A humble orphanage stood on the remote frontier of the Kingdom of Eldoria, tucked against the lower ridges of the Cloud-Spine Mountains. It was thrown together from bamboo poles and the cheapest mountain pine; its roof was packed straw, shabbily capped with warped clay shingles—each one hand-moulded and sun-baked in a crude kiln.
Here lived the children no one else wanted—abandoned on doorsteps or left to wander the roads until hunger herded them inside. The place was run by Matron Agnes, a sinewy woman of fifty with thick raven hair already streaked with silver. Decades of labour showed in her hands: callused palms, fine scars, skin as tough and dry as rawhide. In a world where most peasant women rarely saw forty, her very age felt like a small miracle—perhaps only because mountain soil was kinder than the cutthroat streets of the capital.
Four young caretakers helped her—ordinary‐looking girls who had themselves grown up beneath this patched roof. Their figures were more wiry than graceful, the result of hauling water, chopping wood, and mending fences alongside Agnes. They did not remain out of saintly compassion; in truth, the orphanage was almost the only path to a moderately safe life. Outside these gates, the prospects were bleak for anyone weak.
Finding such a refuge was a blessing. In Eldoria, a child's death seldom raised an eyebrow. The wider realm belonged to warriors and raw strength: one could be killed, raped, or enslaved simply for lacking power. Acts of casual brutality were so common they drew little pity from passers-by.
In another world, this valley might have seemed a paradise—green slopes, sweet air, even a thin river tumbling from the heights. Yet here, common folk barely remembered the taste of meat. If a family ever saw flesh, it was dried into stringy jerky to last through lean years—and even that happened only by sheer luck.
The wilds crawled with vicious beasts; not every trained fighter dared stray far from the walled towns, and peasants never did. Travellers spoke of creatures three meters tall and ten long. Only the strongest hunters—those fortunate enough to slay lesser game before larger monsters arrived—ever savoured fresh meat.
Strength ruled this land. Warriors who could fight and shield themselves were living law; the weak were cattle. Rumours told of rare men and women who pushed their power so far that they bent nature itself, calling fire from thin air. People whispered the word cultivators, dreamers who awakened some hidden energy. For villagers, such tales were bedtime stories, yet every heart secretly yearned for that strength.
Among the orphans lived a seven-year-old boy named Arin. Snow-white hair framed a small face with striking azure eyes—traits that set him apart from every other child. Matron Agnes once told him that a caretaker had found him on the riverbank near the orphanage. Fortune, she said, had placed her there; otherwise, the currents-or the mountain predators—might have claimed him that very night.