Nine hundred ninety-eight.

  Nine hundred ninety-nine.

  One thousand.

  Arka arrested the swing of his wooden waster precisely on the thousandth beat.

  His breath hunted, rhythmic and deep, dredging oxygen into lungs expanded by the agony of years of discipline. A thin aura of sublimating sweat rose from his skin, blurring the air around him like a heat mirage.

  He stood motionless, letting the wooden blade hang limp at his side.

  At nineteen years of age, Arka Sagara’s physique was a brutal masterpiece. He did not possess the lumbering bulk of a bear, but the dense, kinetic efficiency of a leopard. Not a single ounce of fat clung to his frame; there was only a cabling of muscle carved by pain.

  Shirtless, the anatomy of his back was laid bare as he rolled his shoulders. The trapezius muscles bunched hard, flowing down into the broad, sturdy sweep of his latissimus dorsi, tapering into a perfect V that vanished beneath the waistband of his training trousers. Every fiber looked like steel wire drawn taut beneath copper skin slick with sweat and natural oils.

  From the front, his broad chest rose and fell in slow, controlled tides. His abdomen was not merely symmetrical; it was a fortification. The obliques at his waist were etched sharp as shark gills—the result of thousands of torque-heavy evasions and slashes. Faint, jagged scars—souvenirs from merciless sparring sessions—decorated his arms and chest, a testament to a life that had never known the concept of leisure.

  Arka wiped the brine dripping from his sharp jawline, then turned his gaze West.

  His instincts, keener than any forged steel, snagged on an anomaly.

  In the distance, the Iron Mountains—that natural rampart dividing this world from nightmare—were being devoured.

  Clouds of pitch-black rolled over the peaks, not like vapor, but like soot spilling from a titanic kiln. The blue sky above Arka’s head began to retreat, hunted down by a darkness crawling with unnatural speed.

  FLASH.

  Blinding white light fractured the western horizon, illuminating the jagged silhouette of the mountains for a fraction of a second. It looked like a scar across the heavens.

  Arka did not blink. His lips moved soundlessly, calculating.

  One...

  Two...

  He watched the clouds churn, roiling as if something living and furious writhed within them.

  Six...

  Seven...

  The wind shifted. The air, previously warm and humid, instantly turned piercingly cold. The grass on the training field bowed in unison, terrified.

  Ten...

  Eleven...

  Twelve.

  BOOM!

  The thunder arrived late, but it struck with full force. It was no ordinary explosion. It was a heavy, low frequency that rattled the ribcage. It sounded like a colossal stone gate being slammed shut by a giant.

  "Twelve seconds," Arka murmured. "Four kilometers. But those clouds move too fast."

  Daylight was strangled.

  The shadow of the mountains elongated, then swallowed the entire valley where Arka stood. The sun vanished, replaced by a dread-inducing gray twilight. The temperature plummeted.

  The sweat on Arka’s back turned to ice.

  He looked up, staring at the black mass now hovering directly overhead. The vortex spun slowly, hypnotic.

  Then, the sky collapsed.

  HISS-CRASH!

  The rain did not sprinkle. A vertical ocean dumped from the heavens in a solid wall.

  The impact of the water was so violent it felt like gravel thrown against bare skin. In a heartbeat, Arka’s heated body was drenched.

  Steam hissed as it met the cold rain, billowing dramatically around his shoulders and arms. Wet black hair plastered against his forehead, water streaming down past his thick brows, tracing the curve of his high nose, and dripping from his chin.

  Arka did not move. He did not run for shelter. His feet remained rooted in the mud.

  The muscles of his arms tightened, veins popping along his biceps and forearms as he gripped the hilt of his waster tighter. Rainwater cascaded through the valleys of his chest muscles, pooling in his navel, soaking his trousers.

  In the midst of the raging storm and this unnatural darkness, Arka Sagara stood unyielding. His sharp eyes stared straight toward the Iron Mountains, now erased from sight, hidden behind a curtain of water.

  Something was wrong out there. And his body—the war machine he had spent a lifetime refining—was ready to welcome whatever came with the storm.

  Whoosh.

  The wooden sword sheared the air. Horizontal. Perfect.

  The blunt edge bisected the curtain of rain before him, creating a momentary void in the air—a straight line separating the water. Yet, the sky’s fury permitted no such dominance. In a fraction of a second, the wall of water sealed itself, swallowing the trace of Arka’s slash as if it had never existed.

  Arka snorted softly. Rainwater ran into the corner of his mouth, tasting flat and cold.

  He looked up, letting his face be hammered by thousands of liquid needles.

  The sky above was no longer a sky. It was a battlefield. Masses of black cotton roiled, choking out the last of the sunlight. Within the darkness, lightning ran wild. The light was not yellow, but a blinding white—like threads of incandescent filament swimming agilely in a sea of ink, seeking a place to drive their anger home.

  CRACK!

  A massive bolt struck, turning the artificial night into a pale day for a single second.

  The natural strobe light illuminated Arka’s sodden form.

  In the cruel glare of the lightning, his definition looked terrifying. His wet skin reflected the light like a bronze statue freshly doused in oil. No fat hid his anatomy. His muscles were not bloated sacks of meat, but woven fibers—thin, dense, and wiry.

  Every ridge of his abdomen, every striation in his shoulder, down to the fine veins creeping along his forearms, was exposed. It was a body built not for display, but for speed, endurance, and efficient killing. His collarbones stood out sharply, framing a sturdy neck, while rain glided down his slowly heaving chest.

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  "Enter..."

  The voice came from behind. Old, raspy, yet possessing an authority that fought to overcome the roar of the rain and the tremble of thunder.

  "This storm is unnatural, Arka!"

  Arka lowered his gaze, rolling his stiff shoulders. He turned slowly, his steps heavy on the mud. He walked toward the porch of the old temple where his grandfather stood.

  The wooden floorboards creaked softly under his weight.

  But Arka did not enter the warmth of the room.

  He stopped right at the lip of the porch, on the boundary between the dry and the wet. Without looking at his grandfather, he dropped down, sitting cross-legged on the cold wooden planks.

  He let himself remain there. Wet. Shivering.

  Water from his hair and trousers pooled around him on the porch floor.

  Arka’s black eyes stared straight ahead. Piercing the dense curtain of rain. Piercing the four-kilometer distance.

  He stared at the Iron Mountains, now just a titanic silhouette in the gloom.

  There was a subtle vibration in the ground that he felt through his glutes and legs. A vibration out of sync with the thunder. A vibration that felt like the heartbeat of a terrified earth.

  Arka did not blink. He waited.

  "Something is waking up, Grandfather," he whispered, his voice nearly devoured by the wind.

  His black eyes shifted slowly, scanning his surroundings.

  This temple...

  Under the assault of the storm, the old wooden structure looked wretched. Its shingled roof shuddered violently with every gust, leaking water here and there like wounds that refused to heal. The support pillars groaned, emitting long, sorrowful creaks, as if the building were a senile old man being beaten without mercy by nature, yet too weak to fight back.

  The fire in Arka’s eyes dimmed. His gaze was no longer that of a warrior, but one filled with pity. Melancholy.

  His sight landed on a small structure to the left of the main pavilion. There, hanging askew because its supporting nails had begun to rust, was a weathered teak board.

  Two words were carved there: HOUSE SAGARA.

  The corner of Arka’s lip quirked upward, forming a bitter smile.

  Irony, he thought.

  The carving was still bold. Thick, daring, full of arrogance. The kind of script made to be seen by thousands, to be respected, to be feared. But now, that bold script resided here—on the spine of a lonely hill, choked by a damp pine forest, exiled from the city’s bustle, and forgotten by the world.

  A name that once echoed, now merely historical refuse left to rot in the hinterlands.

  Arka’s mind drifted, piercing the walls of time.

  He imagined the ancient records stored in his grandfather’s cabinet. Scrolls that chronicled a golden age.

  In that time, "Sagara" was not just a name. It was an institution.

  This family was once so prosperous. They were the King’s right hand, war generals who dominated every inch of the Kingdom of Carta. The Sagara banner once snapped from the highest spires, respected by allies and dreaded by enemies. Their wealth was abundant, their influence boundless.

  But look at them now.

  Just an old man guarding a leaking temple, and a grandson practicing with a wooden sword alone in the rain. Collapsed. Finished.

  BLAAARRRR!!!

  Arka’s reverie was shattered.

  Thunder exploded right above the temple roof, so loud that wood dust fell from the ceiling onto his bare, wet shoulders.

  "Even the heavens forbid a little nostalgia, huh?" he hissed coldly.

  Arka looked up, his sharp eyes staring at a gap in the clouds above the roof ridge.

  There, a three-pronged bolt of lightning struck arrogantly. Its blinding white light seemed to be laughing at the rotting sign. Mocking this shivering old temple. Mocking Arka and the remnants of his family pride that were no longer worth a copper coin.

  Arka was not afraid. Instead, he stared back at the lightning with a challenging gaze.

  "Laugh," he murmured softly, his hand unconsciously clenching on his knee, bulging the veins of an arm coursing with hot blood. "Laugh while you can."

  "Come inside, the air is getting colder."

  Grandfather’s voice sounded so far away. As if the few meters between them had stretched into a chasm of time. The voice came not from the corner of the room, but from a faded past.

  Arka stepped inside, closing the wooden door behind him, cutting the roar of the storm into a dull mumble.

  He snatched a coarse towel Grandfather had draped over a nail near the door. The fabric smelled of mildew and old wood.

  As he dried his hair and changed into simple house clothes, Arka’s eyes locked onto a single point.

  In front of the cold stone hearth, his Grandfather was crouching. The back was hunched, shoulder blades protruding beneath a loose, oversized sweater. Those wrinkled old hands held a flint and coconut husk.

  Arka watched him for too long.

  Click. Click.

  A small spark appeared, then died. Appeared again, died again.

  His Grandfather was struggling. Fingers that might once have held an heirloom spear with gallantry now trembled just to light dry twigs. The old man’s breath sounded heavy, racing against the cold creeping in through the cracks in the walls.

  Arka’s hand, clutching the hem of his shirt, clenched tight. His knuckles turned white.

  Rage.

  His blood boiled. Not at his Grandfather—God, no. He was angry at... something. At fate? At the entropy gnawing their strength? Or at the world that let the Wolf of Sagara become old and weak like this?

  Arka couldn't stand it. He threw his towel onto a chair and strode quickly toward the hearth to take over.

  "Sit down."

  The voice arrived first, halting his intent. Calm, flat, but possessing an authority that stopped Arka in his tracks.

  Arka swallowed. He took a step back, then pulled out a creaking wooden chair. He threw himself into it.

  His eyes stared bleakly into the stove.

  The pile of dry wood was arranged neatly, awaiting a tongue of flame. But they remained silent. The wood seemed to stare back at Arka, mocking him. Look, they whispered, you don't even have enough heat to bring us to life. You are finished.

  Grandfather’s voice returned, breaking the faint roar of rain punishing the roof.

  "They have returned, Son... after so long..." Grandfather paused to catch his breath, his hands still trying to spark the stubborn fire. "They are knocking on the door again..."

  BOOM!

  Thunder detonated outside, vibrating the opaque window pane, as if confirming the fear.

  Grandfather did not turn. He continued, his voice sounding faint, laden with the burden of history too heavy for one man to carry.

  "And we face this as the Sagara of this era... with only two family members..."

  Arka’s jaw hardened. That sentence slapped his pride harder than the storm outside.

  Once thousands of troops. Now just an old man and a youth playing with a wooden sword.

  Arka shifted his gaze back to the stove, hoping to see warm orange light. Hoping for a shred of hope.

  But no.

  The wood pile remained dark.

  The hearth... still would not light.

  "Patience in these moments is also essential, Son," Grandfather’s voice was low, mingling with the clack of steel striking stone. "Perhaps... patience will save you a few minutes from death."

  Arka was stunned. The sentence was like cold water thrown over the embers of his anger. He stopped clenching his fists, his breath held.

  At that exact moment, Arka’s pupils dilated.

  Inside the dark, cold stone cavity, a small miracle occurred.

  A dot of orange began to bloom.

  At first, it was only the size of a fingernail, shyly consuming the coconut husk. But in seconds, it crept, spreading to small twigs, then snatching at the dry logs that had seemed so rebellious moments ago. The tongue of flame licked upward, dancing wildly, chasing away the damp air and the shadows that had gripped the corners of the room.

  Warmth began to caress Arka’s face. The hearth lived.

  "Tonight..."

  Grandfather’s voice sounded different. Stronger. As if the fire had also reignited the spirit within his old lungs.

  "House Sagara shall receive a new Aksesa."

  Grandfather slowly rose to his feet. His old bones popped softly, but his movement was steady. He turned fully, putting his back to the now-roaring fire, facing Arka squarely.

  Arka looked up, staring at the figure of the only family he had.

  He expected to see a weary face, a face filled with fear of the storm and a bleak future.

  But he was wrong.

  The firelight behind Grandfather’s body created a golden silhouette around his white hair. The wrinkled face was smiling. Not a bitter smile like before, but a sincere one.

  His gaze was so gentle.

  His face was peaceful, as if the storm outside no longer mattered.

  In those old eyes, Arka saw something that had long been missing from this house.

  It was the color of hope.

  "You are nineteen tonight," Grandfather said. His voice was no longer raspy, but commanding, echoing off the narrow wooden walls.

  Grandfather stared intently at Arka, as if seeing through skin and bone, looking at the soul residing within.

  "And House Sagara will birth a great warrior..."

  Grandfather raised his hand, pointing toward the window, toward the pitch-black West where lightning still tore the sky.

  "...who will stand before the Mirror Canyon, challenging the darkness hemorrhaging from within."