Toru set out for Trosa accompanied by the two disciples of King Kuro. Three silhouettes advancing across the land, all hidden beneath desert garments—sun-burned colors, covered faces, measured steps. From afar they looked like nothing more than other wandering travelers, nothing of note.
Along the way, Taris and Lamin offered Toru a small gift. A young snake, barely grown, with thin scales and glossy eyes, which quickly slipped into his pack.
— A messenger snake, they told him. In Nirva, we do not use vultures as they do in Trosa. The sand devours the sky, but snakes always find their way.
Toru did not comment. He accepted the snake without questions, feeling the symbolism of the gesture leave a bitter taste behind.
When they reached the lands of Trosa, the air changed. The timid green of the fields, the smell of damp earth and trees—all of it stirred an old, painful memory within him. Toru stopped.
— From here on, I go alone, he said coldly. Don't stand in my way. Go your own road. If not… I'll kill you.
It was not an empty threat. Both of them felt it.
Toru left without looking back.
Left behind, Taris lightly shook his robe.
— Exactly as King Kuro said. What a foolish child.
Lamin smiled beneath his hood.
— Perfect. He'll wander the city and draw attention. And we'll hand him over to the king, exactly as planned.
Meanwhile, Toru—still dressed in desert clothing—entered a small tavern hidden on a side street of the city. He needed information, not conflict. The place was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and cheap alcohol. People spoke in low voices, their eyes constantly drifting toward the door.
At the bar sat an old man, well past sixty, with knotted hands and a clouded gaze. Without being asked, he turned toward Toru.
— Traveler… how can I help you?
— I'm looking for someone, Toru answered shortly.
The old man chuckled and raised his mug.
— Wouldn't you rather hear a story?
Toru didn't answer, but he didn't leave either.
— The story of the Stag God, the old man continued, leaning in conspiratorially.
Toru's heart skipped. His ring remained hidden beneath thick desert gloves. He kept his calm and nodded, feigning interest.
— The boy who killed the Stag King didn't have an easy life, the old man said. He was born of a forbidden love. Between Thalum… what a strong man. Not even alcohol could bring him down. He drank here often, in this very tavern. And Medra, a woman from a good family in the Ice Kingdom.
Toru held his breath. He knew. Such a relationship was a crime in itself. In Nara, bonds between realms were strictly forbidden, seen as treason.
— So… what happened next? Toru asked, forcing his voice to remain neutral.
The old man grinned widely.
— Huh, now you're interested, son.
He cleared his throat and went on:
— They say Thalum and Medra had a child. An innocent boy… but one who would have brought death if his existence had been known. Medra disappeared for almost a year from the Ice Kingdom. There was even a political crisis between the realms. But she hadn't fled. She lived hidden in the forests of Trosa, together with Thalum, to give birth to the child.
Each word struck Toru like a blow.
— When the time came, Medra left alone. She couldn't bear the thought of being killed. Thalum wanted to follow her… he loved her madly. But the child… he abandoned him.
Toru clenched his fist beneath the table.
— Then Thalum left for the Ice Kingdom, to live alongside Medra. But he never arrived.
— What happened? Toru asked, almost whispering.
— They say his boat was swallowed by the ocean.
For a moment, Toru remained still—like a child waiting for a continuation that would never come.
The old man suddenly laughed and slapped the counter.
— Ah, but those are just rumors, haha!
His laughter filled the room. Toru stayed silent, his gaze distant, knowing all too well that some "rumors" are truer than any spoken truth.
Toru was filled with emotions he hadn't felt in a long time—old, deep, hard to name: anger, sorrow, longing, a hollow ache that had never truly left him. Still, he forced his face to remain neutral. He had learned long ago that emotions were a dangerous luxury.
— But the boy… is he now in Alcum? he asked, his voice carefully controlled.
The old man nodded, taking a long drink from his mug.
— Yes, that's right. Poor boy… he doesn't have much time left before the execution.
The words landed heavily. Toru swallowed hard, feeling something tighten in his chest, but he said nothing.
— And his weapon… the axe, he continued after a pause. What happened to it?
The old man studied him for a moment, mildly suspicious, though his smile never faded.
— I hope you're not some bounty hunter, are you? Haha! he burst out laughing.
— No… it's just—
— Well, I'll answer you, the old man said, calming down. You listened to my stories—and no one does that anymore.
He leaned slightly over the bar, as if sharing a secret.
— The axe was given to a child. He's only fourteen.
Toru snapped his head up.
— What? How is that possible?
— The most talented in the royal army, old man replied without hesitation. Perhaps even better than some commanders with years of experience.
The old man narrowed his eyes and continued:
— Everyone calls him "the child of prophecy." But his real name is Yuta. He trains often at the training regiment.
Toru rose from his seat so quickly that the chair screeched across the floor. At that moment, the old man stopped him with a raised hand.
— Hey, hey… you're not leaving without at least telling me your name.
He smiled broadly.
— I'm Grim. An old navigator, well-traveled, who chose to open a tavern. Life gets boring alone in a big house, haha.
He looked at Toru with curiosity.
— And you, boy? Who are you?
Toru hesitated. For a moment, his true name rested on his lips. Then he swallowed and said:
— I am… Yota. Of the desert.
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and left the tavern, leaving behind the smell of alcohol, untold stories, and a past that refused to stay buried.
Beneath the skies of Trosa, his steps were quick. The sands of Nirva no longer touched him, but their weight still clung to his soul.
Meanwhile, far from the tavern where the past had found its voice, Taris and Lamin stood before King Mori. The court of Trosa was cold, orderly—far too clean for a kingdom built on blood and fear. They wore simple garments, yet the marks of Nirva could not be fully hidden; the sand always stayed with those who crossed it.
— We are messengers from the kingdom of Nirva, said Taris, bowing respectfully. On behalf of King Kuro.
The name of Nirva stirred a faint unease in the hall. Mori watched them closely, his cold eyes noting every gesture, every pause between words.
— Speak, he said at last.
Lamin stepped forward.
— Toru is alive. And he is in Rugum right now.
For a moment, silence pressed down heavily. Then Mori laughed shortly, without humor.
— Impossible. Since Aarota took control of Alcum, nothing leaves. And whatever enters… never comes out.
It was a certainty.
— And yet, Taris insisted calmly, Toru escaped. We saw him with our own eyes. He breathes. He walks. He searches.
Mori's gaze hardened.
— If you are lying, you will die here.
— We gain nothing from lies, Lamin replied. But we do have something to offer. We can take you to where Toru's axe is.
At those words, something in Mori snapped. His mask slipped for a fraction of a second. He rose abruptly from the throne, metal ringing through the hall.
— Where is it? he asked, his voice trembling slightly—not with fear.
He didn't wait for an answer. He already knew.
Yuta.
The king turned his gaze toward the window, toward the inner courtyard where the youths trained every day. There, at the training regiment, the boy was honing himself. Blow after blow. Step after step. With an axe that was never meant to be his.
— Prepare the horses, Mori ordered. Now.
Taris and Lamin exchanged a brief glance. Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
As they set off toward the regiment, the sky above Trosa felt heavier than usual. Not a cloud in sight, yet the air vibrated—like the moment before a storm that needed no rain.
And somewhere not far away, Toru was carving his path through the city, unaware that all the threads of fate were beginning to tighten around the same point
Toru arrived at the training regiment as evening settled in. The air of Trosa was thick with humidity and the scent of trampled earth, wet wood, and iron. Watchtowers cast long shadows across the wide courtyard, where the impressions of countless footsteps from hundreds of daily drills marked the hardened ground.
The ring pulsed steadily—not violently, but insistently—like a foreign heart beating within him. He could feel his axe. So close. So close that every fiber of his being urged him to move.
He slipped along the regiment's low walls and found refuge in a shadowed corner. From there, he saw him.
Yuta.
A child, but no ordinary one. His body was lean, trained, each motion precise, each step measured. The axe traced arcs in the air, striking wooden targets with a force far beyond what such a young frame should command. Every strike followed by a subtle adjustment, every movement deliberate.
Toru froze. Not because he could not act, but because there was something hauntingly familiar in the boy's movements.
A shout pierced the quiet.
"Hey! You there!"
Guards who tought Toru was a spy from the dessert, appeared from every direction—twenty of them. Spears raised, shields forward, formation tight. Professionals. Toru knew there was no room for hesitation.
He breathed in deep.
In an instant, the horn emerged in his hand—long, sharp, glinting with a dark light. What followed was a blur of motion, almost impossible to follow. Guards fell one by one, blood spilling onto the training ground, mixing with mud and sweat. It was over before a single command could be shouted.
Yuta stepped forward instinctively.
"Wait! I can—"
"No," a calm, commanding voice cut him off.
A man stepped forward from among the soldiers, massive, broad-shouldered, his gaze cold and unyielding. Across his back hung a great, long sword engraved with ancient symbols. Its presence pulsed faintly but steadily, like a constant threat.
"I will handle this. You stay back, boy."
He was the regiment's new commander, Yutaka's successor.
When the sword was drawn, the air seemed to thicken. Toru knew it at once—the weapon of the Serpent Protector God. He knew its weight, its rhythm, the mistakes it demanded.
The duel began without a word.
The commander struck first, a horizontal slash meant to crush with the full force of the blade. Toru barely dodged, the horn striking the sword and deflecting the blow. The impact shook both arms.
Strike followed strike. The sword sought to break, to overwhelm. The horn met each assault with precision, parrying impossible angles. Toru did not rush. He waited. He knew the sword demanded effort. He knew its wielder would tire after a few exchanges.
And so it happened.
In a brief opening, Toru stepped inside the guard and thrust the horn forward. The armor yielded. The commander collapsed, silent.
Toru turned.
Yuta stood with the axe raised.
He did not flee. He did not hesitate.
He attacked.
The first blow came from above, vertical, meant to split. Toru dodged, feeling the wind of the axe brush his cheek. The second came from the side, fast, relentless. Yuta left no space. The axe moved as if an extension of his body.
Horn and axe clashed, metal ringing across the courtyard. Yuta twisted, shifting angles, slipping beneath attacks. Toru found himself on the defensive, more than he had anticipated.
"You've been trained well," he breathed.
Yuta struck again—low, diagonal, relentless. Toru blocked, deflected, measured each step, learning the rhythm, anticipating the flow.
But experience could not be denied.
A sudden surge. A feint with the horn, a sharp change of direction. Yuta reacted a heartbeat too late. The horn struck the axe's handle, yanking it from the boy's grip.
The axe clattered to the ground.
With fluid motion, Toru grabbed Yuta by the throat and lifted him. The child struggled, kicking, but his strength waned. Their eyes met.
Toru froze.
Not fear alone. Determination. Solitude. A reflection of his own lost childhood.
The sound of hooves approached.
Toru did not wait. He slammed Yuta to the ground, leaving him unconscious. He seized the axe, felt its weight, its balance, its memory.
Then he vanished among the regiment's buildings, just as shouts filled the courtyard.
Behind him remained chaos, and a child still breathing, unaware of how close he had come to the truth.
— How do we find him? the king asked, his voice low, weighted with a tension he could barely conceal.
Taris stepped forward, calm, almost respectful.
— We can reach him, he said. He carries a messenger snake. We can call him.
Lamin added at once, his tone precise, calculated:
— At the edge of the coast. We have a boat prepared. He won't ignore the summons.
They spoke with the certainty of those who knew events were unfolding exactly as intended. The chaos, the flight, the wounds — all of it was part of a path already drawn. For them, nothing had slipped out of control.
The snake was sent. Its slender body undulated swiftly before vanishing into the night, carrying the message with it.
Far from the regiment, Toru received the sign. He recognized it instantly. The trap was obvious.
He felt no pleasure at the thought of returning toward the desert realm. Nirva offered him nothing now. But one thing was certain, clear as a cold blade.
Lamin and Taris had to disappear from the story.
He knew a ruse was coming. And for the first time in a long while, a brief smile — empty of joy — crossed his lips. He sent his reply through the snake:
I'll be waiting.
When the message returned, Mori read it and felt his breathing grow heavy. Not from fear, but from resolve. Years of dread, guilt, and fury collapsed into a single moment.
— Enough, he said, his words allowing no opposition. Guards, escort our two guests to the palace.
For the first time, Taris and Lamin were left without an answer. Their gazes met, and in that fleeting instant they understood that their plan had not failed — it had merely changed.
Mori turned toward the empty courtyard, toward the fallen child, toward the traces of a history that refused to die.
— I will handle this personally, he said. Just me and that boy.
He spoke the name with weight:
— Toru.
For Mori, it was no longer about politics, kingdoms, or power. It was the beginning and the end of the same story, a circle that had to be closed.
— And I will finish it… once and for all.
The wind rose gently from the coast, as if signaling that two wills were about to collide. And this time, neither had any intention of retreating.