Ryan stepped forward, his shadow stretching long and sharp behind him. The air between them shimmered faintly with heat from the fire. His voice, low and even, cut through the night like steel drawn from a sheath.
"How did you end up as pirates… in such a forsaken place?"
The leader's gaze turned toward the distant horizon, where jagged cliffs clawed at a bruised sky. A warm breeze stirred the dust and carried with it the briny scent of the nearby sea, laced with the dry, earthy bitterness of parched grass. He spoke slowly, his voice gravelly, like rocks grinding in the belly of a storm.
"We were hired once… by a merchant. All of us were part of an expedition. Said we were to chart the wild lands and search for the World Tree."
A pause. The fire popped.
"But once we crossed into these lands, he changed. Like something inside him cracked. He grew erratic—paranoid. One night, he tried to kill one of our own. I stopped him. My hands ended it."
His fingers grazed the hilt at his side, worn smooth by time and guilt.
"No one from his crew made it out. We knew if we returned to the cities, we'd hang. So we vanished into these ravines, became shadows on the cliffs, ghosts on the storm-torn coast. Pirates, they call us. But exile is what we really are."
The fire pulsed gently between them, its orange light painting moving shadows on Ryan's face like a flickering mask. He leaned forward, curiosity tightening his expression.
"What is the World Tree?"
The pirate leader chuckled softly, as though amused by the naivety.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
He nodded toward the north, where the sky faded into a velvety indigo strewn with stars.
"There's an old tale. Older than kings. Says that before war and walls, a single tree birthed all life on this world. Its roots run so deep they cradle the soul of the planet. No raw magic, no sorcery. Just healing—so powerful it could raise the dead, mend shattered bones, even restore a broken soul."
His voice softened, reverent.
"They say even a single leaf… is worth more than a kingdom's vault."
Ryan's heart thudded. Once—then again, heavier. Legends always found him, threading their way through his path like vines through ruins. And they never ended gently.
He rubbed his thoughts, the weariness catching up.
"If I see that tree, I'm turning around. I've had enough of legends lately."
He rose to his feet and faced the pirate leader, his figure backlit by the flames.
"Take care of your men. If you need help—ask. I'll make sure you get out of here."
The leader hesitated, surprise flickering in his eyes. Out here, kindness was as rare as rain. Generosity usually had teeth behind it. But Ryan's words settled over him like a wool blanket after a storm—unexpected, but warming.
And for the first time in years, the pirate leader allowed himself to believe in something
Dawn arrived like a whispered promise, brushing the horizon with pale gold and rose-pink hues that bled softly through the thinning night. The air was sharp and clean, still biting with the ghost of midnight's chill, and each breath felt like drawing in the edge of a blade. Mist slithered low across the ground, curling around boots and fire pits like restless spirits weaving silver thread through the waking camp.
The pirates emerged slowly from their makeshift tents and blankets, their silhouettes blurred by the fog. They stretched with the quiet groans of worn-out men, cracking stiff joints, their movements precise, almost rehearsed. Some checked the edges of notched blades, running calloused fingers over steel, while others knelt to oil the rusted hinges of crossbows, the scent of iron and old grease mingling with the earthy damp of morning dew.
Despite their lawless past, there was a rhythm to their routine—a memory of structure not yet rusted away.
Ryan stood at the heart of it all, still as a mountain shadow, his cloak tugged gently by the breeze. He surveyed them with a gaze that missed nothing.
"Maya, Artesian—go to the city. Bring more carriages."
Maya dipped her head in a wordless nod, boots crunching softly on the frosted grass as she mounted her horse. Artesian hesitated, his fingers tightening on the reins. His breath came in faint clouds.
As they rode out, the hooves of their mounts sent up flecks of wet earth and scattered ribbons of mist, the world ahead still wrapped in the hush of early day.
Artesian's voice was low, barely louder than the wind. "Are you sure it's wise to leave Master Ryan alone?"
Maya didn't glance at him. Her eyes were locked on the road curling into the distance like a snake through stone hills. "You don't know him like I do," she said. "Ryan doesn't test strength. He tests character. Anyone can follow orders—loyalty, though… that's what he's watching."
Artesian frowned, chewing on the thought.
"And if they betray him?"
Her lips curled into a faint smile, the kind that never reached the eyes. "Then they'll learn why no one challenges Ryan and lives to tell the tale."
Back at the camp, Ryan stood among the pirates, calm and silent. The fog curled at his feet like a sleeping beast, and the fire's dying embers glowed faintly behind him. Around him, eyes watched—not just curious, but measuring. Weighing.
And Ryan? He just stood—a statue carved from dusk and firelight, waiting to see what souls might rise from the ashes of the night
Ryan stood among the pirates, calm and silent, a stillness that seemed to weigh more than steel. Around him, the camp rustled with tension—boots shifting on gravel, the creak of worn leather, the low hiss of blades being tested but not yet drawn.
Then, he stepped into the training ring.
He didn't flaunt his power. There were no bursts of fire, no gleaming weapons. No golden knife. No sigils humming with ancient force.
Instead, he struggled—deliberately.
Each motion was imperfect: a missed parry here, a shaky stance there. He slipped, staggered, and strained, as if shouldering invisible chains. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing silver lines down dirt-smeared skin. He fought like someone learning from the bottom.
But there was no fear in him.
Only intention.
It wasn't weakness. It was a message—carved into every faltering step.
Strength isn't always thunder.
Sometimes it's the patience of roots pressing through stone.
They watched. Whispered. Waited. Their eyes flickered between confusion and suspicion. Men of sea and storm, unused to restraint, sniffed for deception like wolves.
And Ryan waited too—like a shadow watching its own flicker in firelight, silent, unmoving, his breath calm even when his body screamed.
He gave them breaks. Not just for rest—but for thinking.
To let the questions ferment, the decision sharpen like a blade between their ribs:
Challenge the young master?
Serve under him?
Or run—leave honor, leave coin, leave everything?
But they were pirates.
Running wasn't in their blood.
Defiance was. Pride was.
Ryan could hear the mutters, the clash of voices in the air like clinking glasses and unsheathed knives. They didn't know what this was yet. A test? A trap? Or something more?
Later, as dusk painted the sky with strokes of ash and gold, Ryan rested on a crate, his shirt clinging damp to his skin. A hush settled over the camp like fog rolling in from a dead sea.
He looked up.
The pirates were approaching.
Their leader stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on gravel. In his hand—a blade. Its edge dulled from use, hilt wrapped in salt-stained cloth.
"You dropped this," he said, holding it out.
Then, turning to the others, his voice steady—like an oath:
"I follow Ryan. From this day, he's my captain. You can choose your own path."
The wind held its breath.
Then—
Two pirates burst forward, blades drawn. Faces twisted by fear and greed. The kind of men who mistake mercy for weakness.
The leader moved—but too late.
The blades caught light, arcing through the air like falling stars poised to split the earth.
Time stretched—a moment drawn tight as a bowstring.
And then—
A flash.
A blur—silver and silent—that tore the world open like thunder with no sound.
The two pirates fell, sliced cleanly through. Their blood hadn't hit the ground before their bodies did.
No one saw how.
Not clearly.
Even the air hadn't caught up yet.
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that presses on your chest like a weight.
Then—
One by one, knees hit the ground.
A rustle of submission. A storm of loyalty breaking all at once.
They knelt.
Not to a show of power.
But to something older.
Stronger.
Unshakable.
Ryan stood quietly, the storm of his power folding back beneath his skin, like a sword returned to the sheath.
That day, he began their true training.
He walked among them, handing out pieces of the impossible—fragments of treasure pulled from myth:
crystals that pulsed with inner light, coins that whispered languages long dead, runes that tingled in the palm like fireflies made of stone.
Not gifts. Not bribes.
Tools.
To grow.
Hours passed.
The camp had sunk into a quiet rhythm—blades rasping against whetstones, fires crackling low, the distant cries of gulls circling unseen shores.
And then—
A low, rhythmic thunder.
At first, it was faint—a distant murmur beneath the heartbeat of silence. But it grew.
The rumble of wheels, heavy and deliberate, shattered the stillness like a drumbeat before battle. Dust curled behind the approaching shapes, golden plumes swirling in the sunlight like ghosts of the road.
Five carriages rolled into view, their polished sides catching the morning light. Horses snorted, flanks steaming, their hooves drumming the earth with purpose.
Maya stepped down, boots crunching on the gravel. Her cloak flared behind her like a wing of midnight. Her eyes swept the camp, sharp and calculating.
Something had changed.
The air was thicker, not with heat or smoke—but with purpose.
Gone was the chaotic tension. In its place: stillness.
Heavy. Focused. Reverent.
She took it all in—the fewer faces, the tightened ranks, the posture of men who no longer drifted like wind-tossed leaves, but stood like trees planted in soil they finally recognized.
And then she saw him.
Ryan stood at the camp's heart, a quiet axis around which the rest now turned. He wasn't barking orders. He was teaching—calm, fluid, certain—his hands guiding, correcting, demonstrating. Like a blacksmith shaping warriors from raw iron.
Maya said nothing. She didn't need to.
Ryan looked up.
Just a glance—the briefest flicker of connection—but she already knew.
He had done it.
Not with fear. Not with a show of force.
But with trust, forged through struggle, and loyalty, earned through patience.
Artesian stood beside her, silent as ever, but even he felt it.
It was in the way the men stood.
The way they listened.
The way they looked at Ryan—not as prey watching a predator, but as warriors watching their chosen Alpha.
They no longer looked like scattered wolves.
They looked like a pack—honed, bound, and rising.
And Ryan?
He didn't bask in it.
He stood steady—not above them, but among them.
A leader not by birthright or blade—but by choice.
Theirs.