The sun bled crimson over the village as Nayra trudged along the dirt path, his feet kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. The air smelled of earth and smoke—firewood burning in hearths, the lingering scent of roasted meat from the evening meals. Around him, villagers called out to one another, their voices tired but warm, sharing laughter and complaints about the day's work.
But Nayra barely heard them.
His fingers tightened around the cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand. The weight of it—both physical and symbolic—sent a quiet thrill through him.
The Bone-Tempering Weed.
A treasure. A miracle.
Something that could change everything.
His mother had once told him stories of warriors who consumed such herbs, their bodies reforged into something unbreakable. His father, in one of his rare moments of openness, had admitted that even a single leaf could fetch enough coin to feed their family for months.
And now, it was his.
No—theirs.
Because that was the point, wasn't it?
He slowed as he reached the familiar wooden gate, its hinges creaking softly in the evening breeze. The house beyond was small, weathered by years of wind and rain, but it stood stubbornly, just like the people inside.
Through the open window, he could see the flickering glow of the hearth. His mother's silhouette moved across the dim light, stirring a pot. His father sat cross-legged near the fire, the rhythmic shink-shink of his whetstone against his hunting knife filling the quiet.
For a moment, Nayra hesitated.
Would they believe him?
Would they accept it?
He inhaled deeply, steeling himself, then pushed open the door.
The warmth of the fire washed over him, along with the rich aroma of stew—simple, but enough to make his stomach growl. His mother turned, her face lighting up with relief.
"Nayra! You're back early."
His father didn't look up, but the sharpening paused for the briefest second before resuming.
"Mm."
Nayra stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him. He could feel his mother's eyes scanning him for injuries, her worry a tangible thing. His father's silence was heavier, as always.
Without a word, Nayra unwrapped the cloth in his hands.
The silver box gleamed in the firelight.
His mother's ladle clattered against the pot.
His father's knife stilled.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.
Then—
"What is that?" His father's voice was low, guarded.
Nayra met his gaze.
"Bone-Tempering Weed."
His mother's hands flew to her mouth. "Nayra—!"
His father stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His eyes burned into Nayra's, searching for deceit, for theft, for *anything* that would explain how a boy like him could possess something so valuable.
"Where did you get this?" The words were sharp. Demanding.
Nayra had expected this.
He let his shoulders slump slightly, exhaustion creeping into his voice. "The academy… held a challenge today. Hunting Man-Eating Boars."
His mother gasped. "Those monsters? Nayra, you could have—!"
"I know," he said softly, cutting her off. He rubbed his arm, feigning soreness. "But the reward was too good to pass up."
His father's jaw tightened. "You expect me to believe you just stumbled onto this?"
Nayra didn't flinch. "I didn't stumble. I won."
A beat.
Then, quieter: "I wanted to."
His mother's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. His father's expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his gaze—something Nayra hadn't seen in years.
"This isn't for me," Nayra continued, placing the box on the low table between them. "It's for you. Both of you."
His mother shook her head. "Nayra, no—this is too much. You should—"
"—Use it myself?" He smiled faintly. "I will get stronger in time. But you…" His gaze shifted to his father's hands—the knuckles swollen from years of labor, the scars from blades and beasts. "...You've already given everything."
His father's breath hitched, just slightly.
Nayra pressed on, his voice softening. "I see how you hide it. The way you rub your knees when you think no one's looking. The way Mother winces when she lifts the water buckets."
His mother looked away, her fingers twisting in her apron.
"Just this once," Nayra murmured, "let me take care of you."
Silence.
Then—
A rough, calloused hand settled on his shoulder.
Nayra looked up.
His father's eyes were wet.
"You stubborn boy," he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only something raw, something aching.
His mother let out a choked laugh, pulling Nayra into a fierce hug. "When did you grow up so much?"
Nayra closed his eyes, leaning into the embrace.
For the first time in a long time, the house didn't feel so small.
And when his father finally took the box, his grip firm but reverent, Nayra allowed himself a small, private smile.
One step closer.
One more thread woven into place.
The game was far from over.
But tonight?
Tonight was a victory.
The moon hung like a pale, watchful eye over the sleeping village, its silver light painting the rooftops in ghostly hues. The air was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called—a low, mournful sound that faded into the night.
Inside the small wooden house, the fire had long since burned down to embers. The only sounds were the slow, steady breaths of Nayra's parents, their bodies deep in the grip of slumber. The Bone-Tempering Weed pulsed within them, working its silent alchemy—knitting fractures, hardening marrow, reshaping what was weak into something strong.
Nayra lay still on his mat, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Waiting.
Counting their breaths.
When the rhythm of their sleep grew deep and unbroken, he rose.
His movements were fluid, effortless—the kind of quiet precision that spoke of practice beyond his years. He paused at the doorway, glancing back.
His father's face, usually lined with exhaustion, looked almost peaceful. His mother's fingers, calloused from years of labor, curled loosely around the edge of her blanket.
For a moment, something flickered in Nayra's chest.
Then it was gone.
He slipped outside.
The night welcomed him like an old friend.
The village was a graveyard of shadows, the streets empty save for the occasional flicker of a dying torch. The guards patrolled in lazy circles, their footsteps heavy with boredom. They never looked up. They never saw him.
Nayra moved like a whisper, his bare feet silent against the packed earth. He knew every alley, every blind spot, every place where the darkness clung thickest.
He had walked these paths before.
Many, many time in his previous life.
The abandoned training grounds lay at the edge of the village, a relic of better days. The wooden dummies were cracked with age, their straw guts spilling onto the dirt. The practice swords, long since blunted by time, rested against a crumbling wall.
Nayra stepped into the center of the clearing, rolling his neck. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely felt it.
His body was a tool.
And tools did not complain.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, then began.
His fists cut through the air—sharp, precise, each movement a study in lethal efficiency. He pivoted, twisted, lashed out with kicks that would have shattered bone if they had landed. His muscles burned, but the pain was distant, unimportant.
He had endured worse.
Far worse.
His mind wandered as his body worked.
The Headslayer Cutter
A weapon fit for a king.
Or a monster.
Nayra's lips curled.
His parents had been weak before. Fragile. Their bones brittle from years of labor, their bodies worn down by time and hardship.
Useless.
But now?
Now, the Bone-Tempering Weed was doing its work.
His father's spine, once bowed under the weight of survival, would soon be unbreakable. His mother's ribs, so often bruised from coughing through cold winters, would become like iron.
Perfect.
And when the time came—
When their bodies had absorbed every last drop of the herb's power—
He would take what he needed.
The thought did not sicken him.
It did not even unsettle him.
It was simply fact.
A means to an end.
A step on the path.
His parents had given him life.
Soon, they would give him something far greater.
The owl called again, closer this time.
Nayra stilled, listening.
Then, with one last glance at the moon, he turned and melted back into the shadows.
The night swallowed him whole.
And the village slept on, unaware.
As he continues practice there and using Demonic Arts.... These arts are very rare and dangerous even for the most evil persons too....