The sun rose over the neutral village, casting a soft golden hue across the simple homes and surrounding forests. The air was calm — too calm for someone like Arson.
Sylvia remained inside one of the small houses, still resting as the last traces of her injuries healed. Despite her near-miraculous recovery rate thanks to both the neutrals' herbs and her Nature Tribe abilities, she still needed a full day to regain her strength.
Arson, meanwhile, paced the outskirts of the village, arms crossed, his usual scowl plastered across his face. The air around him flickered with subtle flames, more from irritation than any real intention to destroy.
"This is boring," he muttered under his breath, kicking a small rock into a nearby tree. "How do these people live like this?"
He was used to chaos — burning villages, conquering territories, and clashing with powerful enemies. A quiet day spent doing nothing felt like some cruel punishment.
As he roamed aimlessly, a small group of neutrals cautiously gathered at a distance, whispering among themselves. Though they were terrified of him, they couldn't help but notice his growing restlessness.
Finally, one brave — or perhaps foolish — soul stepped forward, clearing his throat nervously. "Uh… Prince Arson?"
Arson's eyes snapped to him, and the poor man flinched. "What did you just call me?"
"P-Prince Arson," the man stammered.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Arson smirked, clearly pleased — though he didn't admit it. "Good. About time you people learned how to address me properly."
Encouraged by the lack of immediate violence, another neutral hesitantly spoke up. "Since this village is under your rule now… maybe you have the authority to oversee our daily activities?"
Arson blinked. "Why the hell would I care about your stupid lifestyle?"
The clever neutral kept his composure. "B-Because… as the ruler, surely you'd want to know what happens within your own territory. It's a matter of authority, Prince Arson."
There was a flicker of interest in Arson's expression. He hated to admit it, but the idea of "supervising" — of having something to do — sounded better than aimlessly wandering around. At least it would kill time until Sylvia recovered.
He rolled his shoulders, feigning disinterest. "Tch. Fine. But don't think I care. This is just to make sure you're not plotting something stupid behind my back."
The neutrals quickly nodded in agreement, more than willing to play along if it meant keeping him from burning their homes.
And so, Arson's unexpected "supervision" began.
He roamed the village, observing their simple lives — something so foreign to him that, despite himself, he couldn't help but be intrigued.
He watched as the neutrals gathered water from nearby streams, their teamwork efficient but quiet. He saw them prepare basic meals using natural ingredients — herbs, roots, and berries. The smell of their cooking was unfamiliar yet oddly pleasant, though Arson would never admit that.
Children ran past him, careful to keep their distance but still giggling softly as they played simple games with sticks and stones. Arson merely raised an eyebrow. "They call this fun?"
He peeked into workshops where neutral men and women crafted basic tools — nothing like the Metal Tribe's advanced technology. Instead, everything was made from stone, wood, or bone. It was primitive, yet functional.
Even the wolf — the same beast that once tried to tear Arson apart — watched him from a distance. Its sharp eyes never left him, but it didn't interfere. It seemed to sense that, at least for now, Arson wasn't a threat.
What surprised Arson the most was the sense of community. They worked together seamlessly, no one acting superior, no one trying to dominate the others. It was the exact opposite of how tribes like Magma operated — and it was… strange.
By midday, Arson found himself leaning against a tree, arms crossed, his mind buzzing with everything he'd observed.
"This is how they live?" he muttered, the crackling of a small flame dancing at his fingertips. "No fighting for power… no battles… Just…"
He stopped himself, scowling. "Tch. It's pathetic."
But deep down, a tiny part of him — a part he refused to acknowledge — found it fascinating.
As the day wore on, the neutrals noticed something odd: though Arson acted as if he didn't care, he didn't destroy anything. Not a single flame left a scorch mark on their homes or land.
He was watching. Observing.
And though his pride wouldn't let him admit it, for the first time in his life, Prince Arson of the Magma Tribe was experiencing something beyond the thrill of battle — the quiet, simple existence of a people who didn't need fire or fury to survive.
_ _ _
The next morning, the sun barely peeked over the horizon when Arson barged into the small hut where Sylvia had been resting.
His arms were crossed, and that familiar arrogant smirk was plastered across his face.
"You're healed now, right?" His voice crackled with impatience, like a flame threatening to burst. "Good. Wake up fast. I've got more territories to conquer — can't waste any more time."
Without waiting for a response, he spun around and stormed off, the heat in the air rising with every step.
Sylvia blinked, still adjusting to the suddenness of his arrival, but it didn't surprise her.
Arson wasn't the type to slow down — not for her, not for anyone. Sighing, she ran her fingers over the last of her healed wounds and stood up, her mind already racing with the familiar dread of what was to come.
By the time she stepped outside, Arson was already a fiery blur in the distance, flames licking the edges of the forest as he charged forward.
Instinct kicked in. Without thinking, Sylvia followed.
It was a vicious cycle — Arson burning his way through yet another neutral village, his flames consuming everything in sight, while Sylvia trailed behind, using her Nature power to restore what she could.
A tree, half-burned by Arson's reckless path, sprouted new leaves at Sylvia's touch. A garden blackened by the heat slowly regained its green hue as she knelt beside it, whispering to the plants.
Arson glanced back just long enough to notice. His smirk widened.
"Still as annoying as ever," he said loud enough for her to hear. "But I guess that's what makes this fun."
Sylvia didn't respond. She didn't need to. They both knew this routine by now — an endless game of destruction and restoration. He burned, she healed. He took, she gave back.
When Arson reached the next neutral village, his grin grew more wicked. Flames roared from his hands, scorching homes, sending terrified neutrals scrambling for safety. He didn't hold back — why would he? This was his game, his way of asserting his dominance.
Sylvia arrived moments later, already moving to protect the people. Vines lashed out, shielding the homes, drawing water from the ground to smother the flames. She worked tirelessly, not out of hope — but out of duty.
Because this was their life now.
An unbreakable cycle — Arson, the destroyer; Sylvia, the healer. One couldn't exist without the other.
And in some twisted way, they both knew that if one of them ever fell, the balance between destruction and creation would shatter with them.
So, they continued — two forces forever bound, forever clashing, locked in a dance neither could escape.