The weight of forgotten centuries pressed down upon the land where the Kuri first drew breath. Within the sacred halls of the temple, Atlin Ra and Haydia Ra still resided—immortal guardians bound by light and love. Their legacy had spread across Halia, their many children scattered throughout the land, woven into the fabric of villages, cities, and stories whispered beneath starlit skies.
But Cyran Zul had long vanished. After chasing the shadow beast into the Deadlands, he was never seen again. His fate became legend, his name spoken in reverence, in sorrow and sometimes in quiet wonder. Tal'ron's forces, too, had receded—hidden in the farthest reaches of the Deadlands, their presence more rumor than reality.
And so, in their absence, humanity flourished.
Freed from the shadows that once haunted them, humans expanded across Halia, founding towns, villages, and cities that reached far beyond the heart of Ma'jestia. Among these was a humble yet thriving village tucked between mountains and stream—a place known as Tailing Stream Village.
Cradled by the majestic western highlands and bordered to the east by a winding, glistening stream, the village seemed plucked from a dream. The water, gentle and ever-flowing, passed through the heart of the settlement and emptied into a serene, crescent-shaped lake. A proud old water mill stood near the water's edge. It's great wheel creaking with the rhythm of time, a monument to the villagers' ingenuity and peaceful way of life.
Lush forests surrounded the outskirts—towering trees whose emerald canopies filtered the sunlight into soft golden beams, casting a tranquil glow across the moss-covered floor. Birds sang gently from hidden perches, and steer grazed near the edge of the tree line, lending the air a quiet, sacred stillness.
The village itself was a tapestry of carved wooden homes, rich in history and care. Each building bore unique designs etched into the beams—symbols of family, of fortune, of faith. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, and ivy climbed old stone walls, adding wild beauty to the rustic architecture.
At the heart of the village lay its soul: the market square. Lined with rows of colorful tents and open stalls, it was alive with voices, music, and the scent of fresh bread and fire-roasted meats. Merchants from every corner of Halia arrived in their wagons, sharing stories and wares alike. Intricate pottery, soft dyed fabrics, cured leathers, and polished gemstones glimmered beneath fluttering banners.
Here, the people lived simply but richly—bound not by gold, but by community. Their laughter was frequent. Their burdens shared. Strangers became friends, and friends became family.
And on this day, the village was brighter than ever.
The annual Unity Festival had come—a celebration observed all across Halia, but none as jubilantly as here. Tailing Stream Village transformed overnight into a place of wonder. As the sun crested the peaks, its golden light bathed a sea of colorful tents and winding banners that fluttered in the breeze. Children's laughter rang out from the parks and plazas as the festival bloomed into life.
Arcade games and contests lined the streets: archery tournaments, obstacle courses, and competitive stone tosses—each met with cheers and playful rivalry. There were rides for every spirit, from towering Ferris wheels to winding coasters powered by enchanted gears.
Vendors bustled with offerings—spiced meats skewered fresh off the flame, juicy fruits drizzled in honey, breads still steaming from their ovens. The scent was irresistible, weaving through the air like magic.
Weapon-smiths displayed gleaming swords, shields, and protective charms beside jewelers with delicate necklaces and amulets etched with runes. Farmers sold jams, honey, and fragrant teas, all under tents decorated with flowers and glowing lanterns.
Music carried through it all—drums, flutes, and stringed instruments playing old songs and new, as dancers moved through the streets with ribbons trailing behind them. The atmosphere shimmered with joy, with magic, with life.
In this world of divine struggle and ancient power, there still existed places like this—peaceful, joyful, filled with light.
And somewhere in the heart of it, though the people did not yet know it… a boy named Toran was bound for a road shrouded in the unknown.
As the festival bustled with life—music, laughter, and the delicious scent of grilled meats swirling through the air—three young friends stood in line at a brightly colored arcade tent tucked near the edge of the market square. Toran shifted restlessly, eyes fixed on the game ahead as his fingers drummed against his side. He was practically bouncing with anticipation.
Beside him, Roselia and Yanger were deep in conversation, giggling and whispering about which prize they would pick if they won.
"I'm telling you," Roselia said, pointing eagerly toward a plush toy stand adorned in ribbons, "that fluffy bunny is practically calling my name."
The bunny she honed in on was snow-white, with oversized ears drooping past its paws and button-like eyes that sparkled in the morning sun. A small pink bow was tied neatly around its neck, and its fur looked soft enough to melt into.
Yanger folded his arms, pretending not to be swayed. "Sure, it's nice," he admitted, eyes drifting to a different shelf. "But that—" he nodded toward the far end of the vendor's cart, "that's what I'm going for."
It was a miniature pirate ship, intricately carved from dark walnut wood. Its sails were made of thin, stitched fabric, catching just the hint of breeze as it swayed gently from its perch. Golden trim lined the hull, and a tiny flag painted with a skull and crossed sabers fluttered above the mast.
Roselia turned, then nudged Toran's arm with a teasing grin. "So… which one, Toran?"
Toran's gaze lifted past the crowd, to the top corner of the stall where a kite hung like a forgotten dream.
"That one," he said quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the chatter.
Roselia followed his gaze and let out a soft, mesmerized "Wow!" Her eyes sparkled as she took in the kite's quiet majesty.
The kite in question fluttered slightly in the breeze, like a banner of triumph. It was stunning—deep indigo with silver embroidery that shimmered in the sunlight, stitched in the shape of a soaring phoenix. The tail was braided with strips of red and gold silk that danced like fire, and its string was wound around a polished obsidian spindle. It was clearly crafted by a skilled hand, far too exquisite for a typical carnival game.
Ahead of them, two teenagers took their turn at the game: a wooden wheel set upright like a target, with a tiny hole in the center barely wider than a coin. Players had to throw a solid iron ball through the hole to win. It looked easy—until you noticed the ball was just slightly too large to fit.
The teens tossed, missed, and grumbled their way out of the line.
"Totally rigged," one of them muttered. "You'd have to be blessed by Or'an to win."
Inside the booth, a thin, twitchy man with a pointed nose and shifty eyes leaned smugly against the counter. He wore a pinstriped vest far too small for his wiry frame, and his long, rodent-like hair swished lazily behind him. A conniving weasel, in every sense of the word.
"Step right up," he chirped. "One silver per throw. The prize of a lifetime awaits!"
Roselia's eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. "He's got a face that says 'trust me' and a game that screams 'don't.'"
Yanger crossed his arms. "I dunno… this game looks impossible."
"So?" Roselia said, flashing a daring grin. "Live a little, chicken legs." She nudged him forward with her elbow.
He groaned. "I regret being friends with you both."
Roselia ignored him and stepped forward tossing a coin, accepting the iron ball from the weasel with a cool, steady hand. She stared down the wooden wheel like a hunter sizing up a wild beast.
"Here goes nothing," she muttered.
With a swift flick of her wrist, she hurled the ball at the target. It smacked the rim of the hole and bounced off with a thunk, hitting the dirt with a defiant plop. Roselia let out a groan and spun around.
"That's rigged," she huffed. "I felt that. It should've gone through."
"Told you," Yanger said, shaking his head. "But fine. My turn."
He stepped up, grabbed a new ball, and with exaggerated confidence, wound up and let it fly. The ball landed wide—comically wide.
"Impressive," Roselia deadpanned. "You missed the wheel entirely."
"It slipped!"
"Sure it did."
Now it was Toran's turn.
Roselia clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, Toran. Show us what you've got."
Yanger added, "No pressure or anything. It's just the coolest kite in Halia."
Toran took the iron ball in hand. It was heavier than he expected—solid, cold. He stared down the hole, his gaze narrowing in concentration, every sound around him beginning to fade.
The booth runner leaned lazily on the edge of the stand, smirking. "C'mon, kid. Just toss it—make it quick, yeah?" He squinted at Toran with exaggerated pity, then added with a mock of generosity, "You know what? I'll even give you a second throw. No charge. You look like you'll need it."
Roselia crossed her arms. "Gee, that's generous of him."
Toran didn't flinch. He simply raised the ball and threw. It hit the wooden wheel with a harsh clang, bouncing off the rim and landing on the ground with a heavy thud.
"Aw, tough break," Yanger muttered. "You almost had it."
The booth runner chuckled smugly. "One more, if you're feeling lucky."
Toran bent to pick up the second ball. As his fingers curled around it, something—barely more than a flicker—passed beneath his skin. A faint shimmer, like dark smoke, laced around the ball just as he lifted it. It was so quick, so subtle, he almost thought he imagined it.
He paused. Blinked.
Did I just see...? But the thought was gone as fast as it came.
With quiet focus, he drew his arm back and let the ball fly.
It soared straight—dead center—and struck the rim with force.
A brief hiss, like steam escaping wood, whispered into the air. The iron seared the wood just enough to crisp its edge. The hole widened by the barest fraction. Toran, who stood watching, eyebrows slightly furrowed, as the ball slipped perfectly through the center and landed in the bucket behind.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Wait," Yanger said. "Did that actually—?"
"No way," Roselia breathed. "That went in!"
The booth runner's mouth twisted. "What? No, no—I must've blinked. That didn't go through the center. Kid must've tossed it off to the side. Rolled under, maybe."
"It went through," Yanger said, pointing. "I saw it."
"You're blind," the man snapped. "Second tries don't count anyway. That's not a real win."
"You offered him a second try," Roselia snapped. "Now you're backing out because he actually made it?"
The booth runner opened his mouth to argue—but was cut off by a voice from just off to the side.
"Actually," came the smooth, jovial tone, "I saw it quite clearly."
They turned to see Mayor Rutledge stepping toward them, having been watching the game from nearby. He adjusted his top hat with a gloved hand and offered the booth runner a kind but knowing smile.
"You offered the boy a second throw, and he made good on it. Straight through the center. I'd say that counts, wouldn't you?"
The booth man stiffened. "I—I mean... maybe the ball slipped through a crack, or—"
Mayor Rutledge raised an eyebrow and stepped forward to the wheel. Without another word, he stooped, plucked the warm iron ball from the collection bin behind the stand, and walked it around to the front. He aligned it with the center hole and pushed. It passed cleanly through.
"Well now," he said with a gentle finality. "Looks like a perfect fit to me."
He turned back to Toran with a smile that filled his face. "Nicely done, young man."
Then, with the air of someone granting a noble title, he reached up and retrieved the phoenix kite from its display.
"Here we are," the mayor said warmly. "For a shot as graceful as that, I think this kite belongs with you."
Toran blinked, then slowly accepted the kite as though it might dissolve if he held it too tightly.
"Thank you, sir," he murmured.
"Make it fly," the mayor said, tipping his hat.
Roselia and Yanger erupted into cheers as Mayor Rutledge placed the kite in Toran's hands. Roselia jumped and threw her arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking him off balance. "You actually did it!" she shouted.
Yanger let out a whoop, laughing. "We're officially festival champions!"
Grinning, Toran lifted the kite slightly above his head. Its silken tail ribbons danced in the breeze like streamers celebrating their victory. With a burst of excitement, the three of them bolted away from the arcade tent, laughter trailing behind them as they dashed through the festival square.
They wove through the bustling crowd, dodging laughing children, cheerful vendors, and towering stilt walkers. Musicians played nearby, the lively beat of drums and flutes rising over the hum of conversation and carnival noise. The sun blazed high in the sky, casting everything in golden light.
Leading the charge was Toran, a twelve-year-old with tousled dark brown hair and striking blue eyes that sparkled with a quiet confidence. He moved through the crowd with ease, his steps light and purposeful, like someone born to chase the wind. His grin came quick, and when it did, it was full of mischief and wonder.
At his side was Roselia, fiery in both spirit and appearance. Her orange hair, wild and tied loosely in a braid that bounced behind her, caught the sunlight like a flicker of flame. Her vivid green eyes scanned everything around her—curious, sharp, and always ready with a sarcastic remark or daring idea. She practically radiated energy, and if Toran was the calm in the storm, Roselia was the storm trying to teach the calm how to dance.
Trailing just a few steps behind was Yanger, dark-haired and round-eyed, his brown irises often wide with hesitation. His shoulders slouched more than the others', and though his legs moved with them, it was often as if his nerves tried to pull him back. Still, he kept up—because he wouldn't dare be left behind, even if he wasn't always sure why he was following in the first place.
As they slowed to a walk, hearts still racing from their sprint, Toran glanced down at his hands, fingers curled loosely around the kite's frame. A crease formed between his brows.
"Did you guys see that?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before. "When I threw the ball… there was something around it. Like... I don't know. Smoke? Or a mist?"
Roselia and Yanger stopped beside him, both blinking.
"Huh?" Roselia tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing. "Around the ball?"
"Yeah," Toran nodded. "Right before it hit. It shimmered. Just for a second. I'm not making it up."
Yanger scratched his head. "You sure you didn't just blink weird?"
"I saw it," Toran insisted, a grin creeping onto his face—not out of smugness, but wonder.
Yanger rolled his eyes. "Okay, wizard. Give me the kite before it catches fire too."
Toran handed it over with a playful scoff.
Yanger took it by the string and immediately started twirling, making the phoenix-patterned kite spin in loose circles. Its ribbons flared behind it, catching the sun like fire. But the playful wind that tugged at it suddenly grew stronger.
"Whoa—hey!" Yanger yelped as the string whipped taut.
The kite lurched skyward, the gust catching it just right. Yanger tried to tighten his grip, but the string slipped through his fingers like silk.
"No, no, no!" Roselia gasped as the kite broke free.
The kite climbed fast, its indigo wings gleaming as it soared above the rooftops, the ribbons trailing like a comet's tail.
Without thinking, Toran sprinted toward the nearest building.
"Toran!" Roselia called after him, but he was already halfway up a crate stack.
He climbed with agility that surprised even him—grabbing windowsills, swinging over ledges, and scaling the tiled rooftops with a wild sort of purpose. Roselia and Yanger dashed along the streets below, struggling to keep up with his blur of motion above.
"Toran!" Yanger cried. "He's gonna die for a kite!"
"I told him it wasn't that serious!" Roselia shouted, dodging around a fruit cart.
But Toran wasn't listening. He was already on the final rooftop, his shoes skidding to a stop on the sun-warmed tiles. The kite danced just ahead, caught in a swirl of breeze, inches—moments—from vanishing into the bright blue sky.
"Toran, don't!" Roselia screamed from the alley below.
"You're not a bird, dummy!" Yanger echoed.
But Toran didn't hesitate. He took two long strides and leapt.
For a heartbeat, he was flying.
His hand reached. Fingers stretched. And—snap—they curled around the base of the kite's frame.
Then gravity claimed him.
He plummeted. The wind howled past his ears. He braced himself—until—
Whumph!
A burst of straw. A haystack. A miracle.
Roselia and Yanger rounded the corner just in time to see Toran sitting up, coughing hay out of his mouth, grinning like a lunatic with the kite cradled in his lap.
"You're insane!" Roselia cried, breathless but laughing.
"Completely nuts," Yanger said, eyes wide. "Like—legally nuts."
"I got it," Toran said simply, as if he hadn't just risked his neck for it.
He stood from the haystack, brushing loose straw from his shoulders. The phoenix kite fluttered slightly in his grip, its ribbons catching the breeze like whispers of flame.
Then, without hesitation, he turned and handed it to Roselia.
"Your turn," he said with a grin.
Roselia blinked, surprised. "Seriously? After all that?"
"You're the one who believed we could win it," he replied.
Her eyes softened just a little as she took the kite. "Don't think I'm not still mad you jumped off a roof, though."
"That makes two of us," Yanger muttered, still clutching his chest like his heart hadn't restarted yet.
The trio made their way east, toward the shimmering lake that bordered Tailing Stream Village. The sound of rushing water grew louder with each step, blending with distant music and voices. As they neared the edge of the village, the breeze carried something else—fireworks. A sharp pop echoed through the trees, followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs from somewhere nearby.
Then came a voice. Loud. Echoing. Exuberant.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—YOUNG AND OLD! WELCOME TO THIS YEAR'S GRUMBER FISHING COMPETITION—where guts, grit, and glorious splashdowns await!"
The three kids paused mid-step.
"Did he say… Grumber?" Roselia asked.
Yanger raised a brow. "Is that a made-up fish or he's hungry?"
Toran smirked. "Only one way to find out."
Drawn by curiosity, they turned off the path toward the lakeside clearing, where the booming voice and bursts of colorful fireworks signaled the next big festival event was about to begin…
Toran, Roselia, and Yanger pushed forward through the gathering crowd until they reached the lakeside, where a man with an oversized mustache and a vibrant orange vest stood atop a decorated platform, speaking with theatrical flair.
"Grumber fish!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide. "Native to these very waters! Weigh anywhere from fifty to three hundred pounds! With jaws like saws and teeth sharp as piranhas—catching one isn't just sport, it's survival!"
The crowd whooped in excitement.
"And this year's prize?" He held up two golden slips of parchment with shimmering stamps. "Two train tickets to the Grand Ma'jestia City!"
That got Toran's full attention. His breath caught slightly, his heart thudding. Ma'jestia. The place he'd only ever heard in books and told in chatter.
The Grumber Competition was held at the edge of the sprawling lake, where sunlight danced across the deep, rippling surface. A wide, wooden dock stretched out from the shoreline, worn smooth by years of competitors sprinting across it. It branched into a network of smaller docks, each platform designated for different heats and stages of the contest. Farther out, built on sturdy stilts rising from the lakebed, stood the grandstands—massive, tiered structures packed with spectators. Flags bearing local colors whipped in the breeze, and the crowd's excited hum carried across the water like distant thunder.
The lake itself was vast and deceptively still. It plunged deep—rumors claimed no one had ever touched the bottom. Beneath that shimmering surface swam the Grumber: colossal, scaled creatures known for their brute strength and elusive nature. Competing meant diving headfirst into the unknown, armed with nothing but rope, wit, and a whole lot of courage.
It wasn't just a contest of strength. It was a test of instincts, timing, and resilience.
They inched closer. Villagers packed the stands, buzzing with excitement. Competitors prepared their gear. The dock was alive with shouting, laughter, and the creak of wooden planks under shifting weight.
Toran leaned closer to his friends. "Hey... what if I enter?" His voice trembled with excitement. "It could be fun—and if I win, I could actually go to Ma'jestia!"
Roselia's brow furrowed. "I heard Grumber fish bite like beasts and fight like devils." She paused, crossed her arms, tilting her head skeptically. "If you win—and that's a big if…" she paused, then smirked, "...ugh, look at me. I sound like Yanger."
Yanger let out a resigned sigh. "Great. I've become a mindset."
Roselia ignored him with a grin. "Still, you could take Mari on a little adventure. She'd be so excited"
Roselia's tone dipped a little as she glanced toward the competitors. "But… look at those guys. They're like warriors."
Yanger scratched the back of his head. "You're not exactly known for your fishing skills, y'know."
"I can still try," Toran said, confidence in his tone.
The three of them made their way to the platform, where a line of eager competitors waited to sign up. Toran stepped forward.
The announcer raised an eyebrow as he looked Toran up and down. "You sure you're up for this, kid? This ain't tug-o-war with pond guppies."
"I can do it," Toran replied without hesitation, his blue eyes steady and unwavering.
The announcer blinked, then shrugged and handed him a clipboard. "Sign here. Waiver. Liability and all that. Then take your spot on the docks."
Toran quickly scribbled his name. "I've got this," he said to Roselia and Yanger before handing the board back and turning toward the competitors' area.
Roselia called after him, "Don't get eaten!"
"No promises!" he replied with a wink.
As he joined the others on the dock, Toran's earlier confidence faltered slightly. Thirteen other competitors stood ready—seasoned, strong, and intense. Some held gear that looked more like battlefield weaponry than fishing tools. These weren't casual festival-goers. These were warriors, hunters, and professionals.
He scanned the group, and several figures stood out.
First was a girl a decade older, taller, lean, and confident. Her long blonde ponytail swung behind her as she twirled two thin silver daggers with ease. The blades were etched with swirling patterns that shimmered in the light.
Next to her stood a towering man, muscles coiled like cables beneath a sleeveless tunic. Bald, bearded, and fierce, he wore brass knuckles and pounded his fists together, each clang sending ripples across the dock.
Farther down stood a woman with dark hair and calculating eyes. Two pistols rested at her sides, and even now, she was sighting down her fingers, mimicking shots toward invisible targets in the lake. Her movements were crisp, practiced—lethal.
Then came an older man—stooped slightly, but not frail. His gray mustache was thick and well-kept, and a large scar formed an "X" over one cheek. He held a trident taller than himself with ease, his gaze fixed on the water with a lifetime's worth of patience and intensity. There was something strange about him—something ancient.
Lastly, a cloaked figure stood motionless near the edge. A hood shadowed most of his face, but glowing blue eyes peered from the darkness. He held a long, razor-thin spear that pulsed faintly with energy. When he tapped the dock, it sent tiny shockwaves rippling across the water.
Toran swallowed.
Woah… They're stronger. Faster. More experienced. And I'm standing here with them.
Stay calm. Good thing this isn't combat.
A sigh of relief.
He was officially in way over his head.
The announcer stepped forward again, raising a conch-shell horn. "Competitors! Take your positions! The Great Grumber Competition begins in five minutes!"
As the crowd roared in anticipation, Toran moved to his designated spot on the dock, flanked by warriors and weapon-wielders… and tried very hard not to let his hands shake.
Roselia and Yanger sat shoulder to shoulder in the wooden stands, scanning the row of competitors gathering near the lake. From their vantage point, the field looked brutal—bodies lined with muscle, faces carved from stone.
"I don't know," Yanger muttered, arms crossed nervously. "They look like they've fought dragons, not fish."
Roselia leaned in, her voice hushed but sharp. "That one's got a scar like an X across his whole cheek. And that guy—did he punch a tree just to warm-up?"
They exchanged a glance, worry flashing between them, but it didn't last long. Roselia raised her arms and cupped her hands around her mouth.
"You've got this, Toran!" she yelled. "Show 'em how we do it in Tailing Stream!"
Yanger gave a weak but genuine shout. "Try not to die!"
Toran, already standing among the competitors on the dock, turned and grinned up at them. He gave a quick wave, his nerves briefly soothed by the sound of his friends' voices. Then he turned back to the lake, his hands clenching at his sides, his heart hammering like a war drum.
From the platform, the announcer raised an arm, commanding the crowd's attention. His flamboyant vest flared with the breeze as he boomed:
"Ladies and gentlemen! My name is Jimbee, and it is my absolute honor to welcome you to this year's Jimbee's Great Grumber Fishing Competition!"
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
"Today, fourteen brave souls stand before you—fierce warriors, seasoned hunters… and one courageous kid." He pointed directly at Toran with a dramatic pause. "Let's give them a round of applause!"
Applause and laughter followed, along with a few whistles and playful boos from the crowd.
Jimbee grinned wide. "Now remember—this ain't your average fishing trip. These Grumbers can bite, bash, and barrel through bone. The rules are simple: catch the biggest Grumber by any means necessary. That's right folks—weapons are allowed!" He gave a wink. "But so is good old-fashioned guts."
The energy buzzed through the air like static. Toran's breath quickened.
Jimbee raised his arm again, a comically oversized pistol gleaming in his hand. "Competitors! Ready yourselves!"
Toran inhaled, the lake stretching wide and dark before him.
BANG!
The gunshot cracked through the air like a thunderclap. The crowd roared, and the competition exploded into motion.
Competitors leapt from the dock like arrows loosed from a bow. Some dove cleanly, others cannonballed in a flurry of limbs and splashes. The water churned with movement and steel.
Toran hesitated for half a second—but then he jumped.
The lake was cold, a sudden shock that jolted him to full alertness. Visibility beneath the surface was surprisingly clear, though the deeper shadows danced and shifted with unseen movement.
Toran swam cautiously at first, watching the chaos around him.
To his left, the blonde girl with the silver daggers moved like a dancer—twisting and weaving as a swarm of Grumbers lunged at her. She spun, slicing through water and scale with breathtaking precision.
The hulking man with brass knuckles met a monstrous Grumber head-on. He socked it in the jaw, stunning it—only for the fish to retaliate with gnashing teeth that latched onto his arm. He grunted, thrashing, blood spiraling like red smoke.
The sharpshooter woman floated just beneath the surface, one pistol drawn. She held her breath, eyes scanning. A shot fired—a flash underwater—and a Grumber seized up mid-charge, struck through the gills.
The old man with the X-scar fended off two Grumbers at once. His trident spun expertly, impaling one while keeping the other at bay. His face never changed—calm, focused, cold.
Then there was the cloaked figure.
He glided through the water, almost serene, blue eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood. His long spear vibrated with pulsing energy. Each time he stabbed, a shockwave rippled outward, stunning multiple Grumbers at once. He dispatched them with such fluid grace it didn't look like a competition—it looked like a performance.
Toran swallowed hard, forcing his gaze away.
Again focus. You don't need to outfight them. The biggest fish wins.
The crowd leaned forward in anticipation, eyes scanning the lake's shimmering surface. Then, one by one, those five competitors emerged from the water, each dragging a massive Grumber onto the dock. The fish, each monstrous in size, flopped and thrashed with their final strength before being subdued.
Cheers erupted as Jimbee's voice boomed across the grounds.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've got ourselves a show! Lira, Cato, Soren, Raven, and Zephyr—what a lineup! These five just hauled in some of the biggest Grumbers I've seen in years!"
He paced dramatically, raising one hand toward the crowd.
"First up, Lira! Her Grumber clocks in at a solid 80 pounds, just over two feet in length! This girl doesn't just fish—she finesses!"
Lira lifted her catch over her shoulders and beamed, soaking in the applause.
"Next, Cato! This beast of a man reeled in a monster—150 pounds, four feet long! Folks, that's not a fish, that's a sea-born battering ram!"
Cato threw his arms up, flexing proudly, letting out a guttural victory roar that had half the kids in the crowd mimicking him.
"Now, Raven—don't let the name fool you, she's anything but subtle. Her catch? 100 pounds, just at three feet, and caught with deadly precision."
Raven stepped forward, placing her Grumber beneath her boot and flipping her hair back coolly as the crowd whooped in approval.
"Moving on to the silent killer—Soren!" Jimbee said with mock suspense. "A 180-pounder, over four and a half feet! And he looks like he didn't even break a sweat."
Soren stood quietly, arms crossed, his Grumber lying still at his feet.
"Alright, no excitement from him," Jimbee joked.
"And last, but absolutely not least… Zephyr. Cloaked, quiet, and apparently unbeatable. His Grumber tips the scales at 200 pounds, measuring in at five feet even! That's not a catch, that's a myth."
Zephyr merely tugged his hood down lower over his glowing eyes, silently stepping back into the shade.
Jimbee raised both arms. "Let's hear it for our top five! But don't go anywhere—this competition isn't over yet. And unless I missed a splash, the kid's still out there somewhere…"
The crowd erupted once more with applause and murmurs. Talk spread quickly—who was this kid, and could he possibly stand a chance?
Down on the dock, Lira, Cato, and Raven had already begun their playful back-and-forth.
Lira hoisted her Grumber again. "Look at this beauty—80 pounds of pure speed and skill. What've you two got, huh?"
Raven smirked. "Uh, a hundred pounds. You know… more than yours."
Lira blinked, confused. "Wait—100 is more than 80?"
Cato stepped in with a scoff. "Lira, seriously? Maybe you should've caught some sense instead. And a better Grumber while you were at it. Mine was practically a sea beast."
"Don't underestimate me, you muscle-brain!" Lira snapped, puffing out her chest and sticking her tongue out.
Raven crossed her arms. "Please. I was going easy on both of you."
Cato rolled his shoulders and grinned. "You wanna compare? My Grumber could swallow yours whole. Let's take this to the ring and settle it."
Raven arched a brow. "Gladly. I'll go two-for-one."
"Make that three!" Lira jumped in, undeterred. "You're all lucky I'm not allowed to fight with cuteness—my Grumber's got stealth and charm."
Cato and Raven exchanged a look, then burst into laughter. Lira fumed.
"Don't laugh at my Grumber!" she shouted, hands balled into fists at her sides.
Their teasing and bragging echoed through the dock until a voice cut through the noise.
"Enough."
Soren's voice was deep and commanding, like stone grinding through silence. The three froze mid-banter and turned toward him.
"You're dishonoring the competition," he said. "There's still time. And that boy is still out there."
The mood shifted. They turned back toward the lake, eyes narrowing, curiosity returning to the forefront.
As they lingered on the dock, Cato walked over and sat down with a heavy thud, legs dangling off the edge. A frown settled across his face, brows furrowed with frustration. "I think he's gone," he muttered, eyes scanning the rippling surface. "No kid should've been allowed to enter this thing."
Raven stood with her arms crossed, nodding. "Yeah… it's not a place for someone like him. I don't think he could handle it."
Lira sighed and kicked at a loose pebble. "Maybe he just swam off. Got scared and bailed. Poor kid probably realized he was in too deep."
Zephyr, who'd been silently watching the water, finally spoke, voice calm and certain. "He's not dead," he said without blinking. "He's still out there. But… I don't think he's just some ordinary kid."
That earned him a round of glances.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Cato asked, lifting a brow.
Zephyr shrugged slightly. "I can't explain it. There's something different about him. Like there's more under the surface—literally and otherwise."
Lira groaned, tossing her hands in the air. "You can't just say that and then go all mysterious on us again. What is it? What did you see?"
With a smirk, Zephyr pulled his hood back, revealing tousled blonde hair and golden ring piercings that shimmered in the sunlight. He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Just a feeling."
Lira rolled her eyes and turned away with a huff. "Ugh. I hate feelings."
The group fell silent once more, all eyes fixed on the lake's vast, glistening surface. Around them, the aftermath of the competition was unfolding—injured competitors limped out of the water, soaked and shivering. One boy thrashed wildly, shouting, "It's got me! Get it off!" before being pulled away by nearby officials. Others, defeated and breathless, heaved their Grumbers back into the water with weary grunts, the heavy splash marking their surrender. But still, there was no sign of Toran.
Up in the crowd, Roselia and Yanger leaned against the railing, worry etched across their faces.
"Do you think he's okay?" Roselia asked, biting her lip. "He's been under way too long."
Yanger nodded slowly, his expression matching hers. "Yeah… I really hope he's not in over his head."
Roselia gave a weak smile, trying to stay positive. "Well, it is Toran. He always manages to pull something out of nowhere."
"He's too good at pulling surprises," Yanger muttered, forcing a chuckle.
The applause from earlier had died down, replaced with murmurs of unease and curious whispers. The crowd shifted restlessly, wondering if the youngest competitor had forfeited—or worse.
Jimbee's voice echoed through the buzzing crowd, lifted by a magically amplified megaphone. "One minute left!" he announced. "If the kid's still alive, he better come up with something—or he's out!"
Spectators leaned forward, squinting out at the shimmering lake. The surface was calm now, deceptively so, as though whatever battle was being fought below had been swallowed by silence. And still—no sign of Toran.
Beneath the surface, in the vast belly of the lake, Toran moved like a shadow through the gloom. Every inch of his body ached from the strain of swimming for so long, dodging the sharp-toothed Grumbers that zipped past him in flashes of color and muscle. Some were small and aggressive, snapping at his limbs as if to warn him off their territory. He swatted them away, bruised but undeterred. His lungs burned, but he ignored the pull of exhaustion. He wasn't leaving this lake without a fight—or a victory.
Not yet. I haven't even tried.
He pushed deeper.
The water darkened, colder now, less forgiving. Around him, the shapes of the world blurred into shadow. And then—he felt it. A shift in the current. A pressure in the water, heavy and ancient. Something was here.
He stopped moving, letting his body float as his senses extended outward. Slowly, from the depths of the murk, a figure emerged.
It was massive.
The Grumber's body moved like a serpent, broad and scaled with ridges of deep crimson and obsidian black. It dwarfed the others—easily twice the size of the largest one Toran had seen. Jagged fins jutted from its sides, and its eyes glowed faintly with a primal fury. It drifted forward with the slow, inevitable grace of something that had never once feared becoming prey.
T-that's it. That's the one…
Toran's breath caught in his throat.
This was it.
The Grumber didn't attack immediately. It circled him, slow and deliberate, testing him, trying to read this strange challenger. Toran spun in place to keep his eyes on it, his hands clenched into trembling fists. His limbs quaked from cold and effort, but he forced his body still. One shot, he thought. I'll get one shot.
Suddenly, the beast lunged.
Too fast!
Tail—watch it!
Toran ducked with barely a second to spare, the rush of water from the Grumber's massive jaws nearly knocking him backward. As it streaked past, he reached for the tail and—miraculously—grabbed hold.
Got you! Don't lose it now—!
The creature twisted violently, flinging its body left and right to shake him loose. Toran gritted his teeth, arms burning, legs flailing for stability. He clung on with every ounce of strength he had.
It's trying to drown me…!
It dove deeper, dragging him down, but Toran didn't let go.
In the thrashing chaos, he saw it—a section near the Grumber's midsection where the scales looked thinner, paler. A weakness.
There! Scales—thin! That's the weak spot!
Timing his next move, Toran waited for the Grumber to turn. When it did, he let go, using the water's momentum to hurl himself upward. He twisted, then dove again—aiming directly for the exposed patch.
NOW!
At the last second, he thrust both arms forward and struck.
The Grumber bucked in pain, a thunderous ripple of energy exploding through the lake like a detonation. The shockwaves knocked Toran backward, slamming him against the rocky bed of the lake. Dizzy, dazed, he tried to recover—only to see the Grumber surging toward him again, enraged.
Its jaws opened wide.
With no time to think, Toran braced himself, crouched low on the lakebed. He could feel it—the same strange sensation from earlier, back when he threw the ball at the rigged carnival game. That faint black aura coiled around his fist, flickering like smoke in the water. He didn't know what it was or why it came to him—but he embraced it now.
As the Grumber closed in, Toran exploded upward. Water peeled away from his body like mist. He threw his punch, and the aura around his hand pulsed with invisible power.
I feel it inside, what is it? Whatever it is… I need this to end it.
The moment his fist connected with the Grumber's side, a thunderous boom ruptured through the water.
Above the surface, the crowd gasped as a massive spout of water burst from the lake, sending waves crashing against the dock.
Jimbee, soaked from the eruption along with most of the crowd, lifted his dripping megaphone and shouted with a grin, "Umm... did someone bring explosives? I did say anything goes I guess"
For a breathless moment, the mist over the lake began to unravel—thin ribbons of vapor curling and lifting like ghostly fingers withdrawing from the surface. The water beneath, once hidden, shimmered into view inch by inch, as if the lake itself were waking from a dream. And still, there was nothing. No movement. Just a quiet, eerie stillness hovering over the water. Then, a dark patch slowly expanded across the surface. Gasps echoed through the stands as Toran and the massive Grumber broke through, rising from the depths like a myth made real.
The boy clung to the beast, barely conscious, his fingers curled around one of the thick fins. The fish—red-scaled and monstrous—unconscious beneath him, exhausted. The crowd fell silent in disbelief.
With gritted teeth and every ounce of strength he had left, Toran began dragging the beast toward the dock. His lungs screamed for air, his muscles burning from the strain, but he refused to let go. Inch by inch, he hauled it forward, the waterline painting streaks of red and silver across the wooden dock as he neared the edge.
The other competitors stood frozen—staring. Some dropped their weapons. Others just shook their heads in stunned awe. None of their catches came close.
Just as Toran's arms gave way, his energy faltered, and he began to slip beneath the surface.
A hand shot out.
Soren.
The old warrior crouched at the edge of the dock and, with one powerful pull, yanked the boy up and out of the lake, dragging him to safety. Toran collapsed onto the planks, coughing and soaked, the Grumber beside him like a defeated titan.
Soren studied the fish in silence, then looked down at the boy sprawled before him—eyes half-closed, chest heaving.
"I never thought I'd see one in my life," Soren muttered.
Toran groaned, forcing a grin. "It's pretty big, but probably nothing you haven't seen before... right?"
Soren let out a dry chuckle. "Not the fish, boy."
Toran blinked in confusion, but Soren was already standing, turning away with a small smirk tugging at the edge of his weathered face.
"See you around kid."
And just like that, the old man walked off
Other competitors came forward, gathering near the dock to offer Toran their congratulations. Some shook their heads in disbelief, others patted him on the back with genuine admiration. What once looked like an easy dismissal—a child amidst seasoned warriors—had turned into a humbling moment for them all. The boy had proven himself.
Cato, Lira, and Riven stood further back, stunned.
"Do you think he really did it?" Riven asked, arms folded, her brow furrowed.
Cato grunted. "I couldn't see anything from the mist. One minute it was calm, then—boom. Water everywhere."
"Well, if he did, that kid isn't normal," Riven said, staring out toward the lake.
Lira, practically bouncing on her toes, squinted at the boy from across the dock. "Wow, that was so cool! I mean—how do you think he did it? A weapon? No, I didn't see one. Zephyr! What do you think it was?" She turned eagerly—only to find the space beside her empty. "Huh? Where'd he go?" she muttered, scanning the crowd. "Weirdo."
Up by the podium, Jimbee was still dripping wet, his jacket clinging to his frame, megaphone in hand. "Hold on! Did anyone help this kid catch that monster?" he called out, scanning the faces for answers.
Soren, passing by, turned back to Jimbee and spoke without hesitation. "He did it alone."
Jimbee shook his head and grinned. "Well, whether you believe it or not, folks, we've got a clear winner. Toran of Tailing Stream—come on up!"
He held out the prize: two shining train tickets to the Ma'jestia City.
The applause erupted, sweeping through the crowd like a wave. Children cheered, adults shouted in amazement, and even the competitors clapped—some still dazed, others smiling in genuine respect.
From the stands, Roselia and Yanger were shouting the loudest.
"Can you believe it, Yanger? Toran actually won!" Roselia cried, eyes wide with joy.
Roselia's eyes were locked on Toran, but beside her, Yanger had gone silent. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped at them quickly, failing to hold them back.
"I thought he was dead…" Yanger choked out, voice cracking.
Roselia blinked and turned to him. "Pull yourself together! A second ago you were just cheering."
Her smile quickly turned to concern as she looked back toward the dock. "Wait—he has to be completely worn out. Come on, we should get to him!"
"Yeah, right!" Yanger sniffled, regaining composure as the two pushed through the crowd.
They found Toran by the edge of the dock, drenched and breathing heavily. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his shirt clung to him like a second skin.
"Toran!" Roselia called, rushing over.
"I think I overdid it," he said, his voice raspy but playful.
"Overdid it?!" Yanger blurted out. "Look at that thing! It's huge! What is that—ten feet?"
Roselia burst into giggles at Yanger's wide-eyed awe. "You really outdid yourself, hero."
Toran smiled weakly and held up the two tickets, the corners still wet. "Worth it."
The trio walked away from the lingering crowd, their steps slow and deliberate—each one echoing the weight of what they had just endured.
Yanger, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, launched into rapid-fire questions. "Okay, but seriously—how did you do that? Some secret move? Did you find a weak spot? Did someone help you?"
Toran laughed through his exhaustion. "Honestly? I'm not even sure. When I went to strike, it felt like something was surrounding me—some kind of… energy. Like I wasn't fighting alone."
Yanger blinked. "That's creepy. But also... kind of awesome."
Roselia tilted her head, watching Toran closely. "Whatever it was, it worked. And I've never seen anything like it."
Toran gave a tired nod.
With a final wave to Roselia and Yanger, who were still laughing and recounting the competition, Toran turned toward the outskirts of the village. His path led through winding footpaths, downtrodden forest trails lit only by the glow of the sun. The village slowly disappeared behind the trees, the celebration's echo fading into the hush of nature.
He moved slowly. Not out of pain, but reflection.
Toran lived beyond the forest, in a modest wooden cabin nestled in a quiet clearing. It wasn't just a house—it was a home, shared with Mari, the woman who had raised him since he was young. After his parents were lost in the war against the Kall, Mari—his mother's dearest friend—took him in without question.
Mari was a woman of strength wrapped in softness. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was usually tied back loosely, wisps curling around her warm face. Hazel eyes full of quiet wisdom always seemed to know what he needed before he did. She was graceful, not aged, her presence as comforting as a sunrise. With a gentle voice and steady hands, Mari had become everything to Toran—a mentor, a protector, and the only real family he had left.
As he reached the clearing, he spotted her waiting on the porch. She was leaning against the post, arms crossed, one brow arched knowingly.
"Well," she called, "you look like you got into a wrestling match with a waterfall."
Toran blinked, then laughed. "What—how did you know?"
Mari smirked. "You're drenched. You smell like fish. And, more importantly… I was there."
"You were?" he asked, wide-eyed.
Mari nodded. "Back row. I couldn't miss the Great Grumber Competition—especially not when someone I know signed up at the last minute and nearly gave half the village a heart attack."
Toran's grin stretched across his face as he pulled the soaked tickets from his pocket and held them up like a treasure. "I caught the biggest Grumber, Mari. It was—massive. No one believed I could do it. But I did. And I got these!"
Her smile softened. "To the Ma'jestia City," she said quietly. "I am very proud, Toran."
"Come inside," she said, resting a hand gently on his shoulder. "Dinner's ready. Your favorite."
The cabin's warm air wrapped around him like a blanket as soon as he stepped inside. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across the rustic interior. Dried herbs hung from the beams overhead, and the scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables filled the space.
As they sat down to eat, Toran recounted the entire day—the booth game, the festival, the moment the Grumber exploded from the lake, and the black aura he still didn't quite understand. Mari listened, her chin resting on one hand, smiling with each wide-eyed detail. She laughed when he described Jimbee soaked in lake water, and nodded thoughtfully when he mentioned the odd energy he'd felt before the final blow.
After dinner, Mari stood and pulled on a light shawl. "Come," she said. "There's something I want to show you."
Toran, buzzing with curiosity, didn't hesitate.
Together, they stepped out venturing into the woods, Toran felt his senses come alive. The towering trees above seemed ancient, their branches interlocking like cathedral ceilings, sheltering the land beneath them in flickering shade. A cool breeze rustled the leaves, sending tiny whispers through the forest like old secrets being passed along from root to root. The sound of flowing water trickled through the trees, blending with the rhythmic chirping of hidden creatures, and the occasional rustle of small animals darting through the underbrush.
The most enchanting sound came from above: the song of the elusive Tailing birds.
Native only to the Tailing Stream village and its surrounding woods, the Tailing bird was both a symbol and a mystery. With feathers of vibrant blue dotted with orange specks, their colors shimmered like fireflies caught in sapphire. They were graceful in flight, darting with precision and speed through the canopy, rarely seen and never lingering long. The villagers revered them as omens of good fortune. According to legend, the blue symbolized the flowing waters of the stream, and the orange specks represented the flickering warmth of hearth and family.
Mari paused, placing a finger to her lips. "Listen," she whispered.
High above, a pair of Tailing birds leapt from branch to branch, calling to one another in a melodic trill that echoed gently through the clearing.
Toran's eyes lit up. "Look, Mari!" he pointed, enchanted. "Tailing birds! Aren't they?"
Mari smiled at his wonder. "They are," she nodded. "Seeing them together like that? That's a blessing. Good fortune, Toran. A sign of the adventures ahead of you."
Toran tilted his head to watch the birds take flight, their plumage glowing against the dimming sky. They circled each other midair, then disappeared into the forest as if drawn by some invisible path.
With awe still in his eyes, Toran followed Mari along a winding trail lined with moss-covered rocks and glowing mushrooms peeking out from the base of the trees. The forest seemed alive, breathing slowly in the cooling air.
Not long on their trail, it opened into a glade bathed in silver moonlight. Before them, nestled against the curve of a low mountain, stood a cascading waterfall. It spilled into a crystalline pool below, the sound both powerful and serene. Around the pool bloomed a ring of wildflowers—red roses, orange lilies, delicate white daisies, and tall purple lilacs—all swaying gently as if nodding in welcome.
Toran stood still, breath caught in his throat. "It's… it's like something out of a storybook."
Mari nodded, her voice hushed with reverence. "This place has always been special to me. When your mother and I were your age, we'd come here often. It was a place where we could just... escape the chaos in the world."
They found a fallen log near the edge of the pond and sat side by side. The sound of the water lulled them into a peaceful silence, broken only by the occasional flutter of wings or soft rustling of wind-blown petals.
Mari gestured to the flowers. "Nature doesn't need much to be beautiful," she said. "It just is. Even after everything this land has been through—war, loss, change—this place endures."
Toran glanced around, soaking in every detail. "It feels like the world forgot how to be?" he questioned.
Mari chuckled. "Exactly."
Suddenly, a flicker of light caught Toran's eye. He turned sharply and saw, just off the path, a single flower catching a lone sunbeam through the trees—a rich red magnolia, vibrant and glowing as if lit from within. It's velvety petals unfolding in slow, deliberate grace. Its color was deep and striking, not the soft blush of common magnolias, but a bold crimson hue, like dusk soaked in wine. The petals curled at the edges, thick and smooth, each one catching the light with a sheen like polished silk. At its heart, golden stamens trembled faintly with the breeze, delicate and fiery against the red. It didn't just sit in the world—it demanded to be noticed. A symbol of quiet strength and rare beauty, blooming defiantly even in places it had no business surviving.
Drawn to it, Toran stepped toward the bloom. "Mari! Look at this!"
Mari approached, eyes widening slightly. "A red magnolia," she said with quiet awe. "That's rare."
Toran crouched beside the flower. "It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it."
Mari knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the petals with reverence. "This flower… it's sacred. The villagers believe the red magnolia only blooms when the spirit of Crea—the goddess Fai'yai—has passed through."
Toran looked up, startled. "Fai'yai? The creator?"
Mari nodded. "She is said to walk the forests of Halia when her heart stirs with emotion. Love. Sorrow. Hope. And when she does… life blooms in her wake."
Toran stared at the flower with new reverence. "And she was here?"
"Perhaps," Mari said gently. "Or perhaps she wanted you to see this. Maybe she's watching over you."
Toran placed his hand on the petal. "That's… that's kind of amazing, Mari."
The two sat by the flower for a while longer, neither one speaking. They didn't need to. The wind whispered enough.
Eventually, Mari rose and brushed the leaves from her skirt. "We should head back before the stars take over."
Toran gave the red magnolia one last look, committing its image to memory. Then he followed her, feet lighter than before.
The walk home was quiet. Even the forest seemed to walk with them, its symphony now soft, slow, content. The trees stood as sentinels in the moonlight. Somewhere distant, the Tailing birds chirped once more, a final lullaby to the day.