Ryan, Maya, and Artisan rode steadily through the winding roads of the Jira Kingdom, their carriage creaking softly as its wheels pressed into the earthy trail. Outside, rolling fields shimmered in a warm breeze, the sun-drenched grasslands swaying like waves under a golden sky. They had crossed into Jira easily—borderless in everything but name, as Aston City shared its southern edge with the kingdom.
Inside the carriage, the air was quiet except for the occasional rustle of parchment. Ryan sat in the corner, surrounded by a fortress of books—old volumes with frayed covers, hand-stitched scrolls, and brittle maps inked by unknown hands. His eyes darted across the pages, hungry, consuming knowledge about the Sony Kingdom and Jira—its politics, power dynamics, trade routes, and military strengths.
Artisan leaned back, eyebrows raised as he whispered to Maya, "Does he always study like this?"
Maya, her arms folded across her chest, replied under her breath, "No. This is the first time I've seen him like this."
Ryan didn't acknowledge them. His focus was absolute. To Maya, it was as if the old Ryan—the careless son, the fool of the family—had been buried somewhere on the road behind them.
The carriage creaked along the winding road, its wheels thudding gently against ruts carved by generations of trade and travel.
the Jira Kingdom bloomed in color and clamour.
Clusters of roadside villages flanked the path like beads on a necklace, each one humming with its own rhythm of life. Bright tarps rippled like sails in the breeze, sheltering stalls where merchants shouted over one another—their voices sharp and sticky as honeyed fruit. The air was thick with the scent of roasting spices, sun-warmed leather, and the occasional metal tang of coin.
Children darted barefoot through courtyards, their laughter as high and clear as birdsong. Foreign travellers moved through the dust-choked lanes, robes trailing, eyes wary, languages spilling like unfamiliar music from their tongues. The road was not just dirt and stone—it was a vein, pumping the lifeblood of trade and culture across the kingdom.
Jira sat like a jewelled heart at the planet's centre—its pulse quickened by silver-tongued diplomats and merchant princes fat with ambition. Its rise had been no accident. It had climbed with one hand full of gold and the other wrapped around opportunity's throat.
Inside the carriage, Maya broke the silence.
"How do you plan to meet the king of the Jira Kingdom?"
Ryan didn't look up. His voice was quiet—yet carried the weight of a stone dropped into still water.
"That's the king's problem, not mine."
Artesian blinked, baffled.
"Is he always this… unreasonable?"
Maya gave a dry laugh, her gaze still on the shifting horizon.
"Far more than this."
Artesian leaned back, unsettled. He had met commanders, generals, warlords. But Ryan—Ryan moved like a man carved from contradiction, shaped by forces no one could quite name.
It reminded him of the Black Auction—a memory etched into the backs of his eyes. That night, chaos had erupted around Ryan like flames chasing oil—yet he had walked through it untouched, as if the world bent to avoid him.
Was this just another ripple in the same pattern?
Would the unexpected break loose again?
Or… was Ryan even smarter than he looked—a man not caught in chaos, but crafting it, one thread at a time?
Ryan turned a page, scanning the details of Jira's 35 cities—far fewer than Sony's 150, yet somehow, the smaller nation had thrived. Trade moved like blood through its roads, and its army, though smaller, was reportedly honed like a blade drawn one too many times in battle. But Ryan trusted only what he could see for himself. Books spoke half-truths. Steel and spirit revealed the rest.
The Jira Kingdom was ruled by the second prince, who had become crown prince after his older brother disappeared and never returned. Eventually, the second prince was coroneted and made king of the Jira Kingdom.
He glanced outside. A tall guard tower rose on the horizon, flanked by stone-walled outposts. Flags bearing the Jira royal crest flapped in the wind. Guards patrolled the perimeter—uniformed, alert, disciplined. These weren't just checkpoints; they were deterrents, safe havens, and symbols of power all at once.
"They've turned guard posts into small fortresses," Ryan murmured, impressed. "That's how you build trust… and control."
A thought struck him. He leaned out the carriage window and called to the driver, "Pull over near that outpost."
The wheels ground to a halt. A guard, broad-shouldered and weather-worn, approached with a practiced gait.
"We're looking to set up camp and rest," Ryan said. "Where's the safest place to camp?"
The man shook his head. "This area's not secure at night. Travel five hours east, or find shelter deeper into the woods, that way."
Ryan nodded. "Thank you." He made no further comment, yet his mind was turning like a war engine.
Back in the carriage, Artesian gave Maya a puzzled look. She shrugged.
A few hours later, Ryan ordered the driver to veer right, into the trees.
"Why?" Maya asked sharply. "Why are we going this way?"
"Because it's not safe," Ryan replied, almost amused.
Artesian and Maya looked at each other. They had only one word in their minds: unreasonable.
Oh, they could not help but wonder what was going on inside Ryan's mind—because he was not going to tell them. They could only go with the flow, under Ryan's command.
Artesian understood one thing: Maya trusted Ryan with her life. She would do anything for him without thinking twice. That was the kind of trust Ryan had built with her.
They stopped at a clearing veiled by trees and thick underbrush. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in streaks of molten gold, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds chirped in the distance, unaware of the trap being set.
The camp was simple—two tents, a flickering fire, and weapons laid out in neat rows. But the air crackled with anticipation. The stillness was deceptive.
Maya, polishing her boots and checking the edge of her short blades, glanced at Ryan. She studied the curve of his jaw, the sharpness in his eyes—an intensity that hadn't existed a month ago. Something had changed in him. He was no longer just a prodigal son with sharp words and lazy charm.
He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Ryan opened a chest and handed Artisan a set of light armor and a sheathed blade. Artisan grinned as he took them, the excitement plain on his face.
Then Ryan reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a shield—rough, wooden, unassuming at a glance, but the moment it touched the light, the runes etched across its face shimmered faintly with ancient energy. It was a relic from the Black Auction, stolen in silence. It was the ancient wood shield that was auctioned in the black auction Ryan had taken it without letting anyone know
Artisan's eyes widened. "That's the—"
Ryan simply nodded.
Before he could speak, a voice boomed from the shadows.
"Drop your weapons! Kneel if you value your lives!"
From the shadows between the gnarled trees, a pack of twenty-five emerged like wolves from a cave—scarred men with jagged blades, their eyes wild and glassy with adrenaline. Their boots crunched over brittle twigs and dry leaves, snapping underfoot like bones. The stink of sweat, old blood, and damp leather followed them like a ghostly shroud.
Their leader stepped forward, a towering figure swathed in a haze of Shadow Energy, thick and black like oil slicking the air around him. The ground beneath his boots seemed to dim slightly with each step—as if light itself hesitated to touch him. His presence pulsed with power, unmistakably at the peak of the Empowered tier.
Ryan rose slowly, muscles coiled, his shield gleaming dully in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. In his other hand, a steel blade flickered like starlight, though not the golden knife—that weapon was for another reckoning.
This fight would be different.
"Attack!" the pirate leader barked. "But do not kill them!"
He lunged, a snarl tearing from his throat, his fist wreathed in Shadow Energy that hissed and crackled like burning coals dropped in water. Ryan met him head-on. The pirate's punch slammed into the shield with a dull, thunderous boom—but the shield held, the force spreading across its surface like ripples dancing over a still pond.
Ryan's boots scraped across the earth as he was driven back, dust rising in his wake. Then, with a fluid grace, he surged forward—a blur of precision and intent. His sword carved through the air, silver catching sunlight like lightning—but the leader twisted with unnatural agility, the blade slicing only cloth and air.
A Shadow Blast erupted next, roaring toward him like a wave of night. Ryan raised the shield—runes etched in ancient tongues blazed bright blue, drinking in the dark energy. Sparks danced off the metal, and the impact sent a shockwave that rattled the leaves above.
The pirate leader flinched. That hesitation—the brief flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—was all Ryan needed.
His golden eye flashed, catching the light like molten fire. Power stirred beneath his skin, though his movements betrayed a subtle stiffness, an almost imperceptible delay—his only flaw, and one he still wrestled with.
No matter.
Ryan feinted left, then pivoted hard right—his blade whipping out in a deadly arc. It tore through the leader's arm, and blood—dark, thick, and gleaming like fresh ink—splattered across the ground.
Then Ryan turned—and stopped.
The grove had gone still.
All twenty-four pirates lay crumpled on the forest floor—bodies bruised, limbs twisted, moaning softly or unconscious, some with blades still twitching in their slackened hands.
At the center stood Maya—a vision of violent grace. Twin blades shimmered in her hands, blood-slick and steaming. Her hair—windswept and wild—clung to her cheek. Her stance was a dance between fury and poise, every muscle balanced like a bowstring drawn taut.
Behind her, even Artisan stood tall, sleeves torn, a light bruise blooming across his jaw—but with three pirates at his feet. His breathing was sharp, chest rising and falling like a man who had discovered something fierce inside himself.
Ryan exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. His voice, low and calm, sliced the silence.
"Surrender… if you want to live."
The pirate leader turned, his expression cracking. He had thought Ryan was the storm.
But the real storm stood behind him, cloaked in blades and quiet fury.
His knees buckled. He fell to the ground.
"Wise choice," Ryan murmured, sliding his blade back into its sheath with a soft click—a whisper of steel that echoed louder than any shout.
After the fight, Ryan had given the pirates all the supplies they needed—bandages, salves, even a few precious flasks of tonic. There was no cruelty in his gaze as he worked among them, only a quiet resolve. Maya watched, her sharp eyes softening. She had expected scorn—punishment. Instead, Ryan tended to the wounded like they were comrades fallen in the same battle, not enemies defeated by his hand. For a moment, it felt as if he had simply taken them into his caravan, as though they had always belonged there.
Later that night, the camp flickered with an unfamiliar warmth. Firelight danced on the weathered faces of men once fierce with bloodlust, now subdued and silent. The crackling of flames and the gentle clinking of metal bowls blended into a strange, peaceful rhythm. The scent of roasted herbs and simmering broth drifted on the breeze, cutting through the ever-present tang of salt and blood. The pirates, disarmed and freshly bandaged, hunched over their bowls, eating the rich stew with trembling hands—as though it were their first real meal in years.
Ryan had insisted they be fed, healed, and treated with dignity. A silence lingered, not awkward but reflective.
The pirate leader, hunched near the fire, his arm swathed in rough linen, finally broke it.
"Why?" he asked hoarsely, eyes glinting beneath furrowed brows. "Why are you treating us like this?"
Ryan looked up from the fire, the flames mirrored in his calm, unwavering eyes.
"I treat my men well."
The pirates exchanged glances—suspicious, stunned. They had come to steal, ready to kill if needed. But instead of gold, they'd found something rarer: mercy. And it had left them unmoored.