It was two days later, just after lunch, when Matthew sat alone in his room, absentmindedly flipping through one of the worn books he'd borrowed from the orphanage's tiny shelf, that a knock came at his door.
He looked up.
"Matthew," came Robert's voice from the other side—too polite, too careful.
The boy's small fingers stopped turning the page. "Yes?"
"Come. Someone's here to meet you."
Matthew blinked in surprise, closing the book and hopping off the bed.
The last two days had been quiet—eerily so. Life continued as usual. The food still tasted like boiled mush. The rooms still creaked under weak wind. But something had changed… subtly. Tod and Max had both noticed it.
The adults didn't yell at them as often anymore. That strange tension—the quiet threat that always hung in the air—seemed just a little lighter.
Still, neither of them said much about it. They didn't think it meant much.
Lucy hadn't approached Matthew again since that day. She still watched him sometimes, but mostly kept to herself. What she did notice, however, was undeniable: the adults were suddenly… nicer.
They didn't shove her when she passed in the hall. They even gave her a second slice of bread yesterday at breakfast. It was confusing. Unsettling even.
But she didn't question it. The adults were weird like that. Sometimes they were cruel. Sometimes they weren't. But most times… they were.
She just hoped this wasn't one of their games.
Back in his room, Matthew followed Robert into the hallway, unsure who could possibly be asking for him this time. The Cavias Family had already visited. And yet, there was something different in the way Robert walked, in the stiffness of his steps—like he was anxious again.
Matthew's stomach tightened slightly.
Something was coming.
Something important.
The young boy slowed his steps, his voice small but curious. "Who is it?" he asked.
Robert turned back toward him, lips pulling into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, he tried—tried to sound kind, tried to make the words smooth. "Good news, Matthew," he said. "I finally found someone—an Arts User—to teach you. Someone to show you the ropes. Everything about the Arts."
Matthew stopped in his tracks.
His breath caught.
"A… a teacher?" he whispered, barely able to believe it. His chest tightened—not with fear, but with something else, something burning, something bright.
He was going to learn more. About the One Power. About shaping it, bending it, wielding it. About what it meant to truly use it—not just Fireball, not just tricks. Real knowledge. Real power.
He was going to grow stronger.
He was one step closer to becoming the Red Sage.
A grin slowly crept across his face. His eyes lit up, wide with wonder and excitement.
He couldn't contain it.
Matthew jumped up, both feet leaving the ground as his arms shot into the air, pure joy bursting out of him in a way he couldn't control.
Robert blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden outburst.
Matthew landed and immediately straightened, a little embarrassed. "S-Sorry!" he said, rubbing the back of his head, his smile never fading. "I'm just so… so happy! Thank you, really!"
Even if he knew the truth—even if Robert only did this because Asvin had told him to—it didn't matter right now. The result was the same. Robert did it. Because of him, because of Asvin, he would now learn more than he ever could've dreamed of on his own.
He would be taught Arts—for real.
By someone who knew them.
By a professional.
Someone who could truly teach him.
His heart raced at the thought.
Robert waved a hand with a grunt, brushing it off. "It's nothing. But let's not keep our guest waiting."
As they walked down the halls toward the orphanage's entrance, Robert spoke again, tone casual, but slightly impressed. "He's a proper Arts User. Probably Rank 2, at least. Has green hair, goes by the name Micheal. Looks like he's in his late twenties."
Matthew's excitement only grew.
He was finally going to meet his first real Arts teacher.
As they reached the orphanage's entrance, Matthew's eyes immediately locked onto the figure standing just beyond the doorway.
Two of the workers were there, practically circling the man like moths to a flame. They were speaking to him with eager smiles and excited voices, nodding too often and laughing too loudly. Clearly, they were impressed—how could they not be?
Even a Rank 2 soldier would've drawn some awe.
But this man wasn't just a soldier.
He was an Arts User.
And that changed everything.
They were rare—unbelievably rare—especially outside of noble bloodlines. Most commoners never even dreamed of touching the One Power, let alone shaping it. A Rank 2 Arts User among them? That was as shocking as it was inspiring.
Matthew's heart beat faster, eyes tracing the man's every detail.
Just as Robert had described, the young man had short, messy green hair, and his eyes matched—deep green and almost glowing under the afternoon sun. His build was athletic but lean, and he wore a dark, travel-worn coat over simple clothing. He looked casual, almost carefree—but something about the way he stood, the quiet sharpness in his posture, told Matthew he wasn't someone to take lightly.
And then… a name flashed in Matthew's thoughts, unbidden.
Al-Bark.
One of the Four Human Kingdoms.
Known across the continent as the Land of Green—for its forests, its rolling hills, and its people, almost all of whom bore that same signature green hair.
So this man… he was from Al-Bark, then?
Matthew's eyes widened slightly.
That kingdom was known for its deep history with the One Power, its mysterious wandering Arts Users who trained in forgotten valleys and hidden schools.
And now, one of them stood here, in this orphanage.
To teach him.
Or… maybe he wasn't born there at all.
Green hair didn't guarantee it. Anyone with that striking shade had some trace—some distant bloodline—that tied back to Al-Bark, sure. But not all of them belonged to it. Some were born in faraway cities, even on entirely different continents, and had never stepped foot in the fabled kingdom. This man could be the same—just a distant descendant.
But honestly?
It didn't matter.
Not to Matthew.
What mattered was that he was here, right now. Not to pass through. Not to greet nobles or dazzle a court. No—he was here to teach.
To teach him.
The excited chatter from the workers stopped abruptly as they noticed the approaching pair. Their gazes flicked from Robert to Matthew, stepping aside instinctively.
The green-haired man looked up as well, his expression unreadable but focused. Calm, composed, and… curious, maybe.
Robert cleared his throat, forcing a smile onto his face.
"This is the boy I told you about," he said with a practiced wave of his hand. "Matthew, the one the Cavias Family asked be taught personally."
Matthew straightened his back just a little at that. The moment felt bigger than him—he couldn't help it.
Robert then turned to Matthew and gestured toward the man, "And this here is Mister Micheal, your new teacher. An Arts User, as promised."
Micheal gave a small nod, his gaze lowering to meet Matthew's. He didn't smile, but there was something in his expression—some flicker of interest or amusement—that made Matthew's heart race even more.
This was it. The beginning.
...
The backyard basked under the golden rays of the afternoon sun, its grass swaying gently with the breeze, untouched and eerily still. There were no children running, no laughter echoing, no wooden sticks clashing in mock battles—an unusual silence for the time of day.
But there was a reason for that.
Robert had given strict orders: no children in the backyard. If they wished to play, the front yard would have to do. For the next three hours, the rear courtyard was to be cleared and left undisturbed—for two people alone.
A boy and his teacher.
Matthew, the small seven-year-old with tousled blonde hair and bright blue eyes, stood quietly in the open field. Across from him, a figure only just taller than most grown men, yet youthful in appearance, waited with his hands folded behind his back. His short green hair caught the light, glinting in places, and his matching green eyes were calm but calculating.
Micheal.His new teacher.
After the formal introductions in the front, Robert had led them here personally, brushing aside the few children still lingering and barking out orders to the others nearby. Then, with a polite tone that didn't quite match the tension in his movements, he informed Micheal that he had full use of the backyard for the boy's training—however long it would take.
Then he left.
And silence followed.
Micheal didn't speak at first. He simply stood in place, his gaze scanning the space with a critical eye. The fences, the shade, the soil underfoot, even the worn wooden bench by the wall—all of it was observed with quiet focus.
Matthew didn't interrupt.
He knew this was a man who needed no prompting, who would speak when he was ready.
Then, after a long pause, Micheal gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture did—something looser, readier.
The backyard had passed the test.
Micheal finally turned his full attention to the small boy standing before him, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. His voice, calm and even, carried across the empty courtyard with a quiet warmth.
"As Mister Robert introduced earlier, I'll be your teacher from now on. My name is Micheal. Nice to meet you, young Matt... Can I call you that, if you don't mind?"
He extended a hand, open and unhurried, toward the child.
Matthew blinked, still a little stunned by the moment, then quickly stepped forward and grasped it. The boy's grip was small but eager, holding on for just a second before letting go.
"Nice to meet you too, teacher Micheal. And yes, you can call me Matt, I don't mind."
The green-haired man gave a single satisfied nod at that, his smile widening just a touch.
"Good."
Then, without another word, his gaze shifted—not at Matthew, but around him. Past him. Through him.
And the boy noticed it instantly.
He wasn't looking at the flowers in the corner, or the fence, or even the wind brushing the grass. No, Micheal's eyes were fixed on something else entirely.
The One Power.
The invisible blue threads that filled the world around them—the very essence of the Arts.
Micheal didn't react the way Matthew had expected.
There was no gasp, no sudden step back, no wide-eyed look of awe that always followed when others laid eyes on the invisible blue threads surrounding him—threads that shimmered brighter, denser, more numerous than any other blessed child they'd ever seen. That was what usually happened. Every time.
But not this time.
Micheal's expression stayed calm. Focused. Almost analytical.
Matthew blinked, his small brows furrowing. A strange flicker of disappointment crept into his chest.
Well… no, this wasn't the first time, was it?
There had been one other person who hadn't flinched when he saw how deeply the One Power ran through him.
John Cavias.
The Fierce Lion.
Even he, after simply glancing once, had only offered a nod and a soft comment about how "blessed" Matthew was—nothing more. No awe, no disbelief. Just quiet understanding.
Matthew exhaled softly.
Maybe Micheal was like him. Maybe being strong meant not being surprised anymore.
Still... he couldn't help but feel just a little let down.
Micheal finally broke the silence, his voice thoughtful as he looked at Matthew with a strange mix of curiosity and admiration. "I wondered," he said, "what kind of boy I'd be teaching in an orphanage like this… and what kind of boy could make the Cavias Family open their coffers just to hire a personal tutor."
He paused, eyes still fixed on the soft blue shimmer that surrounded Matthew.
"But now I understand."
His gaze sharpened, the corners of his lips lifting in a faint smile. "You're not just blessed, Matt. You're beyond that."
Matthew's cheeks flushed at the words, and he looked away, embarrassed. It was one thing to hear Max and Tod tease him about being talented—but this was a real Arts User saying it. A teacher. A professional.
Micheal chuckled warmly at the boy's reaction. "I mean it," he added, with no trace of mockery in his voice. "I've met many Arts Users, some of them quite skilled and talented… but none of them ever had the kind of raw potential I see in you. Not even close. That, I'm sure of."
Matthew glanced back up, still red in the face but smiling now, and gave a small, sincere nod. "Thank you… for the compliments, Teacher Micheal."
Micheal chuckled again, the sound easy and light. "No need to add Micheal every time after it," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "You can just call me Teacher."
Matthew nodded quickly, filing the note away in his mind with the kind of seriousness only a determined child could muster. His blue eyes stayed fixed on the green-haired young man before him—but not quite at him. Rather, they focused on the vibrant blue threads dancing and flowing gently in the space around Micheal.
He was special. That much, Matthew was sure of. Since gaining the ability to see the One Power, he had watched it swirl faintly around dozens—no, hundreds—of people. Some threads were dull, barely noticeable. Others, like Micheal's, were brighter and thicker, the Power naturally gravitating toward him in reverence.
But none—not even the dark-cloaked Arts Users who descended on his village with fire and blood—came close to this.
A flicker of anger crossed the boy's face. A shadow in his expression, as memories of destruction, smoke, and screams surged up. He clenched his small fists for just a moment before shaking his head and pushing the thoughts away. This wasn't the time.
Still…
There was one more. Someone even more favored than Micheal—though still beneath Matthew himself in the One Power's embrace.
The old man. The strange traveler who appeared in his village with words of mystery, a smile of wisdom, and eyes that saw more than any child could understand. The one who called himself Truth Seeker.
Matthew didn't voice anything about Micheal's aura—about the dense, vibrant threads of the One Power that clung to him like gravity itself. But he did make a mental note, etching it into the growing catalog of things he was beginning to understand about the world. His Teacher was special. That much was undeniable. And more importantly, he was capable. That brought Matthew a quiet kind of comfort. He was in good hands—hands that knew what they were doing.
Micheal exhaled, relaxing his shoulders as his eyes wandered across the backyard's untamed greenery. The golden light of afternoon danced between the branches, casting shifting shadows on the ground. Then, with a casual tone that still held an undercurrent of curiosity, he spoke again.
"So, young Matt… I've been told you can already see the One Power," he said, turning his eyes back to the boy. "And that you've even managed to perform an Art. Fireball, if I'm not mistaken?"
Matthew straightened, a proud smile forming on his lips. He puffed out his chest just a little, a flicker of pride lighting up his expression as he nodded.
Micheal raised his eyebrows slightly, a trace of surprise slipping through his calm demeanor. But he didn't question it—not yet. Instead, he gave a short nod.
"All right," he said, stepping back and folding his arms. "Before I ask how… I want to see it."
Matthew nodded, his expression sharpening with focus. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a steady breath, then opened them again—calm, but intent.
All around him, the invisible blue threads of the One Power shimmered faintly to those who could see them. And Matthew could. He reached for them with the ease of someone reaching for air—natural, instinctive. The threads responded, bending toward him like blades of grass leaning into the wind.
They gathered, swirling around his small frame, before congealing at his outstretched palm. Slowly, deliberately, he began to shape them. A flicker sparked in the center of the gathering energy—a flash of potential—and then, with a gentle whoomph, flame blossomed into life.
It hovered just above his palm, flickering with wild, contained energy.
A Fireball.
Micheal let out a low whistle, a genuine sound of surprise slipping from his lips. He drew in a quiet gasp, his eyes lighting up with awe as he gave a firm nod, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Wow… I expected it," he said, voice tinged with quiet wonder. "I didn't think that man would lie… but still, to see it with my own eyes… wow."
He stepped forward, and leaned in just a little, drawn by the soft, pulsing glow of the flame. The heat licked gently at his face, warm and real.
He studied the Fireball, eyes scanning every curve and flicker of the burning sphere. Yes, there were imperfections—small signs of a beginner's hand in the way it flickered unevenly, or the slight instability in its core—but none of that mattered.
Because it was real.
Real fire.
Drawn not from flint or match, but from the One Power itself.
An Art.
Micheal spoke again, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Makes sense now… why the Cavias Family took such an interest in you."
He shifted his weight to one leg, arms crossing as his expression turned more thoughtful. "But tell me… how is it that a commoner boy knows an Art? Seeing the One Power? Sure, I can believe that."
He began pacing slowly, his words picking up momentum, almost like a rant. "Plenty of farmers used to be soldiers or city guards. Some were even adventurers in their younger days. And any decent Fighter worth his salt learns to feel the One Power—so yeah, a young boy sensing it? Rare, but not impossible, even outside noble circles."
He turned back toward Matthew, eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. "But using an Art? That's… different. That's not something you see among commoners. Not even close. Even most noble children don't begin learning Arts until they're in their early teens. And the ones who start younger? They're practically prodigies."
He stepped closer, his gaze intense now, almost fascinated. "So… how?" he asked, eyes fixed on Matthew like the boy was a riddle begging to be solved.
Matthew cleared his throat softly, his voice steady but quiet as he began to explain. He spoke of the old man who had come to his village about a month ago — a wandering Researcher, cloaked in mystery, who called himself Truth Seeker. The old man had only stayed briefly, but in that short time, he had changed everything. He taught Matthew how to see the One Power, told him he was special — very special — and then, without warning, taught him the Fireball Art… and vanished.
Micheal's eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his face. "Did you say… Truth Seeker?"
Matthew nodded with a small smile, repeating the name. "Yes. That's what he called himself."
For a few seconds, Micheal didn't respond. He just stood there, blinking, stunned into silence. Then, suddenly, he let out a low whistle. "Huh… Truth Seeker… No way… Really? How? That's—hah!" He let out a laugh, incredulous and sharp, almost disbelieving. "Hahaha!"
He laughed again, shaking his head as if the information was simply too absurd to process. Matthew blinked, curiosity bubbling up inside him. He tilted his head slightly and asked, "Do you know him, Teacher?"
"Yeah, of course I do... How could I not?" Micheal said, still shaking his head with a disbelieving grin. "I'd think any decent Arts User has heard of the man at least once—especially Researchers. He's a Rank 8 prodigy, a scholar of old. Travels the world, exploring ruins, forgotten texts, and developing new Arts… things no one's ever seen before. Arts most believed impossible to create."
Matthew blinked, stunned. That meant the old man… was a big deal, didn't it?
A Rank 8 Arts User?
That was… crazy. Too crazy for him to even comprehend. In all of Decartium, the strongest Arts Users—heroes in their own right—were only Rank 5. The Yellow Sun and the Green Sage. Both held in awe and spoken of like legends.
And yet Truth Seeker, the quiet, strange old man who had taught him how to see the One Power and form Fireball… he was Rank 8?
His first teacher?
Matthew's mind reeled, but in a strange way, it also clicked. Now it made sense why the man had a title. Not just a name—a title. Any Rank 8 would be known across the continent, maybe even the entire world.
Just like the Shadow Assassin.
Micheal shook his head again, a half-grin on his face as his thoughts wandered aloud. "Last I heard, he was in Pantos. Doing something in Market, I think… And now, he's here in Rosendar? Huh. Interesting."
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was working through a puzzle in his head. "I wonder… is he going to check out the Haunted Forest? I mean, Rosendar doesn't have many ancient places to explore. Not like Thantanos, and definitely not like Pantos, as far as continents go."
Matthew nodded slowly, agreeing with the assessment. It was true—when it came to strange and mysterious places, Rosendar had the Haunted Forest and a number of Dungeons that cropped up here and there, maybe a few places scattered around, but that was about it. Maria, the subcontinent to the north, was more of the same—scattered secrets, some ruins, nothing legendary.
But Thantanos? That was different.
It was ancient. The seat of old power. The place where the grand empires of the world had risen and fallen, layer upon layer of history buried in the soil. You couldn't walk for long there without stepping on something older than your ancestors.
And then… there was Pantos.
Legendary, mythical even in parts. Whole regions cloaked in mystery. The Great Desert, stretching endlessly. The Dark Lands, whispered of in fear and awe. Places barely mapped, some never returned from.
Matthew had learned it all in books. Maps, journals, encyclopedias… he'd devoured them, cover to cover. And this—this was why he read so much.
Because the world was wide, wild, and full of secrets just waiting to be found.
Micheal spoke again, his voice quieter this time, thoughtful. "I'm not sure if this really is the Truth Seeker… but if it is, then yeah… it makes sense why he'd choose to teach you." His gaze lingered on the boy for a long moment, not with doubt, but with something like wonder. "You're… not just blessed, Matthew. You're beyond that. I haven't met anyone—anyone—who reaches your heights."
Matthew's face flushed at the words. He looked down, not quite sure what to say, his lips twitching into a small, awkward smile, but he said nothing. Compliments like that were still new to him—especially ones so heavy.
Micheal gave a small chuckle and shifted the mood forward. "Anyway," he said, brushing his hands together, "now that we've got all that out of the way… tell me everything you know about the Arts and the One Power. I need to know where you stand before we begin."
Matthew gave a quick nod, straightening slightly. There was a flicker of pride in his chest—small, but real. He might not have met many Arts Users in person, but he'd read about them. A lot about them. Famous names, lost Arts, impossible feats. His head was full of stories, facts, and fragments from dusty pages and worn scrolls.
He definitely knew more than most commoners. Of that, he was certain.
The young boy drew in a steady breath and began, his tone focused and clear despite the nervous flutter in his chest. "I know that the term Art User is very vast," he said, "and that there are many types of Arts Users. Those who use elements to fight and innovate are the main ones—and probably the most common kind around the world."
Across from him, Micheal gave a small nod of approval, but said nothing, letting the boy continue uninterrupted.
"Next," Matthew went on, "there are Researchers, like the Truth Seeker. I don't know much… but I do know they create things using Arts. Like the crystals we use to cook, or to power baths and showers. I think most of them stay out of fighting and just focus on discovery."
He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly as if gathering courage, then smiled a little—shy but proud.
"And the third and final type I know about are the Sages," he said. "I only know a little about them, but I read they use something called the Origin… and that the Light Emperor was one of them."
Micheal opened his mouth to speak—but Matthew, flustered, cut him off unintentionally with a last thought that burst out before he could stop it.
"Oh! And… the Green Sage isn't actually a real Sage," he added quickly, a bit embarrassed by the interruption. "Even though it's in his title. The people who gave it to him… I don't think they really understood the difference between what Arts Users are called."
There was silence for a second—just the rustle of trees in the quiet backyard—and then Micheal's lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile.
The green-haired young man spoke again, his tone calm and assured, "That's a very good observation—and a true one at that. Yes, the Green Sage is not actually a Sage. In fact…" He paused, his gaze steady, "in the known world right now, there are no true Sages."
Matthew's eyes widened, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. No Sages? That couldn't be right. The title was spoken of with such reverence, such awe, in every book he'd read.
But Micheal continued, unfazed by the boy's shock. "No one knows how to reach the Origin anymore," he said, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. "People of past times did, like the Light Emperor you mentioned. He lived during the age of legends… when the Black Emperor ruled the world alongside his younger brother, the Lord of Darkness. The two of them dominated history for a thousand years."
Matthew's head moved in a slow, reverent nod. He knew about that. The Era of Eternal Night—tales wrapped in myth and dusted with wonder and fear. But still, he didn't interrupt. Just like Micheal had given him space to speak and be heard, he would do the same for his teacher.
He listened, fully, deeply—eager to learn.
"Actually, the Light Emperor helped the Squad of Dawn in their last battle against the Black Emperor," Micheal added, his tone shifting slightly as if touching a sacred tale passed down through the ages.
Matthew's eyes lit up with recognition—he knew that. He remembered reading about the Squad of Dawn and their final, desperate fight. But more than that, he felt something stir in his chest, something he had to say.
That the Black Emperor hadn't died in that battle, like the books and old soldiers claimed.
But before he could speak, Micheal casually mentioned it, like an offhanded correction. "Of course, as we now know, the Black Emperor didn't die that day, not really…"
Matthew blinked in surprise before chuckling softly. "I already knew that," he said.
Micheal turned toward him, eyebrows slightly raised. "You did?"
Matthew nodded with a small smile. "Max told me about it."
Micheal tilted his head slightly, processing the name—Max—but didn't press further. Whoever they were didn't matter much right now. What mattered was the knowledge.
"Interesting," he said, filing it away before continuing, "Aside from the Light Emperor, another prominent figure known to have been a Sage is the Blood Count… or, as most know him by, the Last Emperor of the Elves."
Matthew gasped at the mention—not out of surprise, but out of excitement. The Blood Count was a figure who had fascinated him for as long as he could remember. He raised his hand without thinking, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Micheal caught the gesture and gave a patient, encouraging nod. "Go ahead."
The young boy wasted no time. "The Blood Count fought many times against the Hero of our Kingdom four hundred years ago… Aron the Knight!" His voice carried a note of reverence, then grew even more animated. "And—and… Aron the Knight is rumored to have worn the famous Black Wolf armor in those fights!"
The name alone seemed to shimmer in the air—Black Wolf—a myth, a legend, a mystery whispered through pages and fireside stories.
Micheal opened his mouth, clearly ready to dive deeper—especially now that a Hero and his legendary armor had entered the conversation. His eyes lit up for a split second, but then he caught himself. He cleared his throat, straightened slightly, and the glint of excitement in his gaze dimmed with restraint.
He was here to teach Arts, not recite history.
Shifting his tone, Micheal spoke again, steady now, "You know, Matt… there are other sources out there. Ways to perform Arts beyond what most know—beyond even the One Power."
Matthew blinked, his curiosity reigniting like a spark. "Other sources?" he repeated under his breath.
Micheal nodded. "Yes. Though the only known one today is the One Power—the blue threads that float around us, the ones you're already familiar with… there are whispers of others. Forgotten. Lost."
The young boy gasped.
Micheal's voice lowered as if sharing a forbidden truth. "One such source… is the Origin. Rumored to be stronger than anything the One Power could ever manage. It's what the Sages draw from—those like the Light Emperor… and the Blood Count."
The young boy's eyes lit up, his heart fluttering with a mix of awe and resolve. The Origin… It wasn't just a myth—not to him. It was a path. A purpose. His dream had always been to become someone like the Light Emperor or the Blood Count—no, not just like them. Greater.
He had already chosen his title. The Red Sage.
He had promised his—
He paused, the breath in his chest tightening. A shadow passed over his eyes as memory crept in—his parents. Gone now. Burned from the world by the hands of the Black Tower. That nightmare still lingered at the edges of his dreams. He shook his head quickly. Not now. This wasn't the time for sorrow. He couldn't let himself drown in those memories. Not when he was standing on the path toward everything he'd ever wanted.
Micheal's voice brought him back to the present, steady and calm, "There are some other sources… rare, old, but—now's not the time to dive into them."
Matthew nodded, the fire in his chest burning brighter than ever. One day, he'd uncover them all. Starting with the Origin.
Micheal smiled as he caught the spark in Matthew's wide, curious eyes—the kind of expression only someone genuinely thirsty for knowledge could wear.
"Yes," the green-haired teacher continued, folding his arms as he spoke in that calm, thoughtful tone of his. "Art Users are what the world calls anyone who can perform an Art. But what people usually mean when they say that are Elementalists—the ones who use fire, water, air, and earth. The flashy, battlefield types. They're the ones you'll find in tournaments, armies, and Adventurer squads."
Matthew nodded slowly, already familiar with that part, having read about Fireball duels and Water Blade contests in old books. But Micheal wasn't done.
"And like we said before," Micheal went on, "Sages are different. They don't use the One Power. They draw from something far deeper—the Origin. But as far as anyone alive knows… they're extinct now. All of them. The last Sage disappeared hundreds of years ago."
Matthew bit his lower lip. Not all of them, he wanted to say. Not if I have anything to do with it.
"Now," Micheal added, his voice shifting subtly, "that brings us to the third kind… the Researchers. Yes, they're responsible for many of the magical technologies we rely on—cooking crystals, lighting stones, barrier orbs, and so on—but their role isn't just to build things."
Matthew leaned forward slightly, already caught in the rhythm of the lecture.
"They also use a unique branch of Arts. Something most people haven't even heard of." Micheal paused for dramatic effect, then said with a faint smile:
"Theoretical Arts."
Matthew gasped, eyes growing large. "Theoretical Arts?" he echoed, stunned. "What's that? I've… I've never heard of it before!"
Micheal's smile deepened. "I figured you hadn't. Very few have."
Micheal gave a slow nod, as if preparing Matthew for a truth he wouldn't find in most books. His voice lowered slightly, not in secrecy, but in reverence.
"Theoretical Arts," he began, "are what we call Arts that don't fall under the elemental categories. They're... different. Unique. Strange to most people."
He took a step across the grass, eyes scanning the horizon as if picturing something far beyond the orphanage walls.
"Things like opening portals to places far away—across cities, countries, or even continents. Creating gems that repel monsters—the kind every major city embeds into their walls. Stepping into shadows and disappearing. Animating stone into Golems that can fight, think, even build… all of these, they're Theoretical Arts."
Matthew's breath caught. Portals? Golems? Shadowstepping? That sounded almost like something out of fantasy. And yet, here was his teacher, listing them like they were real—because they were.
"It's a very advanced form of Arts," Micheal went on, his tone sharpening. "Very few can manage it. Not because it's more powerful than the elemental kind—though it can be—but because it's more demanding."
He turned to face Matthew directly.
"It requires immense mathematical precision. Complex energy structures. Deep understanding of spatial dynamics, of logic, of how reality bends when pushed just right. You need a genius mind to even begin to pull it off."
Matthew listened like someone being told about a new world. And Micheal wasn't finished.
"That's why," the teacher said with a faint smile, "Researchers are divided into two types. The Inventors—the ones who make the magical tools we use every day. And the true Researchers—the ones who study the impossible and dare to make it real."
He let those last words hang in the air like a challenge.
Micheal's voice didn't waver, but his tone darkened slightly as he continued, like someone stepping into the edge of a dangerous memory.
"And… from what I've gathered, most Theoretical Arts—especially the groundbreaking ones—are inspired by the Disasters."
Matthew's body froze.
That word. Disasters.
He'd heard it before. Everyone had.
The air seemed to tighten around him for a moment, even the ever-gentle wind over the backyard grass pausing as if listening in.
Disasters weren't just myths or cautionary tales. They were real. Humans born with abilities so overwhelming, so unnatural, that the world had no other name for them. They weren't called prodigies, or chosen ones, or miracles.No.They were called Disasters—for what they caused. For what they were.
He swallowed hard, the name of the organization that dealt with them crawling out of his memory like a cold whisper: The Blood Court.
An ancient group feared by commoners and nobles alike. It was said they didn't answer to kings or councils. They served only one man—one being.
The Blood Patriarch.
Micheal noticed the sudden stillness in Matthew's posture, and though he didn't comment on it, he didn't need to. That word had the power to silence entire rooms.
"They say the Blood Court hunts them," Micheal went on quietly. "Contains them. Studies them. And sometimes... learns from them."
His eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. "And some of those studies… lead to Theoretical breakthroughs. Like stepping through a shadow... or bending space for a single breath."
Matthew didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
The world felt just a little bigger… and far more dangerous than it did a few moments ago.
The young boy took a deep breath, steadying the sudden weight in his chest, and shook his head a little.
Even more than the Black Tower—the monstrous enemy that haunted his every step—or the whispered rumors that the Black Emperor himself still walked somewhere in the shadows of the world, it was them that frightened him most.
The Disasters.
Because they weren't armies.
They weren't monsters.
They were humans—and yet, they were too much.
Too powerful. Too limitless. Too terrifying.
Matthew had read about one of them before. A figure that still haunted the pages of old tomes—the Portal Disaster, the one who once stood beside the Lord of Darkness himself, the younger brother of the Black Emperor.
It was said he could open gateways wide enough to swallow entire armies—tear through the very air and deliver legions of soldiers anywhere on the world in seconds.
And sure, in today's world, Researchers tried to mimic that feat. But they came with chains. Limits. Rules. A single person at a time, or maybe two. You couldn't leap from continent to continent, or carry an army with you. That dream remained firmly sealed behind impossible theories and fragile calculations.
But the Portal Disaster had none of those restrictions.
No rules.
No limits.
Just power.
And he wasn't even the most terrifying of them.
This was why Disasters weren't just feared. They were hated, hunted, and sealed—not by kings or noble families, but by the Blood Court itself.
And perhaps the most disturbing thing of all?
Every single one of them had been human.
Not elves.
Not dwarves.
Not Half-Animal.
Not Drakes.
Not anything else.
Just humans.
People like Matthew.
And that, more than anything, sent a chill down the young boy's spine.
Micheal cleared his throat softly, the subtle sound pulling Matthew out of the storm of thoughts spiraling in his head. The boy blinked, his breath hitching for just a moment as he turned his wide blue eyes toward his teacher.
Seeing he had the boy's attention again, Micheal gave a small nod, then continued, his tone now measured and calm, "As I just said, Theoretical Arts try to imitate the Disasters. Portal creation, for one, is a clear example. There are others—dozens, really—but the key is that Researchers are always chasing the impossible."
Matthew gave a stiff nod, still trying to wrap his head around it all. The world had seemed huge before, full of mystery and danger, but now it felt even bigger—unknowable. Still, what Micheal said made sense. It filled in gaps Matthew hadn't known were there.
And it brought a new, dangerous question to life inside his young mind.
If Theoretical Arts tried to imitate Abilities…
Then did that mean Abilities were, in some way, just advanced Arts?
Could those terrifying powers—the kind that made entire kingdoms shake—be reached by practice? Training? Could anyone, given enough time, unlock what only the Disasters had once wielded by birth?
Could the boundary between Arts and Abilities… be broken?
The idea gripped him hard. And he couldn't tell whether it excited him—or terrified him more.
Micheal's voice cut through the silence once again, steady and clear, drawing Matthew out of the swirling thoughts clouding his mind.
"So, we've spoken about General Art Users, Researchers, and Sages..." the teacher said, his tone shifting toward finality, "...There are a few more types of Art Users out there, but they're not that important to us at the moment."
Matthew's shoulders dropped ever so slightly. A faint flicker of disappointment flashed in his eyes. More types? Just how vast was the world of Arts? He wanted to know—needed to know. But he didn't push it. Micheal was the teacher. There had to be a reason he was holding some things back for later.
So Matthew stayed quiet, watching and waiting.
Micheal didn't keep him in suspense for long. He stepped forward slightly and tilted his head, green eyes studying the boy again. "Alright," he said, shifting gears, "let's move on to the next thing… Do you know where your affinities lie, young Matt?"
Matthew blinked. He hesitated, then slowly shook his head. His voice was quiet. "I… don't even know what that word means."
Micheal let out a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly, the late afternoon light catching in his green eyes.
"Fair question," he said, his tone patient. "Affinities are… well, they're the things you're most naturally attuned to. Your connection to certain types of Arts."
He took a step back, folding his arms as he began to explain more clearly.
"Some people, for example, are just better at learning Fire Arts. Others take more naturally to Air, or Water, or Earth. Some can even be attuned to two or more elements. It doesn't mean you can't learn the others—technically, with enough training, anyone can learn anything."
He paused, giving Matthew a knowing look.
"But affinities help us focus. They keep us from wasting years trying to master something that just isn't suited to us. That's why we check for them early on."
He tapped his chest lightly. "For example, I'm attuned to Fire and Air. So, I mostly use those in battle and in crafting. Doesn't mean I haven't studied the others… but Air and Fire are what I'm best at."
Matthew's jaw parted ever so slightly, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and innocent curiosity. He tilted his head, voice soft but inquisitive as he asked, "Umm... Teacher, aren't you only Rank 2 or 3 at most? So... How do you know so much? How are you able to master so many Arts even though you're... Umm... Sorry."
The last word trailed off like a whisper he wished he could pull back. He was about to call Micheal weak—almost did—but stopped himself just in time, his lips pressing into a thin line of regret.
After all, in the grand scale of the world, Rank 2 and 3 Art Users were considered barely more than beginners. Capable, yes. Skilled, maybe. But powerful? Not even close. The true greats, the ones people whispered about in taverns or recorded in books, were Rank 6 and above. That's when one earned the right to be called strong.
Micheal smiled at the young boy's question, the corners of his mouth lifting with quiet amusement.
"Well," he began, voice smooth and calm, "Ranks aren't always what they seem, young Matt. What you see and understand doesn't always reflect the truth. Some Art Users are very good at hiding their real aura from others."
He let that sit for a second, then chuckled softly.
"But yes, you're right—I'm only Rank 2. Close to Rank 3, but not quite there yet. As for how I know so much?" He tapped a finger to his temple with a wink. "I had an amazing teacher. Someone incredibly strong and wise... knew almost everything there was to know about the Arts and the One Power."
Matthew's eyes lit up, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. "Who was it?" he asked, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.
But Micheal simply shook his head with a teasing smile. "Just someone I met on my travels in Valria," he replied, letting the mystery hang in the air.
Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he pointed at Matthew—and then at himself. "And you, young Matt... you've got me now. Haha! With you being blessed by the One Power, and me as your teacher? You'll hit Rank 0 in no time!"
Matthew's eyes nearly popped out of his head, wide with disbelief. "Really?? I… I'll be Rank 0? Like… like able to fight with weak guards and soldiers?" he asked, voice trembling with excitement.
Micheal gave a steady nod, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"Not just fight," he said calmly, "but win. Remember—sure, there are exceptional Fighters in the world, like the Shadow Assassin or the Dragon Slayer… but on average? Art Users vastly outclass Fighters."
The words lit a fire in the young boy's chest. He couldn't hold it back—his joy burst forth like a geyser. He jumped in the air with both fists pumped high, spinning on the spot, nearly bursting with excitement.
He was going to be a Ranker.
Even if it was just the beginning—just Rank 0—it didn't matter. Because it meant he could finally, finally begin his journey.
The journey to becoming the Red Sage.
Micheal burst out laughing, the sound light and genuine, echoing through the empty backyard. Matthew blinked, then turned away, a little embarrassed by his own outburst—but after a second, he laughed too, the excitement still bubbling in his chest, too bright to hide.
...
Under the warm afternoon sun, Micheal took a few slow steps back from the boy, his green eyes narrowing in focus. He reached out and touched the air—not the air, no, the threads. The invisible blue strands of the One Power, humming gently in the world around them. Not to Matthew, of course.
Micheal had explained about what he was doing earlier, about the performance he was about to begin.
The Six Pointed Star.
A Theoretical Art, not overly demanding, mostly used by Teachers. It allowed them to see where someone's affinities lay. It was simple in principle but beautiful in execution. The six elements—Fire, Water, Air, Earth, Light, and Darkness—each had their place on the star.
The threads gathered quickly around Micheal, drawn to his will. They circled him like threads of silk caught in a breeze, then spiraled inward and congealed, slowly forming into the sharp edges and symmetry of a six-pointed star. He exhaled gently, a soft breath filled with intent, and the star burst into visibility, glowing with pale light as it floated beside him—perfect, humming, radiant.
He then pointed it toward Matthew.
The star floated forward with an eerie grace, drifting slowly across the short distance that separated it from the young boy. Matthew stood still, eyes wide, breath held, as the shimmering Six-Pointed Star approached.
Then—contact.
It passed through him like mist, without resistance, vanishing into thin air the moment it emerged from the other side of his small frame.
Silence followed. For a few seconds, nothing happened. But Micheal stood still, his eyes distant, his mind alight with the flood of information the Art delivered. That was how it worked—the moment the star completed its passage, its knowledge was imprinted into the Performer's thoughts.
He blinked, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Well then," he said, glancing back at Matthew, who stared up at him with pure anticipation. "Looks like Air, Fire, and Earth... those are your strongest affinities."
Matthew couldn't contain himself—he jumped with both feet off the ground, arms raised high in the air as a wide, gleeful grin stretched across his face.
"Yes!" he beamed. "I match with you, Teacher! But I got Earth too—ha!" He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "No wonder Fireball was so easy to learn…"
Micheal let out a low whistle, nodding in impressed agreement. "That explains it then. Strong affinity means strong results. My first Art, actually, was Wind Gust. Real popular one among beginners."
He shifted his weight and crossed his arms with a smirk. "Simple, but useful. You can use it to push enemies back, or push yourself out of danger. Even boost your speed if you get the angles right. It's what I'll be teaching you next."
Matthew's jaw dropped, his eyes sparkling as a wide smile crept onto his face. His next Art… He was actually going to learn another one. Wind Gust. He'd read about it before, imagined it a dozen times, but to hear he was finally going to learn it?
It felt like a door was opening.
For a whole month, he had been stuck repeating the same Art over and over—Fireball, Fireball, Fireball. And sure, perfecting it, making it faster and more efficient, had been rewarding in its own right. He was proud of how far he'd come with it.
But now… Now he was moving forward.
To be a true Arts User, he needed more than one trick. He needed knowledge. He needed power. He needed variety. And finally, finally, that journey was beginning.
As that grin of happiness lit up his face, Matthew made a quiet note to himself: he'd thank Asvin the very next time he saw him. Because this—this—was all possible thanks to Big Bro Vin.
Micheal chuckled at the young boy's reaction, arms crossed, his voice calm but laced with amusement. "Well then, ready to learn more Arts, young Matt?"
Matthew nodded, eyes burning with excitement, feet almost bouncing in place.
And just like that, the training began—step by step, thread by thread. The air shimmered with promise, and under the fading sun of the orphanage's backyard, a quiet truth settled into place:
The journey to becoming the Red Sage had just become one step closer.
—End of Chapter.