Dawn in Ashfall always came with fog.
I stood in the backyard of our wooden house, my breath forming thin white clouds in the frigid air. Dew soaked the grass beneath my bare feet. Grandpa said this was the best way to feel the earth, to sense your body's balance without the distraction of footwear. My hands gripped a worn wooden sword, as old as Grandpa's years in this village. Maybe older.
"Your stance is too wide."
Grandpa's voice came from behind me. Calm, but sharp. I hadn't heard his footsteps. Never did.
I adjusted my stance, bringing my feet closer by a few inches. The wooden blade rose level with my shoulder, its tip pointing straight ahead. Basic form. For the umpteenth time this morning.
"Better." Grandpa circled me, hands folded behind his back. His white hair, tied low at the nape, swayed gently. Deep lines creased his face, the result of seventy years of living, he'd say. But his eyes... those eyes were too sharp for someone his age. "Your head's still wandering, though. What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I drew a long breath. Fog crept between the pine trees beyond the fence. The Wilderness Expanse began just a hundred meters from here. The edge of the world I knew.
"I was just wondering why Old Man Aldren looked at me strange yesterday," I said quietly. "When I helped him carry those wheat sacks. He said, 'purple eyes are a bad omen.' Then walked away."
Grandpa fell silent. Too long.
"People fear what they don't understand," he finally said. "Purple eyes are rare. They've never seen them before. That's all."
But his tone, there was something he wasn't telling me. As usual.
I refocused on the form, swinging the sword in slow motion. Diagonal from above, horizontal from the side, straight thrust. Muscle memory. My body already knew the drill. But Grandpa was never satisfied.
"Faster. Now!"
I sped up. The swings became a blur. Wind whistled softly each time the wooden blade cut through the air. One, two, three—
"STOP!"
I froze mid-swing.
Grandpa stepped forward, his hand touching my shoulder. "You're relying too much on speed. What good is fast if your enemy can read your pattern?" He shifted my foot position slightly, pressed my shoulder down. "Lower center of gravity. Unpredictable rhythm. Your opponent should be confused, not impressed."
I nodded. Repeated the movements, this time slower but with varied timing. Fast-slow-fast. Pausing where least expected.
"Better." Grandpa stepped back, then sat on the wooden bench under the eaves. He pulled out his pipe but didn't light it. Just turned it between his fingers. "Kael, do you know why I'm teaching you to fight?"
The question caught me off guard. I lowered my sword. "Because the world's dangerous?"
"The world is always dangerous," he corrected. "But that's not the main reason." He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes. Sadness? Regret?
"I'm teaching you to fight because one day, I won't be here to protect you."
My chest tightened. "Grandpa—"
"Listen." His voice was firm but gentle. "I'm old, Kael. Seventy-three years. That's long enough for a man like me." A faint smile touched his lips. "But you, still have a long road ahead. And that road might not be easy."
I didn't know what to say. So I stood there in the middle of the yard with the wooden sword in my hand and dew evaporating beneath the morning sun.
Grandpa sighed, then stood. "Enough for this morning. Breakfast is waiting inside. You must be hungry."
Our house was small. One main room with a simple kitchen, a round wooden dining table, and a stone hearth in the corner. Grandpa said he'd built it himself thirty years ago, when he first arrived in Ashfall. Never explained why he'd chosen this remote village at the edge of civilization, bordering a Wilderness crawling with monsters.
I never asked. Not because I didn't want to know, but because every time I asked about his past, Grandpa would just smile and say, "A story for another time."
Breakfast was simple. Wheat bread, boiled eggs, and warm bean soup. I ate in silence, but my mind wandered.
Purple eyes.
I stared at my faint reflection in the spoon. Deep purple irises, almost violet. Different from everyone in the village. Even in the books Grandpa owned, there was no explanation for eyes like these.
"You're daydreaming again."
I looked up. Grandpa sat across from me, watching with probing eyes.
"I'm just curious," I said carefully. "About my parents. Did they have eyes like this too?"
Grandpa set down his spoon slowly. Too slowly.
"Maybe," he answered tersely.
"Maybe?" I leaned forward. "Grandpa, I'm seventeen years old. I don't even know their names. Don't know their faces. Don't know—"
"Kael." His voice was gentle but final. "You'll know. Someday. But not now."
"Why not now?"
He stared at me for a long moment. Then stood, walking to the wooden shelf in the corner. His hand reached for something, an old map, neatly folded. And a sealed envelope with red wax.
Grandpa placed both on the table in front of me.
"If something happens to me," he said quietly, "open these. This map will take you somewhere safe. This letter will explain many things."
My heart pounded. "Why are you saying this? Why now?"
"Because the world is moving, Kael. And sometimes, we can't escape the current." He touched my shoulder. "But remember, no matter what happens, you're stronger than you think. And you're not alone."
Before I could ask more, a loud sound came from outside.
BOOM!
The ground shook. Dust fell from the wooden roof beams.
Grandpa moved instantly. Eyes sharp, body alert. He grabbed the longsword leaning near the door. A real sword, not wooden.
"Stay inside," he ordered.
"But—"
"STAY INSIDE!!"
He went out, closing the door behind him.
I stood frozen in the middle of the room, heart racing. From outside came shouts, villagers' voices, panicked.
"MONSTER! FROM THE WILDERNESS!"
I ran to the window, peeking through a gap in the wood.
At the end of the village road, fog still hung thick. But from within it emerged a massive silhouette, bigger than a bear. Black muscular body, four legs, with horns curved backward. Its eyes glowed red.
Razorhorn Bull. I recognized it from Grandpa's bestiary. Tier 2 monster. Dangerous and aggressive. Usually didn't approach settlements.
But now, the creature stood in the middle of the road, roaring. A low sound that made my bones vibrate.
Villagers scattered, children cried. Old Man Aldren tried to ward it off with an axe, but the monster didn't even flinch.
Then, Grandpa appeared.
He walked casually from the direction of our house, sword sheathed at his waist. Not running and panic.
"Move aside," he said flatly to Aldren.
Aldren backed away, face pale.
Grandpa stood twenty meters from the monster. The Razorhorn roared again. A threat.
And Grandpa smiled.
"It's been a while since I've done this," he murmured. But somehow, I could hear his voice clearly. Like his whisper went straight into my ear.
He raised his right hand. Didn't touch the sword.
The monster charged. Running at terrifying speed, horns aimed straight.
Grandpa didn't move.
Ten meters.
Five meters.
Two meters—
Grandpa stepped to the side. One small step, casual.
The monster barreled past him, missing completely.
Then, Grandpa swung his empty hand, like swatting away a fly.
CRACK!
The air fractured. Actually fractured. I saw transparent cracks in space, like shattered glass.
The Razorhorn Bull was flung sideways, slamming into a wooden house wall with a deafening CRASH. The wall collapsed. The monster lay motionless.
And the Razorhorn Bull instantly death.
With one swing of his hand.
The village fell silent.
Grandpa rolled his shoulders, then walked back toward our house as if nothing had happened.
I stepped back from the window, breath ragged.
Who exactly was Grandpa?