The pickaxe’s steelhead clanged against rock, sending sparks flying into the dry air. Another strike, another vein broken open. It was mindless work, the rhythm of it as draining as the heat. The sun hung high in the sky, the merciless fire that beat down upon the earth. Ryan’s skin was blistering in places, his shirt soaked through, his muscles ached, and the task seemed endless.

  Myke Keys sat atop his wooden cart, draped in the comfort of a Hat of Chilling, his expression one of quiet indifference. The enchanted hat kept him cool, as an almost mocking breeze swirled around him. His legs were crossed, his hand casually holding the reins of his mules, the animals idly munching on some dried hay.

  “Don’t slack off, Ryan!” Myke said, his voice cutting hotter than the sun. “You’re not getting paid to take breaks! Get back to work. I need you to find all the ore, not just a handful.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth, his grip tightening. He said nothing in response, knowing better than to challenge the man who paid him, if he intended to keep his belly full. His hands trembled from the strain, but he swung again, and again, the repetitive motion a dull, endless cycle.

  Finally, with one last swing, Ryan's pickaxe struck the final vein of iron, the rock crumbling away to reveal the last bit of ore. He stood there for a moment, panting, his chest heaving.

  “That’s enough,” Myke said. “You’ve done your part... I suppose.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Myke tossed a handful of silver coins into the air and landed in the dust at Ryan’s feet.

  This was all I got, Ryan thought.

  Myke’s cart creaked as it started to roll away, the mules pulling it slowly along the dirt path, the sound of the wheels grinding like a distant, monotonous drumbeat. Ryan watched the cart disappear, a feeling of bitterness swelling in his heart.

  All I can do now is this, he whispered in his mind. At least I can’t mess up mining.

  Ryan turned his back to the iron mine and began his walk back to Newvale, silver coins in his pocket.

  The sun was beginning to dip when Ryan reach Newvale. The scent of fresh bread filled the air of Newvale’s market, and without thinking, he had stopped and bought a loaf. The bread was warm, the crust crisp, and for a moment, it was the only thing that mattered. He tore off a piece, chewing it slowly, savoring the simplicity of the bite. There was no adventure to be had here, no glory to chase.

  As he walked, his gaze lingered on the market stalls filled with trinkets from far-off lands, potions and lotions and for a fleeting moment, he felt something stir inside him. Something like longing, or regret, or perhaps the bitter taste of failure.

  It was then that he heard the voice, calling out to him from behind the stalls.

  "Ryan!"

  His stomach tightened. He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to face anyone. Not today. Not after everything he had lost. But he turned anyway.

  Mrs. Keys stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  "Why haven’t you been collecting your daily free keys?" she asked.

  Ryan shifted uneasily, clutching the bread as protection.

  "I’m retired from adventures," he said. The words came out of his mouth, yet he did not want to hear it.

  "Retired, you say? You’re wasting your youth, working for my son. Mining for pity pay. You could be out there, doing something more.”

  "That’s all I’m good for," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "I don’t know anything else. I can't swing a sword to save my life."

  "Nonsense," she said. "You couldn't swing a sword? So what?" She gave a small laugh, almost a scoff. "None of your friends could either."

  "What do you mean?"

  “Your friends. The one you left in a party. They didn’t use swords. They used their hands. A martial artist and a wizard, both of them. You didn’t need to be only swinging a sword."

  Ryan thought of his party. They had set off from the exact spot only to return in the Well. None of them used a sword. Maybe he did not need a sword too.

  Mrs. Keys’ voice broke through his thoughts. "The martial arts school is just above the valley. Why don’t you go there? See for yourself.”

  Ryan shifted his gaze from the cobblestone path to Mrs Keys, the bread forgotten in his hand. Martial arts. A school. A purpose.

  "I don’t know," he said.

  “What is there not to know?”

  Ryan couldn’t argue with that logic and bid Mrs Keys goodbye. He clenched his fist, imagining himself as the grandmaster of the Newvale martial arts school. He turned to the valley, changing his directions.

  The martial arts compound was large, with the large, imposing wooden doors looming before him. Beyond the walls of the courtyard, the rhythmic sounds of strikes were heard. Ryan’s heart raced as he hesitated, uncertain. His fingers drummed nervously against the bread he still held, though he hadn’t taken a bite of it since leaving the market.

  He wasn’t sure if he was looking for something to prove or just something, anything,to fill the void in his heart.

  He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. But before his hand touched the heavy door, he heard someone.

  “Hey.”

  Vynessa vaulted over the high wall that separated the compound from the outside. She landed lightly on the ground in front of him, her expression unreadable.

  Ryan froze for a heartbeat. He hadn’t expected anyone, least of all Vynessa, to be there. This was the martial arts school and she was a martial arts, yet Ryan did not put two and two together. Till now.

  "Uh... hey," he said awkwardly.

  "What are you doing here, Ryan?" she asked.

  Ryan shuffled his feet, suddenly feeling smaller than he had in ages.

  What am I doing here? he thought.

  He hadn’t planned for this, and hadn't expected anyone to see him. He glanced back at the doors, trying to steady himself before he spoke. "Well... I wanted to see what martial arts is about," he mumbled.

  “Ah, so you want to adventure again, do you? What about mining?" she said.

  Ryan’s face flushed, and he shook his head quickly, the heat of embarrassment rising in him like a wave.

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  "No, no! I just wanted to see," he sputtered, his words tripping over each other. "But if you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll—" He stopped, biting back his own retort.

  "I’ll turn around and see if wizard school is recruiting," he finished, trying his best to sound casual, though the sarcasm was too obvious in his tone. "Maybe Shem will be nicer to me."

  Vynessa’s laughter rang out like bells outside the compound. “Ryan, you’re not getting away that easily."

  He looked at her, unsure if she was still teasing him or if there was something more beneath her words. She stepped back, her posture shifting slightly.

  "Stay," she said, her voice suddenly more sincere. “I was only teasing.”

  Ryan hesitated. He hadn’t planned on staying but he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But there was something about the way Vynessa looked at him then, something in the way she said it that made him want to linger. Maybe, just maybe, this was the sign he’d been waiting for.

  “Fine,” Ryan said. “I’ll have a look around.”

  “Come in, then.” The large doors were gently opened by Vynessa, revealing a long and narrow wooden hallway.

  The floor beneath Ryan's boots creaked with every step as dim light filtered through the small windows along the walls.

  "The Grandmaster decides if you are accepted as a new student," Vynessa said. "I’ll bring you to meet him."

  Grandmaster? he thought, trying to piece together what he had walked into. The thought of meeting someone with such a title made his heart race. His last meeting with the master of sword school had ended terribly.

  Vynessa pushed open another door that led outside, into the courtyard. The space was open with low stone walls and neat rows of trees lining the edges. The sun, now starting to dip lower in the sky, cast a warm, golden light across the scene. But it was the figure in the center of the courtyard that caught Ryan’s attention.

  At first glance, it seemed like a large, slow-moving turtle. Green-skinned, with a thick, heavily scarred shell, the creature moved with deliberate slowness, its limbs twisting deliberately, meditatively through martial arts techniques. Ryan blinked, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. A turtle... doing martial arts?

  His voice slipped out before he could stop it. “That’s a turtle.”

  The figure paused mid-motion, its head turning toward him with an almost unnervingly measured gaze.

  "I am no turtle," the creature replied, its voice deep, gravelly, but somehow calm. "I am a Cheloran, a distinct cousin of the tortoise, not the turtle." The creature’s voice held a weight, as though it had been repeating the same correction for centuries.

  "Never been to the Vestigial Ocean?" it continued, its gaze unwavering. "That’s where most of my kin remain."

  I’ve never heard of the Vestigial Ocean, he thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep across his face. His mind scrambled for an apology, but the words stuck in his throat, unwilling to emerge.

  Before he could manage an answer, Vynessa stepped forward, her voice breaking the tension. "This," she said, "is Grandmaster Lagos."

  Grandmaster Lagos. He had insulted the Grandmaster of the school.

  Lagos said slowly, "this is the swordsman who led your party?" He turned his gaze to Vynessa, who nodded.

  "Yes," she said.

  "And Master Terrance asked you to leave sword school, did he?"

  He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, the flood of memories washed over him—the failure, the rejection, the humiliation. Master Terrance. The name still stung like an open wound. Terrance had been everything Ryan had aspired to be.

  "Yes," Ryan said, his voice faltering. "I failed. I was reckless, stupid. I endangered the ceasefire. Master Terrance… he kicked me out."

  He could feel Lagos' gaze on him, heavy and expectant. The Cheloran stood tall, unmoving, his shell marked with the scars of countless battles—both won and lost.

  “If you want to find something new, then you’ll have to let go of the old,” Lagos said. “Cheloran wisdom.”

  Lagos’s words lingered in the air. Let go of the old, Ryan thought, his mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind those words. What did it even mean to let go? Let go of what? Of failure? Of pride? Or his old skills?

  Ryan’s thoughts were interrupted as Lagos, with the slow grace of something ancient and wise, paused his movements. The Cheloran’s deep-set eyes focused on him, and with that same deliberate calm, he asked, "Why martial arts?"

  Ryan blinked, taken aback by the question. His mouth went dry, and he fumbled for an answer that didn’t sound completely ridiculous.

  “I… I don’t really know,” he admitted, his voice betraying his uncertainty. "I just thought... they look cool?" He chose the most ridiculous of the answers.

  Lagos chuckled as a low, rumbling sound echoed off the courtyard walls. "You’re right," Lagos said with a nod. "Martial arts are cool.”

  Ryan swallowed hard, the weight of Lagos’s words sinking in. His gaze flickered over to Vynessa, who stood by, watching the exchange with quiet amusement.

  "I would welcome you into my school," he said, his tone measured and deliberate. "But you must first prove you are worthy."

  Prove I’m worthy? He opened his mouth, intending to ask how he could possibly do that, but before he could utter a word, the Cheloran moved.

  It was a blur and then Ryan felt the sting of an open palm crashing into his chest. He was sent flying backward, his feet leaving the ground, his body soaring in the air like a ragdoll. The force of the attack was overwhelming, sending him crashing hard against the stone wall of the courtyard. The air left his lungs in a gasp, and pain burned through his ribs and spine.

  Bear Palm.

  "That has to be a record," Vynessa said, looking at the courtyard.

  Lagos’s voice followed, steady and almost amused. "I think so too."

  Ryan groaned, struggling to push himself up, his body aching from the impact.

  "Get up. Fight back," the grandmaster said.

  Fight back? His chest heaved with each breath, and his muscles screamed in protest. But there was no choice. This is how it works, isn’t it? he thought. Prove yourself. Prove you're worthy.

  He slowly pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. His fists, trembling, slowly came up in front of him.

  Lagos moved again, but this time, it was slower, more deliberate. He dropped into a stance, his hands raised in front of him in a peculiar manner. The stance was strange, almost unnatural, as if Lagos was pretending to be controlled by invisible strings.

  And then, with unnerving slowness, Lagos began to walk forward, each movement fluid and unnaturally smooth. His body swayed with a strange, almost mechanical precision, his limbs jerking in perfect rhythm, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

  The moment Lagos was within striking distance, Ryan swung. His fist flew forward, aiming for the head, but Lagos moved like a puppet. His body bent and twisted with unnatural flexibility, his limbs contorting in ways that seemed impossible for any creature made of flesh and bone. It was as if he were being pulled by strings, his movements unpredictable and fluid, flowing around Ryan’s punch like water around a stone.

  “Way of the Puppet, Master Lagos? Impressive,” Vynessa said.

  "Focus," Lagos’s voice came, low and steady.

  Lagos’s movements shifted again, this time into something entirely different. His body sank low, his arms rising in a deliberate, slow motion. His legs spread wide, shoulder-width apart, and the Cheloran stood there like a mountain carved from stone.

  Way of the Mountain.

  Ryan didn’t think. He didn’t even hesitate. His body was moving before his mind had caught up. His fists shot forward, aimed at the statue-like figure that stood before him. The first punch connected with Lagos’s outstretched arm, and pain shot through Ryan’s knuckles like a lightning bolt. He winced, but didn’t stop. His second punch landed against Lagos’s shoulder, but this time, he felt the force of the blow rebound back into his wrist, sharp and biting.

  Ryan gasped as blood began to bead on his hands, but he gritted his teeth, throwing another strike. I can't stop, he thought. I can’t back down now.

  And then, just as quickly as the attack had started, it ended.

  “Enough,” Lagos said. “You’ve made your point.”

  Ryan stood there, panting, his hands bleeding freely now. He hadn’t even known what the test was, hadn’t understood the lesson. He wiped his bloody hands against his tunic and stood a little straighter, unsure if he was meant to speak.

  Lagos' gaze softened, just slightly, and his voice was calm, approving. "Ryan," he said. "Welcome to the school."

  Lagos took a step back, his posture relaxing. “Vynessa will show you the way,” he said. “She’ll show you where to begin your training.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, though the words felt hollow, insufficient. It didn’t seem real. Not yet.

  “Come on, then," Vynessa said, her voice light and teasing, like she was leading him through some secret path. "I’ll show you where to start. You’ve got a long way to go.”

  Ryan nodded, clenching his fists despite the pain. Long way is right, he repeated silently to himself. But he took the first step.

  ******