In the depths of the forest lay a vast landscape, dotted with multiple dilapidated buildings and rusted container homes. At its center stood a large house—the Chief's palace—fenced and neatly kept.
This was one of four surviving districts in the Ashanti Region, called Afram. Amidst the misty, uneven terrain of the district was a broad orphanage, built like a church, painted white with numerous windows and rooms.
This is the "God Is Great Orphanage."
"Really?" a little girl asked, raising an impassive eyebrow.
"Yes. The Second World War was one of the most destructive and heartbreaking events in human history. It recorded over 100 million casualties in its first phase," Mrs. Olive answered, expecting an euphoric atmosphere.
The class stared blankly at her.
"Am I that bad in teaching history?" she asked, feeling uneasy.
"No. They're just angry that Big Brother isn't the one teaching this topic, as he promised," Elizabeth, a young early teenager, explained.
"They're trying to prevent you from reaching the Second Phase by pretending not to understand when you ask them."
Every student turned back, glaring at her, clearly wanting to put a hand on her.
"Alright, I get it now. Class, follow me," Mrs. Olive instructed, leaving immediately.
The students scowled at Elizabeth, twisting in anger.
"I just told the truth. Nothing else," she jeered, raising her hands as she walked through them. Their stern glances followed her until she was out of the class.
Near the garage, all the students stood as Mrs. Olive touched the palm verification scanning screen at the entrance.
BLINK!
A message appeared:
> [Mrs. Olive, you are forbidden from opening this. Sorry, but you cannot have access.]
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I can't believe Grandpa did this to me!"
She turned to the students, clearing her throat—but as she looked to address the situation, her eyes suddenly widened, pupils dilated.
"What's wrong, madam?" one asked.
The remaining children followed her gaze to see an injured Amoah, limping with bandages covering him. They winced.
Next to him stood a young, light-skinned Muslim girl with bright blue eyes, holding two boxes with an injured Ridge.
"Hello," he waved, a broad grin stretching across his face.
"Big Brother!" the kids rushed to embrace him, leaving only five older teenagers standing.
"Group 4 is a class of kids," Elizabeth muttered, rolling her eyes, as a hand rested on her shoulder.
"Well, it's because we're at the same level of education as these kids," Rich advised.
"Don't worry, it'll all change next year after the exams. Be a little patient, okay?"
She forced a fake smile, turning away.
"Big Brother! Save us from Mrs. Olive's history lecture… please!" a kid cried.
"Well, I'm sorry. Let's make things right—but first, help Zinat with the load. She must be tired," Amoah instructed, and they took the boxes from her immediately.
"Thanks a lot," he murmured, eyes glinting with appreciation.
"You're welcome. I was busy when Dad told me to help, so go now," she said. Then, as she turned away, she waved at Elizabeth before leaving.
Elizabeth frowned, brow furrowed.
Who's that? And why did she wave at me like she knows me or something?
"Now, come along," Amoah told them, and they obediently followed.
"So, is this guy a better teacher? No. Then why don't they pamper me like they used to?"
"That's because when History is concerned, he knows far more than the textbook itself," Elizabeth answered, as if reading her mind.
"His explanations are vivid, his theories about monsters are never wrong. Yes, he's not as bright in other subjects, but he learned a lot as a Knight Cadet."
"Well, that's true, I guess," Mrs. Olive admitted, then turned her back to leave.
"Goodbye, sis," he teased.
The kids, oblivious, also wished her goodbye. She frowned, leaving in a hurry.
"So now that she's gone, everyone must take a seat. The floor is clean," he instructed, and in seconds, they obeyed.
Amoah touched the gate, scanning his palm. The blue screen emitted a green light.
He removed his hand from the verification scanner.
> [Welcome back, sir. Please wait a moment.]
The garage slowly opened.
"Now, in the First World War, many speculate it was a war between gods and men—though some think aliens were involved. It's not confirmed yet, though.
The Second World War involved multiple nations seeking colonies. Europeans were extremely powerful, dueling each other in the 1890s. During that time, humanity's weapons evolved from gunpowder to missiles, which completely changed battlefields, along with countless inventions that didn't always benefit mankind—leading to the death of over 300 million people in this early phase."
He paused. The kids were attentive, the atmosphere euphoric.
"Do you guys have problems keeping up with my pacing?" he asked.
"No! We're following!" they replied.
"The world was recovering when a great virus struck, killing 40 million people in just two years. As always, humanity saved itself using the same intelligence that created missiles, battleships, armored tanks, and nuclear weapons. Many colonized nations were freed and began to rebuild their societies."
The garage entrance opened suspiciously slow. But his bandaged face never left their eyes.
"Eventually, humanity faced a new threat. In 1970, monsters infested the entire world. Dungeons and dark caves appeared, with creatures far stronger and more agile than modern weapons could handle.
A breakthrough came when scientists engineered a 'Sacred Beast' dinosaur—a giant peacock with dinosaur features—and used it for battles.
By editing its genes to match a T-Rex, they created a hybrid, but it backfired terribly. Elite soldiers were created afterwards, known to be twice as capable as the best humans. But even that wasn't enough, leading to the creation of the Iron Vortex Tier I."
The garage finally opened.
Jaws dropped as the students stared at the scrappy humanoid machine, towering seven meters tall.
Its energy-charged fist, once humming with power, now hung inert—scuffed and scratched from decades of neglect. A massive Gatling gun clung to its left arm, barrels dulled from tests long past.
The head, large enough to seat a pilot, was shielded by tough, spider-webbed glass, the cracks telling stories of battles long ago.
Its body, once lean and precise, bore dents and patches of rust, while the digitigrade legs ended in clawed feet—wheels stiff and groaning from disuse. Segmented armor hung slightly loose, pistons seized in place, and the glowing servo cables flickered faintly—a testament to raw power dormant for decades.
"Woow!" they gasped in disbelief.
"This is Grandpa's Vortex Tier I weapon. Scrappy, but it once was the continent's best monster-elimination machine, with 1,000 kills and a single-day record of 80—never broken by any Tier I pilot to this day.
This weapon was one of the reasons Afram District survived," he explained.
"Does it work?" Elizabeth asked, trying to stir trouble.
"No, it's damaged beyond repair. Maybe next time," Amoah replied.
"Wow, Grandpa was strong," a child admitted, sparking conversation.
Amoah smiled and turned to the machine.
"Too bad I wasn't a Knight. I could've brought one for you guys to experience how it feels inside the war machine," he muttered, as a little boy held his hands.
"Big brother, I want to be a Knight like Grandpa, but I'm not strong like you."
Amoah gasped, then knelt to hold Kevin's hand.
"Listen, being a Knight is a tough dream—even one I can't fully achieve. But it's not impossible for you. You just need to train extremely hard before you turn seventeen.
You have eight years since you're nine, so make it count," he advised.
"Hmm!" The boy nodded.
Shifting focus to the remaining students, he concluded,
"Class ends today. In our next meeting, we'll cover the topic of the Vortex Tier I pilot division, the Elite Cops, and the Knight Supreme—if we have time.
Go take your meals. It's nearly ten. Prepare yourselves for Maths. Class dismissed."
Rich approached him.
"Sir, I want to be a Knight too, but I want to be a Knight like you. So I promise I'll work hard to pro—"
He was cut off by Amoah's pale face. Without replying, Amoah walked away, leaving Rich sad.
From above, Mrs. Catherine, an old, fair-skinned woman with wrinkles, dressed in a long black robe and veil, watched the entire scene unfold.
"Sorry, dear," she muttered.
Amoah rushed to the bathroom, ready to shower. As the water sprinkled, a thought repeated itself in his mind:
Promise me!