The emperor’s castle stood like a silent sentinel on the horizon—an imposing structure of stone and steel. Its towering spires reached toward the heavens, a symbol of authority that had endured for generations. Though the emperor was not beloved by his people, neither was he feared. His rule was one of quiet dominance, maintaining order without excessive cruelty.

  But the heart of the village below told a different story—one of life and resilience.

  Beneath the shadow of the castle, the village buzzed with energy.

  A group of elderly men gathered under the sprawling branches of an ancient banyan tree, their voices animated as they exchanged stories of days gone by. Their laughter echoed softly, mingling with the rustling leaves.

  Nearby, women carried earthen pots filled with water from the well, their bangles clinking rhythmically as they walked in practiced unison. Children ran barefoot through the narrow lanes, their giggles filling the air as they chased after one another, dodging stray chickens and goats.

  The market was alive with color and sound—vendors calling out to customers, the scent of spices and fresh produce hanging in the air. Fabrics in vivid hues fluttered in the breeze, while craftsmen displayed their wares, hoping for a day’s worth of trade.

  Domestic animals wandered freely—cows lazily grazed by the roadside, while goats meandered through the bustling streets, occasionally stopping to nibble on discarded vegetable leaves.

  Beyond the lively village, a narrow dirt path led away toward the mountains. It was an unassuming trail, partially hidden by wildflowers that swayed gently in the morning breeze. The further the path stretched, the quieter the world became.

  The mountain stood ahead, not towering but enough to create a sense of seclusion. Near its base, the stream that originated from the mountain’s heart cascaded into a breathtaking waterfall, tumbling down in a shimmering cascade before flowing gently toward the village below.

  Nestled near this natural wonder was the orphanage—a place of purpose and discipline, hidden just enough to give its inhabitants a sense of distance from the world beyond.

  ?

  The orphanage was alive with quiet activity.

  A training ground sprawled before the main structure, its earth worn smooth by years of relentless practice. Wooden dummies stood like silent sentinels, their surfaces scarred by countless strikes.

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  To the side, a classroom sat empty for now. It was a simple space where Master 1 would soon arrive to teach, but the morning hours had not yet reached their time.

  A hut-like structure stood near the edge of the grounds. Inside, two rooms offered refuge: one held six bunk beds where the pupils rested after grueling days, and the other, a smaller room with a single bed and a small window, belonged to M2.

  And high above, a tree house perched among the branches, offering a quiet retreat for those seeking solace from the chaos below.

  ?

  The pupils were already immersed in their morning routines.

  One of them, lean and agile, darted across the training ground, his bare feet pounding against the earth as he ran laps to build endurance.

  Another, more focused, stood before a wooden dummy, his movements precise as he practiced the intricate stances he had been taught. His strikes landed with a steady rhythm, each one more refined than the last.

  High above, nestled in the tree house, one pupil sat in quiet contemplation, gazing out over the serene landscape. His thoughts were distant, lost somewhere between the past and the uncertain future that awaited.

  Near the hut, a fourth pupil stood with the assistant, their conversation hushed but warm. The assistant, ever gentle and encouraging, listened patiently as the pupil spoke, offering words of guidance and support.

  The final pupil, still wrapped in the embrace of sleep, lay curled on one of the bunk beds inside the hut. Her breathing was steady, undisturbed by the activity outside.

  ?

  Footsteps broke the morning’s calm.

  M2 emerged from the winding path, his strong frame moving with practiced ease. His presence was commanding yet comforting, and though he spoke no words, the atmosphere around him shifted subtly.

  Beside him, P6 walked with hesitant steps, his eyes absorbing the unfamiliar surroundings. The warmth of the shawl M2 had given him still lingered, but his heart remained heavy. His gaze flickered from the training ground to the hut, then to the distant tree house.

  M2’s grip on his hand was firm yet reassuring—a silent reminder that he was no longer alone.

  The pupils barely glanced up, too immersed in their tasks to notice the new arrival just yet. But the assistant, standing near the hut, did. Her expression softened as she caught sight of the boy, her eyes reflecting a quiet understanding of the pain he carried.

  M2 led P6 through the open grounds, his steps steady, his silence offering more comfort than words ever could.

  As they approached the heart of the orphanage, M2 finally spoke—his voice low and calm.

  “Welcome,” he murmured softly.

  P6’s grip on M2’s hand tightened, his unspoken emotions hidden beneath the weight of silence.

  And so, beneath the watchful eyes of the mountains and the steady hum of the stream, P6 took his first step into a world where pain would be molded into strength… and where vengeance would one day find its voice.