CHAPTER ONE: The
Dawn broke pale and heavy with fog, draping Mount Koran in a ghostly veil.
Rayon's boots scraped against the damp stone as he climbed, his breath clouding in the cold air. Long strands of black hair whipped across his face in the wind, and his gray eyes narrowed to pierce the shifting mist. The faint scar on his left brow prickled in the chill.
"Why does Hakin always tell me to stay away from this mountain?" he wondered. "Five years under his roof, yet he's never once told me why."
He hauled himself onto a narrow ledge, scanning the swirling white nothing ahead—when a voice, low and amused, split the silence.
> "Ha-ha… what do we have here?"
Rayon stiffened. Three shapes emerged from the fog—leather armor in tatters, scarred faces, and weapons slick with moisture.
> "A lonely boy in a lonely place," the first thief sneered.
"Fortune smiles on us today," the second chuckled.
"Tired of carving up weak villagers," the third said, his eyes glinting. "This should be more entertaining."
Rayon's chest tightened. Real killers.
The crackle of fire, screams, his mother's voice, his father's blood—memories struck like knives.
He turned and ran, their laughter chasing him.
> "Run, little rat!" one shouted.
"We'll catch you eventually!"
His boots pounded the narrow trail—until it ended in a sudden drop. A sheer void yawned below, the mist hiding its depth.
"A cliff… but there's no choice."
The third thief's voice roared behind him.
> "It's over, boy!"
Rayon jumped. His foot slipped on the slick rock.
> "No—!"
The world fell away—mist, rushing air—and then, darkness.
Pain in his ribs woke him. Cold ground beneath, shadows pressing in on all sides.
"Still alive?" He fumbled for a match, struck it, and the faint flame revealed old stone walls etched with strange patterns. A corridor stretched ahead.
He moved cautiously, passing murals of vast battles—a lone warrior standing against endless armies. The air grew colder until he stepped into a vast chamber.
At its center stood a massive black sarcophagus. Beside it, a stone table.
And on that table lay a book.
Black leather cover, edges worn, faded gold letters catching the matchlight: "The Art of the God of War."
Rayon's heartbeat quickened.
"God of War? No… it can't be."
His hand trembled as it reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the cover, a faint golden glow flickered across it. The pages turned on their own, stopping at the first chapter: "Fundamentals of Inner Flow." The words seemed to pulse under his gaze.
A deep creak groaned from the sarcophagus.
Rayon slammed the book shut, hugged it to his chest, and bolted down another passage until daylight spilled ahead. Minutes later, he emerged into the gray morning, far from where he had fallen.
By the time he reached Hakin's forge, the sun was high.
Hakin stood at the door, face stern.
> "You're late."
"I… got turned around," Rayon lied.
"Stay away from that mountain," Hakin said, his tone as hard as steel. "Some places keep their secrets for a reason.
That night, Rayon read the book in secret. The diagrams were strange, the text dense. He tried one of the breathing methods, and pain tore through his muscles—followed by a faint warmth. Strength.
Days passed. He practiced in stolen moments, feeling his body change in ways he couldn't explain.
One afternoon, in the market, he overheard two men talking.
> "They say the God of War's mark has shown itself again," one murmured.
"Somewhere near Mount Koran," the other replied.
A chill slid down Rayon's spine.
Later, carrying a bundle of metal bars, he collided with a young man—short brown hair, a cocky grin. The stranger's eyes swept over him.
> "You've got a fighter's stance," he said.
"Move," Rayon muttered.
"Or maybe we test it. Arena. Now."
Rayon tried to walk away, but the challenge was loud enough to draw a crowd.
In the dirt arena, the stranger struck fast—sharp and clean. Rayon blocked, dodged, and without thinking, shifted his weight and landed a palm strike exactly as shown in the book's illustrations. The blow staggered his opponent.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
High above, on a rooftop, a hooded figure watched, lips curling into a smile.
> "The mark… it's real."
And then, he vanished.
Rayon, chest heaving, understood one thing: the secret he carried was now far more dangerous than he had imagined.