Atwell Orphanage
Haumea Province, Pele city
Asterion Empire
27th 2,194 A.W.C (Asterion World conquest)
6:55 PM
There weren't always Dragons in the Valley. As Master Jethro gazed into the distance, the massive winged forms filled the sky, their scales shimmering under the pale light of the moon. He could see the raw power in their movements, the way their vast wings carved the air, yet there was also something undeniably graceful about them. Beautiful creatures, he mused silently, both beautiful and dangerous.
The old man turned his wheelchair back toward the children playing in the yard. They were caught up in a simple game known as rocks and paper, laughing and shouting as they tossed small, polished stones onto a tattered board. It had been two years since Master Jethro had reopened the orphanage—once a crumbling ruin of the former Atwell Orphanage, now lovingly repaired and alive with the sounds of young voices. Under the cover of the patio, he sat, the midnight sky stretching endlessly overhead. The hot air of Pele City had cooled to a pleasant warmth, and a rare tranquility settled over him. The sight of the children playing—their carefree laughter, the way they darted around like little streaks of color—brought him a peace he hadn't felt in decades.
Yet, even in this moment of calm, shadows from his past lingered. Jethro's dreams were still haunted by the old wars. He could close his eyes and see battles that had raged across worlds, threatening everything he held dear. The bloodshed, the firestorms, the broken promises—they were as vivid now as they had been then. Even though those threats were long gone, peace had returned, and time had worn away the sharp edges of memory, the scars on his soul remained. He glanced down at his legs—legs that had carried him through so much, but now were useless. He had given everything, made choices no one should have to make. Had it been worth it? Sometimes, in the deep hours of the night, he still asked himself that. But here, watching these children, he saw something that almost felt like an answer. Their laughter, their joy—it made him believe, at least for a moment, that he'd done the right thing.
A small figure broke away from the game and dashed toward him. Nero, a girl with a spark of mischief in her eyes, plopped into one of the empty chairs beside him. Without missing a beat, she snatched a cup of Jambia juice from the table he'd prepared.
"Nero," Jethro said with a soft chuckle, "don't drink too much."
The other children soon swarmed the patio, their energy infectious as they reached for the treats. Jethro's heart warmed at the sight of their eager faces.
"Master Jethro," Pascal called, his voice filled with excitement, "tell us another story!"
The boy, small and wiry with tousled brown hair, had been struggling to control his Mana. But he never struggled to sit still when Jethro started recounting his adventures.
"Which one this time?" Jethro asked, leaning forward a bit.
"The journey to the Axis Tower!" Nero suggested immediately.
"No, no!" Robin interrupted, her voice firm. "Start with the fight against the Briarwoods!"
Jethro raised a hand to quiet them. "Let's hear from Pascal. He's the one who asked, after all."
The other children turned expectantly toward Pascal. He hesitated a moment, then grinned.
"Start at the very beginning," Pascal said. "Tell us about Eren the Devourer—the First Godkiller."
A murmur of agreement swept through the group. Yama, a quiet but keen boy, nodded. "He's my favorite," he said softly.
Jethro sighed, leaning back in his chair. "That far back, huh?" He closed his eyes for a moment, his thoughts drifting. He wasn't alive during those days—few living beings were—but the tale of the Devourer had been a constant companion in his childhood. It was part of his own lineage, after all. Eren had been the first Godkiller, and Jethro was the last of that storied bloodline. Everything had started with Eren. A boy with a dream, caught in a world much larger than himself.
Opening his eyes, Jethro reached out a hand. From the void, where the air itself seemed to tremble, a black vortex appeared. Out of that swirling darkness dropped a massive, ancient book. It landed on the table with a heavy thud. The children stared, wide-eyed, as its intricate cover seemed to shimmer faintly with untold power.
"What's that?" Pascal whispered, leaning closer.
"This," Jethro said, his voice low and reverent, "is the Tome of Akasha. Within its pages, everything is written, and nothing remains hidden." He let his fingers trail over the ancient leather, the corners worn smooth by countless hands. Flipping it open, he turned to a particular section—one he knew well.
"Before he was the Devourer," Jethro began, his voice steady and clear, "the first Godkiller was just a boy. An orphan, like many of you. But he lived in a time we now call the Fourth Age of Mana."
"The return of the Golden Age of Mana," Yama murmured, his eyes bright.
"Exactly," Jethro said. "And with it, the return of the gods. Now listen closely, for this is the story of how a boy climbed the Axis Tower to challenge the heavens themselves—and how he conquered it…"