Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
Silence hung heavy in the cave, thick as a weighted blanket. The only sound was the steady drip of water from the stalactites above. Shafts of light pierced cracks in the stone ceiling, falling across a young man lying flat on his back.
He looked to be in his early twenties, fair-skinned, dressed in a collared white shirt, overalls, and a flat cap.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
With each beat of his heart, Rosario stirred awake.
As his eyes crept open. He sat up, blinking in confusion. He tried to recall the previous night. He'd been walking home from the steel factory—then, darkness. Now he was here, in a cave.
Rising to his feet, Rosario brushed the dirt off and scanned his surroundings. The cavern had two tunnel paths on opposite ends. He grabbed a rock, marked the wall behind him, and took the left path.
As he went deeper, the path narrowed and darkened. Rosario tensed, alert—but not afraid. He was a master swordsman, grounded in martial discipline. During his service, he'd borne a long sword on the front lines.
Suddenly, the tunnel widened into a vast chamber. At its center lay a carved circle, inscribed with rectangular patterns and strange hieroglyphic symbols. Rosario recognized some of these symbols, looking eerily similar to drawings of ancient text he had seen in his textbook. Ancient and strange. As Rosario stepped into the circle, the symbols began to glow.
Then—
A searing pain shot through the back of his left hand.
Darkness swallowed the chamber.
"ROSARIO!"
"ROSARIO!"
He jolted upright—this time in the middle of a cobbled street.
Towering above him stood Rak, a giant of a man at 200 cm tall. Bronze-skinned, bald, and bearded in gray, Rak was well into his sixties, yet his biceps looked as if they belonged to a man half his age.
"What are you doing passed out in the road, Rosario? Don't tell me you got drunk."
Rosario blinked up at him. "Haha... yeah, got a little too hammered last night. Weekend and all."
Rak raised an eyebrow. "Hmph. Thought you didn't drink." He sighed and jerked his thumb toward the bakery. "Come on. Grab a loaf. You look half-starved."
Rosario stood up and followed him into the bakery. The aroma of fresh bread and sweets lingered in the warm air, comforting and nostalgic.
He picked a loaf and turned to leave, but Rak stopped him.
"Don't overdo it with the drinking, young man."
"Thanks, Rak. I'll bring some of my mom's jam next time."
He waved and ran off, loaf in hand.
Rosario lived on Eagle Street, nestled in one of the outer rings of Kartha—the empire's mountain capital. Seven centuries ago, the founder Karthor had chosen the mountaintop for its natural defenses: cliffs, waterfalls, and steep ridges that turned away armies.
The city had grown in five concentric rings: the outer two housed the working and middle classes, the next two were reserved for nobles, and at the center stood the royal palace, gleaming atop the summit. Eight rivers spilled from its base, flowing through the city in glittering canals.
As Rosario ran home, he glanced at the palace, rising above the city in the dawn light. Covered in multicolored gems, it shimmered like a dream—one that always stirred something deep within him.
He arrived at Eagle Street, where eight homes sat closely packed, four on each side. A small garden lay out front, and behind them was a shared communal yard.
He opened the door.
Rosario removed his flat cap and ruffled his crow-black hair.
His mother, a beautiful woman with ash-brown hair tied in a ponytail and soft blue eyes, ran toward him in her apron.
"Rosario, where were you? I was worried sick!"
From the living room, a deep voice called out, "Come on, Lillian. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself."
His father, Jackson Steelheart, sat on the couch with a pipe in his mouth, reading the paper. Even in his fifties, his sharp black eyes and weathered features marked him as a lifelong worker. He was the manager of the steel factory—and the one who'd helped Rosario land his job.
Rosario greeted his parents, set the bread on the counter, and went upstairs. In his room, he locked the door and stared at his hand.
Nothing. No mark. No burn. Just skin.
He sighed. Was it all a dream? He wasn't sure.
After a quick shower, Rosario put on black baggy cotton pants and a collard white tee, and he headed downstairs again.
Just as he reached for the door—
THWACK.
The door slammed in his face.
"Ow!"
"Oh my gods, are you okay?" said a soft, feminine voice.
Anyone else might've mistaken the voice for a woman's—but Rosario knew it well. It was his best friend, Lox Faelix.
Lox was the same age, with brown hair and brown eyes. With a delicate face and an ethereal voice, he was dressed similarly to Rosario; people often mistook him for a girl. But no one dared tease him.
Lox had once been a prodigy singer, deeply in love with opera. When he told his father he wanted to become a castrato, Mr. Barker Faelix went berserk, storming through the streets shouting, "I'll be damned if I raise a son with no balls! The ancestors are turning in their graves!"
Still, after Mrs. Faelix gave birth to twin boys, father and son eventually reconciled.
"You're late," Lox said flatly. "I've been waiting twenty minutes."
"Sorry, I was..." Rosario paused. "I overslept."
Lox turned. "Let's go."
They walked through the quiet streets. On weekend mornings, most folks stayed home or headed to the dojo. The roads were nearly empty, save for a few early risers.
Following the canal upstream, they eventually arrived at the Central Plaza, where a large building towered above its surroundings: the Kartha Martial Dojo.
The Kartha Martial Dojo loomed in the heart of the middle ring—a monolith of discipline and history. Its stark design stood apart from the surrounding buildings—steep, angular roofs of blackened slate, wide wooden beams carved with faded runes, and massive stone foundations unlike anything seen in southern Kartha.
That was because the dojo wasn't Karthan by origin.
It had once been a temple-fortress of the Northern Varnathi, a fierce mountain people renowned for their martial prowess, conquered decades ago during the Empire's third expansion. But instead of razing it, the Empire did something unexpected: they preserved it. Brick by brick, they reconstructed the fortress within Kartha's walls.
The reason? Respect.
Though conquered, the Varnathi had earned deep admiration for their discipline, military spirit, and unbreakable will. So much so that the Karthinians adopted their training model, building dojos in their honor and reforming their military academies in the Varnathi style. What once symbolized Varnathi's strength now stood as a crucible to forge imperial might.
Now, steam vents hissed where sacred fires once burned, and imperial banners fluttered where wind-chimes carved with forgotten prayers once rang. The legacy remained—beneath the Empire's seal.
Iron-riveted doors, flanked by weathered statues of Varnathi warrior-monks, led into the grand atrium. Inside, the dojo buzzed with energy—sword strikes rang out, instructors barked commands, and synchronized footwork stomped across the floor. The walls, still etched with faded Varnathi script, bore grime and bronze Karthan plaques—a tense fusion of two histories forced into one.
To the west was the Sword Hall, its wooden floors polished smooth by generations of sparring. Four rings divided the space—Novice, Intermediate, Master, and at the far end: the Savant's Ring. Ringed in iron and silence, it rested atop stone slabs too massive to move, rumored to be original to the old stronghold. Some said they faintly reacted to blood spilled in battle.
To the east, what once served as a meditation wing had been transformed into the Armorer's Wing. Apprentices hammered away at ferralyte blades while rune-smiths labored in silence under close supervision. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and burning coal—a sharp scent of discipline and grit.
Above it all loomed the Instructor's Watch, a raised dais of dark pine rimmed with brass. There sat Sharp, cross-legged and unmoving. Broad-shouldered, with slanted, hawkish eyes common among the Varnathi bloodline, Sharp was a living remnant of the old world. Though his back had begun to hunch and gray streaked his hair, his presence remained ironclad. He rarely spoke, but no one dared forget who he was.
A legend.
A sword savant—not born of noble blood, but carved from conquest and survival.
The dojo was more than a place to train.
It was a monument to the conquered.
A temple reforged into a crucible—where status dissolved, and strength alone carved your name into the stone.
Rosario and Lox joined the warmups as Sharp observed, still as stone.
Eventually, the class moved to the gymnasium—a wide, rectangular space divided into four sparring rings. When their turn came, Rosario and Lox stepped forward.
Lox held the dojo's top sparring record: 122 wins. Rosario trailed with 97.
Lox's delicate frame and soft voice often fooled strangers, but never opponents. Despite being a castrato, he was a lifelong swordsman. His father and Rosario's had served together—both Sword Savants, a rare title in an empire crowded with sword masters, but starved of true savants.
Rosario took his stance, gripping a wooden longsword. Lox angled his body, holding a training rapier low and wide.
They stared each other down.
Rosario lunged first, blade arcing upward. Lox twisted aside and answered with a thrust. Rosario leapt, blade raised, and came down like a hammer. Lox rolled, sprang to his feet, and darted back in.
Blades clashed. They disengaged, breath ragged.
Something had changed.
Rosario was faster. Stronger. His balance is tighter. Reflexes sharper.
Was it… from the cave?
Lox smirked as if he sensed it. "You've gotten stronger. Looks like I'll have to stop holding back."
He blurred forward, attacking in flurries. Rosario sidestepped—but Lox twisted low, sweeping his legs. Rosario rolled, sprang upright, parried mid-air, and countered with a sweep.
Lox danced back, parried, then struck again—but Rosario slipped inside his guard and stopped his blade at Lox's throat.
"My win," Rosario said, grinning.
"Heh." Lox returned the grin. "You got me. That's 30 to 16. Still a long way to go."
Rosario narrowed his eyes.
"Not for long."
By noon, the city had come alive. As Rosario and Lox made their way back, shopfronts opened to a gentle chorus of bells, and vendors shouted out their goods from pushcarts. The smell of fried street food clung to the breeze.
They reached Eagle Street and stepped into Lox's home.
Inside, the sound of bickering echoed from the hallway.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"No, it's not! Mom bought it for me!"
Two boys—Lox's twin brothers—were locked in a tug-of-war over a ball.
Lox sighed, strode over, and pulled them both into a headlock.
"Outside. Now. Play together."
Grumbling, the twins obeyed and ran out to the backyard.
As Rosario slipped off his shoes, a knock came at the door.
"I got it," Lox said, stepping over.
He opened it to reveal a short man with ash-black hair and sharp gray eyes—Luck, their friend since childhood.
Luck stepped inside, kicking off his boots. "Where were you guys? I waited all morning. Thought you ditched me again."
"I was late," Rosario said, sliding into slippers. "Didn't you see Lox out there?"
"I just woke up," Lox added with a shrug.
Luck frowned. "I even went to the sword hall after training. Still didn't find you." He sniffed the air. "Whatever. I'm starving. Is Uncle out back?"
Though they felt bad, it was hard to avoid forgetting Luck sometimes. He had an odd way of fading into the background, like a whisper in a crowded room.
"Yeah," Lox said. "Come on."
They slid open the back door.
The backyard opened into a vast communal space, bordered by sixteen homes. At its center was a shared garden filled with vegetables, flowers, and the occasional overgrown herb patch. Kids ran everywhere, shouting and playing.
At the far end stood Mr. Faelix, sleeves rolled up, manning the grill. Coocoo skewers sizzled beside thick cuts of bogo meat. His wife, Kaela, in a flowing blue dress, laid out drinks and sides at a nearby table.
Barker Faelix was a sturdy man with a gentle smile and bright green eyes. Rarely did his grin fade, especially when cooking. He was the town butcher—known for his charm as much as his skill. Kaela, a former pianist and still the classiest woman on the street, ran the house like a conductor at a gala.
"Good morning, Barker," came a voice.
A man in a sharp suit approached—Callen Trask, clean-shaven, tall, wearing a long coat and silver spectacles beneath a polished top hat.
"Morning, Callen!" Barker called. "How's the family?"
"We're better than ever." Callen smiled. "Mira's getting the kids dressed. We're heading to visit family, but when I smelled your cooking…" he chuckled. "I ran out the door."
Kaela laughed. "You never change."
"How's work at the powder mill?" Barker asked.
Callen's smile dimmed.
"You look concerned," Barker said, narrowing his eyes.
Callen exhaled. "Work's fine. It's just... the orders for gunpowder keep rising—more every week since the emperor's death. I fear this war with the Arakanes is far from over."
Barker's grin faded, replaced by a knowing grimace.
"That's nothing new," he said. "This war's been raging since our great-grandfathers were boys. What worries me are the rumors."
Callen lowered his voice. "You don't really think the prime minister had the emperor killed… do you?"
"That's enough," Kaela said, gently but firmly. "Whatever's happening at the mountain's peak… It's beyond us."
After lunch, Rosario headed home. When he opened the door, the house was quiet—his parents must've stepped out.
He climbed the stairs, stripped down, and stepped into the shower. Steam billowed as water poured over him. He leaned into it, hands braced against the tile, eyes fixed on the back of his left hand.
He couldn't shake what he'd felt during his match with Lox—speed, strength, precision like never before. It had to be connected to the cave. To that mark.
He shut his eyes.
Darkness.
Then something sliced through it—a single flash of light, like a blade cutting reality itself.
His eyes flew open.
The sigil burned bright on his hand, glowing black in the shape of a sword.
So it wasn't a dream.
But despite the light, nothing else happened. He waved his hand. Punched the air. Same strength and awareness as before—but no explosion of energy, no supernatural surge.
Still, it was real.
Rosario finished his shower, toweled off, and went to his room, clean and clear-headed. He walked to the shelf where his longsword rested in its holder—a graduation gift from his father, given before Rosario left for his military service.
The weapon was nothing flashy. Its handle was black, the blade forged from ferralyte—a coal-gray industrial metal known for its toughness. Ferralyte was nearly unbreakable, highly resistant to rust and heat. In Kartha, it was shaped by working-class forges using high-pressure steam and traditional hammerwork passed down for generations.
Rosario picked up the sword with both hands and breathed deep.
He focused.
Again, the image cut through his mind: a blade slicing the void in half.
The sigil on his hand glowed.
He swung the sword.
Whoosh.
A violent gust blasted through the room, scattering loose papers and clothes. Across the room, well beyond his sword's reach, a deep slash appeared in the wall.
Rosario froze.
He looked at the glowing sigil, then at the gash on the wall.
"…Crap."
He rushed over, scrambled to rearrange some posters, and did his best to patch it up. Then he collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
What the hell was this power?
To cut beyond his physical range—what opponent would see that coming? It could be game-changing. But he couldn't shake the unease crawling up his spine.
Where had it come from?
And those symbols in the cave… what were they?
He sat up slowly.
There were no answers here—not in this room.
So he grabbed his coat and headed out.
The public library stood between the central market and the mayor's office—not as massive as the dojo, but grand in its own right. A three-story building of pale stone, it had tall rectangular windows spanning each floor. Four lined the front and back; five ran down each side. Massive columns adorned the entrance, spiraling upward into fine carvings, while a staircase led to three small windows nestled near the roofline.
Inside, it was bustling.
Scholars debated in low voices, clerks assisted readers, and students combed through shelves. The smell of old paper hung in the air—comforting, worn, a promise of knowledge.
Rosario made his way to the history section.
After a few minutes of browsing, he found a worn leather-bound book titled:
Prehistoric Times: A Study of Ancient Civilizations
By Lucerna Astelline
He settled into a quiet corner and flipped it open.
It is said that thousands of years ago, our ancestors lived under one great nation.
A singular empire that ruled all five continents.
They possessed marvels of technology that even the greatest minds of our time cannot comprehend.
Some records speak of an age when gods walked among mortals, and man wielded power not seen since the dawn of creation.
Rosario leaned back in his chair.
A lost empire. Gods. Power beyond imagination.
And now… a sword-shaped sigil glowing on his hand.
Something was stirring.
And he was standing at the edge of it.