends. Training here wouldn't be easy. This wasn't just surviving the Forsaken Wastes—it was learning to wield power, to awaken a strength they hadn't fully grasped yet.
Raphel moved toward the weapons racks, selecting a gleaming sword that hummed faintly with energy. "This," he said, holding it out, "is a Prisckon Stone blade. Those who awaken can channel their soulforce through it. But understand—this blade obeys only the worthy. And it will test every part of you. Your body, your mind, your soul."
Mira, standing quietly behind them, chuckled softly. "See? Told you it wouldn't be all pain and blood. But mostly… it will be pain and blood."
Ivan grinned, almost nervously. "Well… at least it's something new."
Yuhan's eyes scanned the blade, then the room, already cataloging details in his mind. "We'll have to understand the mechanics first—wire, soulforce, channeling…" he muttered under his breath.
Mikayle clenched his fists, feeling a pulse of soulfire stirring faintly in his chest. "We're ready," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "For Marco… for ourselves."
Raphel's eyes narrowed slightly, as though he had sensed the determination. "Very well," he said. "Tomorrow, the training begins. Tonight, rest—or at least attempt it. You will need every ounce of strength."
As they left the hall and returned to their cramped hut, Mira nudged Mikayle with an elbow. "Don't think this is going to be boring. I like watching you flail."
Mikayle groaned. "I'll try not to disappoint you."
Ivan rolled his eyes, and Yuhan scribbled one last note in the dim light before the flambeaux flickered low: Day one: assessment complete. Potential noted. Risks… extreme.
And with that, the Forsaken Wastes waited silently outside, a land of death and trial, its green moon now fading behind the distant mountains.