Time moved forward — and so did the world.
What was once sacred… became standard.
Ore, once whispered about with awe, passed through the hands of common workers like iron or coal. No longer did people stop to feel its pulse or align with its light. They drilled it. Burned it. Powdered it. Sold it. Used it for transportation, for machines, for mining and waste systems. Anything but harmony.
Not because it was useless — but because they forgot its worth.
They called it "just a mineral."
A resource.
A fuel.
Fewer bonded with it.
Even fewer taught how to respect it.
People didn't reject Ore — they disrespected it.
They wore it as decoration. Burned it to light cities.
They took what was once bound to soul and spirit, and used it to boil water.
Yet, deep in the Core Realms, there were those who never forgot.
---
✦ Chapter: One Without Chains
Noa was born of that memory.
He was raised not to worship Ore — but to understand it.
To feel what it meant before ever touching it.
And to live as if it didn't exist, even while carrying it in his veins.
At fifteen, Noa stood at the edge of every tradition, carrying them forward while refusing to let them define him.
He had never synced with a Core Stone.
He had never absorbed power.
And yet — there wasn't a blade he couldn't deflect, a warrior he couldn't outmatch.
His body was the result of grind, not gift.
His instincts — earned through training that broke others.
His mind — forged by elders who whispered the old laws, and let him choose his own path.
He fought not like a boy trying to prove himself — but like a man who had already paid the price for strength.
When others mocked the old ways, he said nothing.
When they laughed at Ore, he listened.
Because one day — he knew they would remember what they forgot.
Noa didn't glow with power.
He didn't show off.
But anyone who stood too close to him… felt it.
> This is someone who doesn't use Ore.
This is someone who was forged to be it.
Chapter: Steel Against Shadow
The training hall was dim, built with tempered stone and shadow. No sounds echoed here — not the wind, not the birds, not even breath.
Only the sound of metal sliding free.
Noa, shirtless, lean but honed, stood in the center.
His hands gripped the hilt of a training blade, longer than his arm, carved not from ore — but from pure refracted skyglass. It hummed faintly when drawn, as if aware.
He lowered his stance.
Then he moved.
Fast. Precise. Beautiful.
Not wild like a soldier — but deliberate like a mathematician.
Each slash was followed by a pivot. Each pivot by a dodge, then a counter-strike. He wasn't just training.
He was fighting someone who wasn't there.
Noa's breathing didn't shake.
But his eyes — they never blinked.
His blade cut the air — again, again, again — sharper each time.
Sweat rolled down his back in perfect rhythm with the steps of his opponent — an opponent only he could see.
---
Lyric stepped into the hall, carrying a bowl of dried fruit.
> "You know… most people sleep."
Noa didn't stop.
Rowan walked in behind him, arms crossed.
> "He's not most people."
Lyric smirked.
> "Clearly. Most people don't spar with their own shadow."
Rowan pointed at the fruit.
> "Give him that. Maybe if he eats something he'll finally lose focus and give the floor a chance to win."
Noa still didn't stop.
Then, without warning — he lunged forward.
The sword hit the ground — sparks flying — as if it had struck something real.
The brothers flinched.
> "Whoa—" Lyric stepped back.
Noa rose from the landing, standing still — blade tilted, breath steady.
But behind him… his shadow moved differently.
It twitched. Then straightened.
It tilted its head — opposite of him.
And then — it spoke.
A voice like stone cracking underwater whispered:
> "You swing your blade well, child of blood. But you are not ready."
Noa's eyes narrowed.
> "You're not real."
The shadow grinned.
> "Not yet. But one day… you'll beg to fight someone else instead of me."
The temperature dropped.
From the hallway, Vareth had entered silently, arms folded, cloak still.
He watched. Not shocked — but measured.
The other family members had begun to gather near the archways, whispering. None dared interrupt.
Rowan muttered under his breath.
> "You sure he doesn't need a priest?"
Lyric replied, just as quietly:
> "He doesn't need saving. He needs something to break."
At the center, Noa lifted his blade again.
He took his stance.
The shadow didn't move.
Noa attacked.
---
A Voice in the Dream
The room was quiet.
Noa lay in bed, eyes half-lidded, arm draped over his chest. His muscles ached, but not in a way that bothered him. The type of ache that let you know you were growing. Becoming.
He drifted.
And the world around him dissolved.
He stood in a place that wasn't real — yet felt more solid than stone.
A field, endless and soft, with tall grass waving gently, though there was no wind.
In the middle of it, seated on a broken wooden bench with a crooked umbrella above him, was a man in a white robe. His sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked… completely relaxed. The kind of man who'd laugh before asking something serious.
> "Finally," the man said, waving. "You nap like a mountain. Took you long enough."
Noa didn't speak.
> "Ah," the man nodded. "Strong, quiet type. Love it. Adds weight to the moment."
Noa watched him carefully. "Who are you?"
The man smiled.
> "Me? Oh, just someone looking for heroes.
You can call me A."
He stretched his legs, then patted the seat next to him.
Noa stayed standing.
> "You're wondering if this is a dream. It is. But also, not really. Dreams are just the door. Some of us know how to step through."
> "Why me?"
> "Because, my not-yet-sure-if-he's-a-hero friend, I'm here to ask you something very important."
The man stood up. Brushed nothing off his shoulder. Then walked toward the tall grass, hands behind his back like a wandering teacher.
> "Tell me, Noa. What do you want to become… in this world?"
Noa thought. But the man didn't wait.
> "Do you want to fight battles? Lead people? Protect? Break? Save? Rule?"
> "Or do you just want to survive until the world forgets your name?"
He turned back.
> "Because I'll tell you something… Ore is dying."
Noa blinked.
The man continued:
> "Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day soon — the world will wake up and realize that Ore cannot save them from themselves."
> "We were born with it. Blessed. Surrounded. But instead of becoming more… we became dependent."
> "And when the last vein of Ore dries, the world will be forced to start over. From dust. From fire. From nothing."
He walked past Noa now, slow.
> "But starting over… is not always bad."
> "Before Ore, people were kinder. Softer. They grew slowly. But they grew together. Borders weren't drawn by power — they were shaped by need. Families mattered. Voices mattered."
He looked up at the unreal sky.
> "Ore sped us up. And sometimes… speeding up just makes the crash harder."
Noa stood silently.
> "You," A said, pointing now, "were not born from metal or chance."
> "You were born from the natural balance of all Ore — known and unknown. Every strand of power aligned within you… except one."
Noa's brows narrowed. "Which one?"
A grinned, but not happily.
> "Doesn't matter. You'll die if you take it. That's the cost."
He leaned forward now, close.
> "So I'm asking, plainly: will you be a hero in my story?"
> "If not, I'll find someone else. I always do."
Noa, intense and still, studied him.
> "You still haven't said what this story is."
A tilted his head.
> "It's the story of how we break before we become whole again."
Noa took a slow breath.
> "If this is your story… who writes it?"
A winked.
> "People like you."
He turned.
> "So. What'll it be?"
Noa finally asked, "Why me?"
A didn't stop walking.
> "Because you're the only one who hasn't decided yet."
And with that, the field folded like paper, and the sky turned into pages flipping backward—
Noa woke up. Eyes wide.
Chest still.
The question lingering like smoke:
> "Will you be a hero in my story?"