Keo walked home alone.
Rivermist at night was gentle—almost shy. Lanterns blinked from cottage windows like drowsy eyes ready to fall asleep. The dirt paths glowed softly in the moonlight, and the breeze carried the scent of river water, warm soil, and the faint tang of baking bread drifting from the baker's shop.
A few villagers nodded as he passed, but most didn't notice him.
Keo didn't mind.
He was thinking too hard to care.
How do I become a hero?
The question clung to him like morning dew—light, but impossible to shake off.
His "house," if it could be called that, was a tiny narrow room tucked behind the baker's shop. A single window let in moonlight, and his straw mattress sat neatly in the corner.
Keo slipped through the side door, careful not to wake the baker and his wife. He plopped onto the mattress and stared at the wooden ceiling beams.
What am I supposed to do now…?
He ruffled his long silver hair roughly, shifting his small body in frustrated twists and turns, like a child throwing a silent tantrum.
Eventually, exhaustion stole him away, and he fell asleep—still frustrated and without a single idea on how to become a hero.
---
Morning
Children were already running through the streets when the sun rose—laughing, shouting, chasing each other through dust and morning mist.
"Hey! Kid!"
A rough, gravelly voice boomed from the bakery's back door.
"Wake up! Time to earn your keep!"
Keo groaned like a grumpy puppy, dragging himself upright. He splashed his face with cold water from a bucket, fixed his hair with quick messy strokes, and stepped into the shop.
The bakery smelled like heaven—warm dough, melting sugar, and early morning heat from the stone oven.
"You look rough," the voice said.
"I feel rough," Keo muttered.
The man speaking was Mr. George—the baker.
He had a bald head that gleamed under lamp-light, thick brows like two fuzzy caterpillars, and a wide brown beard sprinkled with crumbs. He was big—strong-looking like a warrior, but definitely not the fit type. His voice was scratchy thanks to years of smoking cheap cigarettes.
"You're still a kid—ten years old!" George said, giving Keo a friendly smack on the back. "Too young to be having rough nights."
"George, stop bothering the child," a soft voice chimed.
Mrs. Olivier, the baker's wife, stepped out from behind a curtain.
She was a round, warm-looking woman with soft brown eyes and curly honey-colored hair tied in a loose bun. Her apron was always dusted with flour, and she smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Her smile alone could calm even the fussiest baby.
"Here," George said, handing Keo a basket filled with pastries. "Deliver these to the names on this list."
"Yes, sir!"
Keo headed out.
Since he had no home or parents, the baker had taken him in. In exchange, Keo worked small jobs—deliveries, sweeping, washing bowls. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept his belly full and gave him a place to sleep.
---
Keo's Delivery Run
Rivermist awakened slowly, like a sleepy old cat stretching in the sun.
Keo went from house to house, delivering pastries to villagers:
To old Mrs. Talla, who watered her garden while humming off-key.
To the twins who always fought but shared their pastries in perfect harmony.
To the fisherman at the riverbank, his boat rocking gently against the pier.
To the tavern, where sleepy men waved lazily at Keo as he passed the basket.
Every home felt different—different smells, different warmths. But each smile Keo received made his chest glow a little.
By midday, the sun stood high, and Keo returned to the bakery, sweating lightly and brushing crumbs off his shirt.
He could've gone to play like the other kids.
But instead, he sat on a wooden crate outside the shop… and thought.
And thought.
And thought.
How do I become a hero?
He stared at his hands, as if answers would magically appear in his palms.
---
The Trip
"Hey, kid," George called, stepping out with a cocky smirk. "Since you're doing nothing, wanna come with me?"
Keo perked up. "Where are you going?"
George puffed out his chest.
"The… Empire."
Keo's eyes sparkled like polished silver.
"The Empire?! Really?! Why?!"
George shrugged. "We're running low on dough, sugar, and other supplies. Thought you could use some fresh air. You looked half-dead this morning."
"Yes!!"
Keo dashed inside, threw on his best shirt—still patched in a few places—and ran back out.
They boarded a farmer's caravan—a wooden wagon pulled by two sturdy brown horses. The air was filled with the smell of hay, apples, and the earthy scent of the animals. Fields stretched endlessly around them—golden wheat swaying like waves, distant mountains painted blue by the horizon, and birds circling lazily in the open sky.
The ride was bumpy but thrilling.
Keo leaned over the wagon's edge, soaking in every detail like a sponge.
The closer they got, the more the Empire rose before them—huge stone walls towering like giants.
---
The Empire Gates
Armored guards stood at the entrance, spears crossed, eyes sharp. Their armor gleamed silver, trimmed with deep blue cloth—the Empire's colors.
"Stay close," George murmured to Keo. "The Empire is big. Don't get lost."
"Yes, sir," Keo said, practically vibrating with excitement.
George showed the guards his merchant papers.
They inspected the caravan, asked routine questions, marked a ledger, and once satisfied, stepped aside.
The gates opened.
Keo's breath caught.
"Whaaa…"
---
The Empire
It was enormous.
Buildings rose high—stone and marble mixed with polished glass. Metal rails carried carts across the city with clanking noises. Strange lamp-posts glowed even though it wasn't night yet. Mechanical lifts carried people up tall towers. Pipes ran along walls, steam hissing softly from vents.
It resembled a modern city—vibrant, loud, and astonishing.
People bustled everywhere—merchants yelling about prices, nobles sweeping past with silk trailing, guards patrolling with sharp eyes, children racing between stalls.
"This is the Empire?" Keo whispered.
"Yeah," George grumbled. "But don't be too amazed. It's not as perfect as it looks."
"Huh?" Keo blinked.
"Never mind. You're too young to get it."
---
The Mad Prophet
As they walked deeper into the streets, a sudden shout sliced through the city noise.
"THE TIME IS COMING!"
A man in ragged robes stood on a broken crate. His beard was long and tangled, and his eyes were wild with fear—or maybe truth. People avoided him like a plague, stepping far to the sides.
"When the sky cracks," he shouted, pointing upward, "we will ALL be forced to fight!"
Keo froze.
"The Law of this world!" the man screamed. "The LAW that binds heroes and mortals alike! It will awaken! YOU WILL SEE IT! YOU ALL WILL SEE—!"
Guards approached.
The prophet backed away, still shrieking, his voice echoing through the marble alley:
"THE TIME IS COMING!
"THE LAW WILL JUDGE US ALL!"
His voice cracked…
…and the city swallowed him.