The market was vast—so large that its edges seemed to dissolve into the horizon. Stalls were packed tightly together, stretching endlessly in every direction. Weapons hung from wooden frames, armor plates reflected dull sunlight, sacks of grain and spices filled the air with heavy scents, and merchants shouted prices until their voices blended into a single roar. Food stalls steamed with warmth, while blacksmith corners rang with metal striking metal.
A cart pushed through the chaos, its wooden wheels groaning as it struggled against the density of the crowd. People moved unpredictably, stopping suddenly, crossing paths without warning, and blocking the way without care. Eventually, the cart slowed… then stopped completely.
Balrad clenched his fists, irritation clear on his face.
"Oh man… these people," he muttered before losing patience entirely. He rose slightly and shouted with all his strength, "GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
His voice cut through the noise like a blade. Heads turned. Some people flinched, others scowled, but most stepped aside quickly. The pressure around the cart loosened, and soon it began to move again, rolling forward through the parted crowd.
Aron sat quietly on the cart, watching everything unfold. His eyes followed the shifting sea of faces—merchants, guards, beggars, travelers. He said nothing, his expression calm, almost distant, as if the chaos around him failed to reach his thoughts.
The cart finally stopped in front of one of the larger stalls. This one stood out—not because of size alone, but because of the craftsmanship displayed. Swords rested neatly along the walls, each blade polished and balanced. Tools were arranged with care, and the scent of metal and oil lingered in the air.
Standing there was Baro—an old friend of Balrad. He wore a wide, welcoming smile, the kind that came naturally to him. His posture was relaxed, his eyes warm. Being friendly was not something he tried to be—it was simply his nature.
"Hello!" Baro said cheerfully. "How are you, my friend Balrad?"
Balrad stepped down from the cart, his frustration already fading.
"I'm fine, Baro," he replied. "By the way, I want you to meet someone."
He turned his head toward the cart. "Come, Aron."
Aron stepped forward, meeting Baro's gaze.
Baro studied him carefully for a moment before smiling even wider.
"What a young lad," he said with genuine admiration. "Strong too—I can tell just by looking at him."
He turned back to Balrad, clearly pleased. "Come inside. Let's talk."
Balrad placed a firm but reassuring hand on Aron's shoulder.
"If you want to come, feel free," he said.
Aron nodded silently.
Balrad and Baro headed inside to discuss business. Aron stayed behind, standing near the cart. His eyes drifted back to the market, watching the crowd stretch endlessly in every direction.
That was when three children approached him.
They were small and thin. Their clothes were torn and stained, their skin dusty, hair tangled like clouds hardened by neglect. They stopped a short distance away and smiled—wide, hopeful smiles. Slowly, they raised their hands.
Aron frowned slightly, confused.
"What do you want?" he asked.
The children didn't answer. They only stood there, hands raised, eyes fixed on him.
Money, Aron realized.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coins Balrad had given him earlier. Aron rarely spent much; he had no real need to. Thirteen silver coins rested in his palm. Without hesitation, he separated six—two for each child—and placed them gently into their hands.
Their faces lit up instantly. They bowed clumsily, gratitude shining in their eyes, and then ran off into the crowd, laughter trailing behind them.
Aron watched them disappear before calmly placing the remaining coins back into his pocket.
Inside the stall, Baro poured tea for Balrad. The two laughed, reminiscing about the past.
"You nearly fell from that cliff that day," Balrad said with a chuckle.
Baro laughed loudly in response. Their voices echoed warmly through the room.
But they were not alone.
In one corner of the food place sat a group of eight men. They spoke quietly, eyes sharp, movements restrained. One leaned toward the one seated at the center—their boss—and whispered,
"This is the man. He makes the best weapons."
The boss's lips curved into a thin smile.
"Prepare the room," he said calmly. "Then we attack."
Unaware of what was coming, Baro continued speaking.
"There's no doubt," he said proudly. "You make the best weapons. The quality, the timing—it all shows in the sword."
Balrad sighed.
"I know, Baro. But you know my condition. I can't make weapons forever. Even if I die tomorrow… who knows?"
Baro's smile faded. Guilt and sadness crossed his face.
"I know," he said quietly. "But that boy… maybe you can teach him. Like you were taught."
Outside, a small stage had been set up. A crowd gathered in a wide circle. Performers danced, some breathing fire, others spinning flames in dazzling arcs. Laughter erupted as tricks succeeded—or failed.
A child laughed loudly among the crowd.
Aron watched—but something felt wrong.
A man dressed in black stood apart. His face was hidden. Still. Watching.
Inside, the conversation was abruptly interrupted.
The boss stepped forward.
"My name is Kenzith the Snake," he said as he sat down uninvited. His eyes were cold. "I hear you make very nice swords."
His gaze sharpened. "Tell me—what makes you so special that you are ruining our business?"
Balrad's expression hardened.
"Purity," he said angrily. "Dedication. Time. Things the Duffler brothers will never achieve."
Kenzith's eyes flared with frustration. He slammed a knife onto the table.
"Then I guess it's time to end your business."
He grabbed the blade and lunged for Balrad's neck.
But his hand was stopped.
Another hand had seized his wrist.
Kenzith froze. He followed the arm upward—then stared in disbelief.
"A kid?" he muttered.
Before he could react, a punch slammed into his face, sending him flying into the wall. Soldiers rushed forward—five of them.
One tried to set the cart on fire, but was knocked down instantly.
The soldiers attacked together, swords swinging at once.
Aron moved.
He jumped, twisted, dodged—side, down, up. Every movement flowed naturally. One by one, the soldiers were thrown into tables, slammed into walls, knocked unconscious with precise force.
Silence followed.
Balrad stared, stunned.
"Aro… Aron… how did you do that?"
Even Baro was speechless.
Aron stood calmly.
"I wondered if he would attack you," he said. "And he did. So I attacked him."
Baro exhaled sharply.
"We need to leave. Now."
Guards rushed in, imprisoning the fallen men.
As the cart rolled away later, swords delivered, Balrad finally spoke.
"You did great, Aron. Those moves—pure instinct. You must be very skilled."
Aron stared ahead.
"I used to be," he said quietly. "But I don't do it much now."
Meanwhile, elsewhere, a barn stood tall—home to elite horses.
Trail and Luxorious entered.
"These aren't normal horses," Trail said. "They choose their masters."
Nearly fifty stood there—different colors, shapes, strengths.
Some passed them by.
One with yellow hair and white skin walked toward Trail.
None approached Luxorious.
Until one remained.
Black hair. Massive build. Dark skin.
It stepped forward.
And stood before Luxorious.