A twelve-year-old boy was running in the middle of a grassy clearing carved out of the surrounding forest. Weighted sacks of sand were tied to his arms, legs, and back—makeshift training gear crafted from old cloth and rope. Each step he took was heavy, labored. His black hair clung to his forehead, soaked with sweat, and his dark eyes, typical of peasant children in the Aurelian Empire, were focused with quiet determination.
From the treeline, a deep voice cut through the quiet of the forest.
"Enough," said Justin.
Ash staggered to a stop, legs trembling, and dropped to the ground. He sat in the dirt, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath, sweat dripping from his chin onto the grass below.
Justin stepped into the clearing, his boots crunching softly against the earth. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his weathered face shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. Though he wore the plain tunic and trousers of a commoner, there was a quiet strength in how he carried himself—like a man who had once been more than a simple herb gatherer.
He knelt beside Ash, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You're improving," he said gruffly. "You lasted longer today."
Ash didn't answer at first, still catching his breath. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his face.
"Is it... really necessary, Father?" he finally asked, between breaths. "No other boys train like this..."
Justin looked out toward the trees, eyes narrowing as if searching for something hidden in the shadows.
As the wind whispered through the clearing, Justin added, without turning back,
"The world is cruel, boy. So you need to survive."
He paused, voice rough with experience.
"No other commoner trains like this because there's no one to teach them. No time. They're too busy finding scraps of food to fill their stomachs... and their children's."
Ash said nothing, but his thoughts drifted to the past.
He remembered the stories—the ones he'd pieced together over the years. His father, once a D-rank mercenary in the local adventurer's guild. Not a legend, but known. Respected. Feared, even. It was said D-rankers had crossed blades with beasts and bandits alike, and walked away alive.
But when Ash's mother had fallen ill, Justin had given it all up. He stayed by her side until the end—refusing missions, ignoring calls from the guild—watching helplessly as she slipped away.
What Ash didn't fully know was that Justin had made that choice out of guilt—an old wound that never healed. During the early years of his mercenary career, Justin had been away far too often, chasing coin and reputation, while his wife quietly suffered at home. He had offered her only slivers of time, scraps of presence, and when the illness took root, it was already too late. That regret had buried itself deep in his chest like a rusted blade.
So he chose the path of a herb gatherer. Not just because he was skilled in foraging and survival—but because it let him stay. With Ash. Day after day. It was a way to live with his son, and atone for not being there when his wife needed him most.
And there was another reason: safety.
The forests near Virellia, though wild, were considered low-risk—beast activity was minimal in this region. That's why Justin chose this barony, tucked far from major trade routes and deeper dungeons. It was dangerous work, yes—but manageable. Survivable.
They never went hungry. With his old savings and his quiet work, they lived modestly—comfortably by peasant standards. And every moment Justin wasn't in the forest, he was there, teaching Ash. Watching him grow. Preparing him.
Justin's voice broke the silence.
"Come. Wash up. There's stew at home. Tomorrow, we train with the sword."
Ash groaned quietly, pulling off the sand sacks and struggling to his feet. Despite the ache in his limbs, a flicker of determination passed through his tired eyes. He followed his father out of the clearing, into the forest path leading back to their small cottage on the edge of Virellia, a quiet barony nestled deep within the wild southern frontier of the great Aurelian Empire.
And it was beef stew today — his father was a good cook. The rich aroma had filled their small cottage, and Ash ate quietly, savoring every bite of the warm, hearty meal.
After finishing the tasty stew, he made his way to his mother's grave — a quiet spot beneath a blooming tree behind their home. He sat there for some time, as he often did. It brought him peace, a rare calm that settled over his mind like a gentle breeze. He spoke softly, sharing the day's events, his struggles, his little victories.
When he was done, he rose and walked to the small herb farm his father had built near the edge of the forest — a patch of cultivated land filled with herbs, berries, and spices, both mundane and mildly magical.
Ash knelt down and began watering and weeding the plants with careful precision, just as he'd been taught. There was silverleaf, used to bring down fever; bitterroot, good for treating wounds; mirefern, which helped calm nerves; and mistleaf spice, which added a cool tang to food and minor potions.
But the one plant he paid the most attention to was sunblossom — a golden-petaled herb that was the best-seller at the Virellian market. Its energy-boosting properties made it popular with travelers, hunters, and minor spellcasters. Because of its value, Justin had told Ash to give it special care, and he took the instruction seriously.
Ash leaned in close to inspect the sunblossom patch. The petals had a warm, healthy hue today — no signs of spotting, wilting, or curl. Still, he made a note in his little plant journal.
Though young, Ash could read and write — a rare skill for a peasant boy, one his father had insisted on teaching him early. The letters were a bit uneven, and his ink sometimes smudged, but his entries were neat and clear. He wrote in Low Imperial, the common tongue of the Aurelian Empire, using simple phrases to record each observation: "New leaf growth on outer stem — brighter yellow than usual. No pests yet. Soil damp."
Writing had become a quiet hobby of his. He liked tracking the plants like little puzzles — how each change in weather, watering, or moonlight affected their growth. Any shift in color, no matter how slight, he would immediately report to his father, who'd sometimes adjust the soil mix or shading cloth in response.
Sunblossoms were fussy, and pests loved them — especially root mites and scent gnats, which could wipe out half a bed in a single night. Ash checked carefully under the leaves and around the base, brushing aside the soil with practiced fingers.
As he worked, he chewed slowly on a few sweetcloud berries he'd picked from a nearby bush — soft, purple, and ordinary, but their sweetness helped him focus. Tending the plants brought him peace, discipline, and pride. In this small corner of their world, Ash was already growing something of his own.
As the day slowly faded and the pale glow of moonlight began to rise above the tree line, Ash finished tending the herb beds. Nightfall was the best time to harvest sunblossom—an odd twist of nature, really. Under moonlight, the herb's golden leaves shimmered faintly, their potency at its peak. It was quite the irony, his father once said, that a plant meant to bring energy and wakefulness thrived best under the watchful eye of the moon.
Ash moved carefully between the rows, selecting just two or three mature leaves, as his father had taught him. "Enough for a full week," he had said, "if harvested right." With a steady hand and a curved iron leaf-cutter, Ash sliced them cleanly at the base, ensuring he didn't damage the stems or surrounding buds.
He brought the leaves back inside, into the small alchemy nook his father had set up in a corner of the cottage. It wasn't much—just a low wooden table, a few glass jars, and a well-used brass grinding bowl—but to Ash, it felt like a sacred space.
Placing the sunblossom leaves in the bowl, he began grinding them gently, slowly, using the pestle with practiced rhythm. No water. No herbs. Nothing added. Just the raw leaves. As the mixture thickened, a beautiful, warm aroma filled the air—sweet, earthy, and bright. This step had to be done with patience; only then could the essence be fully drawn out.
When the paste reached just the right texture, Ash scraped it into a small glass jar, sealed it tightly, and labeled it with the date in his neat, blocky script. It would keep for several days like this if stored in the cool cupboard beneath the shelves.
Each morning, as part of his daily routine, he would mix a small portion of the paste with water—just enough to tint the drink gold—and down it in one long gulp. It tasted sharp and clean, and filled him with warmth and energy, the kind that lasted through long training sessions and hours in the herb fields.
This, too, was part of his life now. Small rituals. Quiet knowledge. Inherited wisdom.