The world of martial arts was vast beyond measure.
Across the lands of Terranova, sects rose and fell like waves, empires changed hands with the passing of generations, and cultivators pursued strength with a devotion bordering on madness. Kings ruled nations, emperors commanded armies—but above them all existed powers that did not kneel.
Among those powers stood a single family.
A family whose word outweighed imperial decrees.
A family whose anger could end dynasties.
A family even emperors treated as equals—at best.
They were known simply as the Ashen Family.
On the night their youngest child was born, the world did not remain silent.
It was exactly midnight.
00:00.
The sky above the Ashen ancestral estate darkened unnaturally, as though the stars themselves had withdrawn. Clouds gathered without warning, spiraling over the mountains surrounding the land. Wind howled through ancient pines, bending them low.
Then—
Lightning tore across the heavens.
Not once.
Not twice.
Again and again, brilliant white bolts split the darkness, illuminating towering halls and stone courtyards that had stood for centuries. Thunder followed, shaking the ground and rattling formations that had not stirred in generations.
Deep within the inner palace, a child cried for the first time.
At that exact moment, the lightning ceased.
The storm vanished.
The sky fell silent.
Elders opened their eyes from deep meditation.
Hidden guardians tightened their grips on ancient weapons.
Even the sealed ancestral relics beneath the estate trembled faintly—then stilled.
"He was born at the Hour of Silence," one elder murmured.
"A strange time," another replied softly. "Neither night nor dawn."
Inside the chamber, the head of the Ashen Family stood beside the bed, gazing down at the newborn child in his arms.
The infant's eyes were open.
Clear.
Calm.
Unafraid.
For a brief moment, lightning reflected in the man's gaze.
"Arthur," he said at last.
Thus was born Arthur Ashen.
The child would never remember the storm.
But the storm would remember him.
Arthur learned to walk early.
He learned to speak even earlier.
By the age of three, he was already running through the inner courtyards, chased by laughter and familiar voices. By five, he knew the names and faces of nearly everyone within the estate.
His world was filled with people.
At its center stood his siblings.
Arthur had four blood siblings, all sharing the same father, though their mothers were different.
The eldest was Leon Ashen, twelve years older than Arthur—already calm, disciplined, and distant even as a child. Leon trained more than he spoke and carried himself like someone who had already accepted a heavy future.
Next was Darian Ashen, nine years older—sharp-tongued, ambitious, and endlessly competitive. Darian laughed loudly, argued often, and always spoke about becoming stronger than everyone else.
Then came his sisters.
Elara Ashen, seven years older, composed and intelligent, who watched everything in silence and always seemed to understand more than she said.
And Seris Ashen, five years older, gentle but firm, the one who often held Arthur's hand and shielded him from harsher training grounds.
Their mothers were different.
Their blood was not.
To Arthur, they were simply brother and sister.
They trained together in the mornings.
Ate together at the long tables.
Shared quiet conversations under lantern-lit corridors at night.
Seris braided his hair when he was small.
Elara corrected his posture during training.
Darian dragged him along to watch sparring matches.
Leon… Leon simply rested a hand on Arthur's head in silence.
Those were his earliest memories.
Warm ones.
Then, one day, Leon left.
Arthur was four.
He remembered standing by the gate, too young to understand why his eldest brother wore travel robes instead of training clothes. Leon knelt before him, placed something small into his palm—a carved wooden charm—and said nothing.
That was the last time Arthur saw him.
Two years later, Darian left.
This time, Arthur asked questions.
"Where is he going?"
No one answered.
Darian only laughed, ruffled Arthur's hair, and said, "Grow strong. I'll see you again."
Elara left the following year.
She knelt in front of Arthur and looked him in the eyes for a long time.
"Remember what you see," she told him softly. "Not what you're told."
Seris was the last.
Arthur was seven when she left.
She hugged him tightly that morning, longer than usual, and whispered, "You're not alone. Even when it feels like it."
Then she walked away without looking back.
After that, Arthur's world shrank.
Those who remained were his cousins—children of his father's brothers and sisters, filling the estate with noise and life.
There was Ryn Ashen, loud and competitive.
Kaela Ashen, sharp-eyed and proud.
Toren Ashen, always smiling, always plotting.
Mira Ashen, quiet and observant.
Jalen Ashen, reckless and fearless.
Lyra Ashen, kind but stubborn.
They grew up together.
They trained together.
Ate together.
Fought and reconciled like real family.
They called Arthur little brother, even when some were only a year older.
For a while, the emptiness faded.
Then, one by one…
They left too.
At ten years old, each vanished beyond the gates—just like Arthur's siblings before them.
Arthur watched them go.
Again.
And again.
Until the courtyard that once echoed with voices grew quiet.
By the time Arthur turned nine, he was alone among children.
The youngest.
The last.
He trained alone in the mornings.
Walked the halls alone at night.
Sat at the long tables surrounded by empty seats.
The elders watched him more closely now.
Arthur did not ask where everyone had gone.
He had learned early that some questions had no answers—only time.
On the eve of his tenth birthday, Arthur stood in the courtyard beneath a silent sky, staring at the same gates his siblings and cousins had passed through.
The wind brushed past him.
For a moment, he thought he heard thunder far away.
But the sky remained clear.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
End of Chapter - 1