The night had settled like a blanket of velvet over the cabin nestled at the edge of the forest. Moonlight filtered through the shifting clouds, casting pale beams onto the old rooftop, where a lone figure stood—motionless.
Kirozan's arms were folded across his chest, his eyes locked on the horizon as if the stars themselves whispered secrets he alone could hear. There was unease in the air. Not fear, but alertness. The kind that only a warrior with a lifetime of battles behind him could sense. Somewhere out there, eyes were watching.
Below him, Rei lay curled in his furs, exhausted from a day of training that had pushed his body to the brink. His breath was steady, but his aura pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in the dark. Even asleep, he radiated presence. Kirozan had noticed it more and more these past days.
"We leave at first light," Kirozan muttered under his breath, the words meant for no one. Or perhaps for the hidden ears in the forest.
Three days ago, it had begun with a boulder.
"Strike it," Kirozan had ordered. "Put your soul into your fist."
Rei had stepped forward with narrowed eyes, sweat dripping from his brow. He drew back his fist and slammed it into the massive stone. It shuddered, but did not crack. Pain shot up his arm, and he gritted his teeth.
Kirozan, without a word, moved forward and clenched his own fist. With one step and a twist of his body, he struck. The sound echoed like a thunderclap. A crack split the boulder. Another blow—and it crumbled into fragments.
"No aura," Kirozan said. "Only mastery. Before you wield the fire, learn to sharpen the blade."
Hidden in the thickets nearby, a man named Nizel had watched that exchange carefully. Cloaked in merchant's garb and posing as a traveling herbalist, Nizel was no simple observer. He was a violet aura user, a trained spy of the Thornevalr Kingdom, and a former battlefield elite. His orders had been simple: observe the retired warhound Kirozan, and if he posed a threat, report back.
He expected to see a broken man clinging to the past. But what he saw instead was a man with terrifying control, and a boy with something far more dangerous—potential.
The next day, Nizel's suspicion deepened.
Rei stood beneath a roaring waterfall, its thunderous pressure hammering his small frame. His knees trembled. The water sought to crush him, to force him down. But he stood. Barely. And then stood again. For hours.
"Let your body absorb the rhythm," Kirozan had said from the shore. "When you stop fighting it, you'll learn to move through chaos."
Nizel, from a nearby ridge, narrowed his eyes. Still no aura. Still nothing awakened. And yet... the boy endured. Where others would break, he stood.
Now it was the third night.
Rei had collapsed into sleep, his body ragged and bruised. Kirozan sat by the fire, watching the coals flicker. Then, his eyes shifted. The air around the boy had begun to pulse. Not violently, but steadily—an unseen pressure radiating outward, like heat from a hidden forge.
It wasn't aura. Or rather—it was, but it wasn't colored. It had no shade, no texture, no presence of known classification. And yet it was there. Heavy. Immense.
In the forest, Nizel felt it too. His body tensed, and his eyes grew wide.
"What the hell is this...?" he whispered. "He's radiating… but no color. No form. Just pressure. That shouldn't be possible..."
Fear pricked the back of his neck.
"I need to report this," he muttered. "Now."
Back inside the cabin, Kirozan quietly tightened the straps on his traveling pack. He turned toward the boy and said softly, "We move at first light."
Rei stirred. "Why?" he mumbled sleepily.
Kirozan's voice was low. "Because something out there has seen too much."
As he stepped out into the night, the wind carried the scent of ash and trees. And then—he felt it.
A figure moving quickly through the forest. Trying to leave.
Kirozan moved without a sound.
Nizel had already begun his retreat, moving silently across the brush. He clutched a small sealed scroll—his report. He had seen enough. That boy was dangerous, and Kirozan even more so. His king needed to know.
Then, a voice pierced the night.
"Leaving already?"
Nizel spun around. From the mist stepped Kirozan, calm, unarmed, eyes glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Nizel cursed. "I didn't come to fight."
"But you came to watch," Kirozan replied. "And you saw too much."
Nizel's hand reached into his cloak. "I don't want to do this. I'm violet. You're green. Don't be foolish."
Kirozan's expression didn't change. "You'll learn that color means little when faced with resolve."
Nizel drew two curved daggers. His violet aura erupted around him like a wildfire, illuminating the trees. "You're done, old man."
He lunged.
But Kirozan wasn't there.
A fist cracked into Nizel's ribs from the side. Then another caught his jaw. Then his leg was swept, and he was slammed to the ground. His aura flared again in panic—but Kirozan was relentless.
The former right hand of the Crimson King moved like a ghost, each strike precise, overwhelming. Nizel tried to shield, parry, retreat. But every motion was met, every defense dismantled.
Finally, Kirozan pinned him against a tree, his hand at his throat.
"You should tell your king," Kirozan growled, "that next time he sends a spy, make it someone with a spine."
He released him, and Nizel collapsed.
From within his robe, Kirozan pulled a scroll—thick, sealed with the symbol of a forgotten war—and shoved it into Nizel's arms.
"Take this. Deliver it to Caldran Veyl. If you can still walk."
Nizel stared, coughing, as Kirozan turned his back and walked into the fog.
Behind him, the forest was silent again.