The morning sky was awash with gray light when Kaelen Rehn first noticed the thick column of smoke rising over the eastern cliffs. He stood at the edge of his hometown, Harborough, an old riverside settlement known for its timeworn stone walls and a watchtower that had kept invaders at bay for centuries. The crisp dawn air carried an acrid scent that made Kaelen's stomach twist. Something wasn't right.
He brushed a hand across his brow, pushing aside unruly strands of dark hair. His fingers trembled around the hilt of his Base Soul Focus, a sword not yet fully awakened. At rest, the blade looked little more than hammered steel with faint veins of ember-like lines running along its surface—barely noticeable until touched by the light. It wasn't even sharpened properly, as if incomplete. He used to joke with his father about how it looked like a broken craftsman's project. But now, seeing the surging smoke, there was no humor in him.
A sudden commotion at the town gates jarred him from his thoughts. Shouts of alarm. The jangle of weapons. Harborough's militia poured from barracks inside the walls, men and women hastily buckling on armor. Their usual easy banter was replaced by frantic calls for reinforcements. Kaelen's father, Erol Rehn, had always told him, "When you hear that tone in a soldier's voice, boy, there's real danger about." And Kaelen heard it clearly now.
He set off at a run, the midday shadows of the old city gate casting him in darkness for a moment. He slipped through an archway leading to the main plaza, weaving past merchants shutting down stalls in panic. A few villagers recognized him—they stared, fear etched on their faces. Kaelen had never seen his neighbors so terrified.
At the far side of the plaza, the watchtower bell tolled, a jarring clang that reverberated in his bones. He quickened his pace. If the bell rang more than three times, it signaled that an invading force had come within striking distance. And the bells were still ringing.
He rushed up a flight of stairs that wound along the inside of the outer wall, emerging onto a parapet crowded with archers and spear-bearers. Beyond, the farmland stretching east was engulfed by swirling dust. A silhouette advanced toward the city gates: a single figure, cloaked in black, flanked by monstrous creatures that glowed with an unnatural, fiery aura.
One of the guards, a stocky man Kaelen recognized as Jovan, gestured frantically at him. "Rehn, get down! That's—he's got a—" But the rest of his warning was drowned out by a deafening roar.
A flash of crimson light blossomed from the cloaked figure's outstretched hand. Kaelen's eyes widened. The energy condensed into a curved blade of pure flame, scorching the ground in its path. One moment, farmland stood, the next, it was reduced to a smoldering ruin as the magical slash traveled with horrifying speed until it impacted Harborough's walls.
Kaelen threw himself down behind the battlements. Heat licked over the stone, mortar crackled, and a portion of the wall shuddered as if it might crumble. Dust and bits of rubble rained around him. Soldiers yelled, some scrambling for cover, others returning fire with arrows. But each arrow dissolved in midair, caught by intangible waves of energy.
Beneath the swirling dust, Kaelen caught a glimpse of the man responsible. This masked warlord wore a featureless metal mask tinted black, with only narrow slits for eyes. Even from this distance, Kaelen sensed the overwhelming potency of his Astral Flow—the universal energy inside every living being. He had heard rumors of traveling warlords with advanced Soul Focus forms, but nothing had prepared him for an attack like this.
Heart hammering, Kaelen made a snap decision. He needed to find his father, the captain of Harborough's defense. If the city's walls were going to hold, they would need a plan, and no one knew Harborough's defenses better than Erol Rehn.
He raced down the parapet steps, nearly tripping over broken stones. The acrid smoke stung his eyes. The warlord unleashed another wave of fiery destruction, and the impact reverberated through the courtyard. He heard the city's gates groan under the onslaught. Timbers popped, men screamed.
Pushing aside the gripping hands of panicked civilians who pleaded for direction, Kaelen forced himself onward. The clang of steel meeting steel echoed from the gates. Somehow, the warlord had advanced past the main entrance. Soldiers in chain mail blocked his path as best they could, but each time the masked figure raised that flaming sword, defenders were hurled aside like dolls, their armor singed and blackened.
An older soldier crashed against a wall, gasping in pain. Kaelen rushed to pull the man away from falling rubble. The soldier's eyes fluttered open long enough to whisper, "Captain Rehn… fighting… near the watchtower… hurry—" before he passed out from his injuries.
"Father," Kaelen breathed, fear and resolve swirling in his gut. He left the soldier in the care of a fleeing villager. Then he sprinted through the alleyways, skidding over broken roof tiles and splintered beams. Everything smelled of burning thatch and scorched earth.
He found Erol Rehn half a block from the watchtower, locked in combat with one of the warlord's lieutenants. This foe was tall and gaunt, wielding a spear that crackled with lightning—another element, another terrifying display of Astral Flow. Erol's own Base Soul Focus—a sturdy longsword with a faint swirl of flame across its hilt—looked dull in comparison. But Erol held his ground, face set in grim determination.
Kaelen's father had taught him from a young age: "Fire Affinity is more than raw destruction; it's passion, it's heart. Control that heat, or it controls you." Now, Erol demonstrated that discipline. Even so, the lieutenant's lightning-laced spear threatened to overwhelm him. Sparks flew every time blade met spear.
"Father!" Kaelen cried out. His voice broke the stalemate. Erol pivoted, striking the lieutenant's spear to the side. In a surge of furious energy, Erol forced the enemy back a few steps, then turned his gaze on Kaelen.
"You're here. Good," Erol said through ragged breaths. "The masked warlord… he's broken our lines. We can't hold the city. We have to evacuate—" A glancing blow from the lieutenant ended his words. Erol staggered, parrying just in time to avoid being impaled.
Kaelen drew his own incomplete sword and rushed to his father's aid. The moment his blade clashed with the lieutenant's spear, he realized just how outmatched he was. The electric buzz of the spear jolted up his arm, nearly making him drop his weapon. He gritted his teeth, forcing a trickle of Astral Flow into the blade. Flickers of ember trailed across the steel, but it wasn't enough to counter the crackling lightning.
"Kaelen, behind me!" Erol roared. Despite his exhaustion, he lunged forward to draw the lieutenant's focus. The older man's sword flared with a burst of flame, enough to disrupt the spear's current. "Now, finish him!"
Kaelen steadied himself, mustering as much Astral Flow as he could. With a shout, he swept his sword in a downward arc. The embers glowed hot, a slash of fire crossing the air. The lieutenant's eyes widened a fraction, perhaps not expecting such force from a weapon that seemed only half-forged. He stumbled, and the flaming arc caught him across the chest. His lightning-infused spear fizzled.
Erol capitalized on the opening. In a swift, practiced motion, he thrust his sword through the lieutenant's guard. The enemy collapsed, his spear clattering to the cobblestones. Sparks died around him. For a moment, Kaelen could only stare, trembling with spent adrenaline.
Erol gripped his son's arm. "Listen carefully. The warlord is—" The older man coughed, pressing a hand against his side. Blood seeped through his tunic. "He's heading for the watchtower. He wants our family's secret… The notes I left you in the chest, Kaelen. It's about… the Ascended Form."
Confusion battled with alarm in Kaelen's eyes. "Ascended Form? Father, hold on, you're bleeding—"
"There's no time. I'll manage." Erol tried to straighten, but faltered. "That masked man… his Soul Focus is Manifested. He's leagues ahead of us. But he seeks… more. Something your mother once researched." Another fit of coughing seized him. He squeezed Kaelen's shoulder. "Take the notes. Get out of Harborough. Survive. I love—"
A monstrous explosion rocked the ground. The watchtower collapsed in on itself, stones flying in a plume of debris. A shockwave tore through the narrow street. Father and son were hurled back, crashing through a wooden barrier. Darkness swallowed Kaelen for a moment.
When he opened his eyes, a low ringing drowned out all other sounds. Dust choked the air. He tasted blood in his mouth. Pushing broken splinters off his chest, he found Erol lying a few feet away. The older man's eyes were half-lidded, his breathing shallow.
Kaelen crawled over, cradling his father's head. "Father!" He shook him gently. Through the haze, Erol's voice came faint and strained.
"Go… take the… chest…" His words trailed off, breath hitching. Tears blurred Kaelen's vision. A roar of laughter echoed in the distance—probably the masked warlord, exulting in victory. Erol's brow furrowed, like he was fighting to speak again, but no sound emerged.
Kaelen's heart clenched. He glanced around, desperation in his eyes, but the city was in chaos. Flames consumed rooftops, the roads littered with debris and wounded townspeople. The warlord's monstrous creatures prowled the main streets. No one was left to help. And Erol… He's fading… I can't stop it…
Trembling, Kaelen pressed his forehead against his father's. "I'm sorry," he whispered. And then, in that quiet moment, Erol's eyes slid closed. His final breath escaped in a shallow exhale.
For a long second, Kaelen couldn't move, couldn't think. His father—the man who'd taught him everything about duty, about controlling fire, about living with honor—was gone. His chest felt hollow, as though something vital had been torn away.
A fresh explosion jarred him back to reality. Get the chest. That was his father's final command. He had to honor it. Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, Kaelen lifted Erol's sword from his father's limp grasp and laid it gently across the older man's chest.
"I'll come back for you," Kaelen said softly, voice breaking. "I promise."
Gritting his teeth, he stood. A wave of dizziness crashed over him. Swallowing the taste of smoke and bitterness, he forced himself to run through back alleys, away from the watchtower's main road. All the while, he gripped his incomplete sword in a white-knuckled hold, wishing he had the strength to challenge that warlord directly. But he couldn't fight that monster now. Not while half the city lay in ruins. There's no point in throwing my life away.
He moved quickly, ducking fallen beams, sidestepping craters in the cobblestones. Every few steps, the sound of an explosion or a chilling scream tore at his resolve. Focus, focus… Father said the notes are in the old chest in our house. The Rehn family home was near the orchard on the city's western edge. If it still stood, he could retrieve the chest and flee the city.
He dashed around a corner and nearly collided with two frightened townspeople: a mother carrying a toddler, tears streaming down her face. "The gates… the warlord… he's—"
"Come with me," Kaelen said, voice unsteady. "I know another way out."
They followed him, stumbling over debris. One section of the street had collapsed into the sewers below, forming a pit too wide to jump, but they circled it, picking their way through the wreckage. When the orchard's silhouette finally came into view, Kaelen felt a surge of relief: his home was still intact, at least for now. The mother gasped at the orchard's partial destruction—trees uprooted, fruit scattered across scorched earth.
"Through there," Kaelen instructed, pointing them toward a narrow path behind the orchard. "It leads to the Old Mill Bridge. Cross the river and you'll be safe from immediate danger. Avoid the main roads if you can."
She nodded gratefully, tears glimmering in her eyes. Kaelen watched them vanish among the tangled trees. Despite the horrors, a tiny flicker of hope ignited in his chest that maybe some villagers could make it out alive.
At last, he reached his own front door: a battered wooden frame hanging lopsided on twisted hinges. Inside, furniture lay toppled, shattered glass strewn across the floor. He coughed at the billows of dust and forced himself to search quickly.
His father had said in the chest. He found it in the corner of what once served as a small study. It was a simple oak trunk with iron fittings. Kneeling, he yanked it open. Inside were rolled parchments—his father's research diaries, Kaelen realized. He rifled through them, glimpsing sketches of swords, diagrams, cryptic notes: "Equivalent Exchange crucial for forging Ascended Form. Cost? Life force? Unclear."
He stuffed the notes into a satchel. He also found a black leather-bound notebook with his mother's name, Selene Rehn, embossed in gold on the cover. She had died when Kaelen was just a toddler, but from what Father once said, she had been a remarkable scholar of Astral Flow. Maybe these notebooks held the final key to unlocking a more powerful Soul Focus form. No wonder that warlord wants them.
A thunderous crash outside made him freeze. He peered through a broken window and saw, to his horror, the masked warlord striding through the orchard. The figure's cloak swirled with embers, the edges seeming to devour the sunlight. He was so close that Kaelen could see the reflection of flames dancing off that unreadable mask.
Fear seized his limbs. For an instant, he considered confronting him. Father would have fought to the last breath. But deep in his heart, Kaelen knew it would be suicide. His sword wasn't even fully manifested, and he'd already used a good portion of his Astral Flow battling the warlord's lieutenant. He took a shaky step back, heart pounding loud enough to drown out rational thought. Run. Now.
The front wall of the house groaned, then burst inward in a scorching blast. Kaelen dove behind an overturned table. Splinters and shards of wood rained down, and the masked warlord's heavy footsteps echoed. Smoke and dust swirled around him like a sinister halo.
Kaelen crouched low, clinging to the satchel of notes. The warlord's presence was suffocating, as if his mere existence was an intense gravitational pull. Even through the mask, Kaelen imagined he could feel the warlord's cold gaze sweeping the room.
In one gloved hand, the warlord clutched a sword that flickered with living fire. A Manifested Soul Focus. This was what Kaelen's father had warned him about—a Soul Focus advanced far beyond the Base stage, capable of monstrous feats. The warlord's free hand glowed with a swirl of shadowy flames. Kaelen stared in disbelief. Two elements? Fire and—Shadow? He'd heard rumors of individuals training relentlessly or making tremendous sacrifices to wield a second element. Is that how he's so strong?
The warlord paused, as if sensing Kaelen's presence. The tension in the air became unbearably thick. Kaelen held his breath, sweat mingling with the grime on his face. Another step, then another, the boots crunching on broken pottery. Kaelen braced himself. Any moment now, the warlord might tear the table aside and cut him down.
A shrill cry rang out nearby—a survivor calling for help. The warlord's attention snapped toward the sound. Without warning, he turned from the ruined house and stalked off, no doubt to eliminate whatever poor soul had given away their location.
Kaelen felt both relief and guilt roil in his gut. He knew he couldn't help that person. He was too weak, too depleted. If I fight him now, I die. I can't avenge Father that way. I can't save anyone. That hard truth settled like a lead weight on his chest.
He swallowed his sorrow and crawled through the back doorway, hugging the walls to avoid being spotted. Flames licked at the orchard, devouring branches in a snap-crackle hiss. The orchard's neat rows of apple and peach trees were now a nightmarish scene, half-submerged in smoke.
Furtively, Kaelen darted between the burning trunks. At any moment, the warlord might return. Each step in that orchard felt like an eternity, the orchard rows leading him to a well-worn footpath by the river. Once he reached the water, he tried to calm himself, letting the hush of the current ease the pounding in his chest.
He looked back. Thick, towering smoke columns rose above Harborough. The watchtower lay in rubble. The city gates had clearly been breached. The unstoppable might of a single masked warlord had leveled the city's defenses in barely an hour.
Tears stung Kaelen's eyes as he pictured his father's still form. "I failed," he whispered to the wind. Everything he knew had been ripped away in a single dawn. No, he told himself. Father sacrificed himself to give me a chance. I won't let that be in vain.
He tightened his grip on the satchel. The notes on Ascended Forms. His mother's research. His father's final wish. I must survive and discover the truth behind these pages. Only by mastering the next stage of his Soul Focus could he hope to stand against that warlord. But a question gnawed at him: Where can I go?
He recalled travelers' tales of a fortress city deeper inland, a place rumored to shelter refugees fleeing from roving tyrants. Perhaps he could train there, find teachers who understood the intricacies of unlocking a Soul Focus. Astral Flow was universal, but advanced techniques could only be honed with the right guidance. Moreover, that rumored fortress was said to be a gathering point for rebels who opposed warlords. Maybe I'll find allies there. Allies with the power to challenge monstrous Summon Pacts or Domains—like the warlord's lethal illusions of fire and shadow.
Standing by the river's edge, Kaelen opened the satchel and thumbed through the top parchment. His father's hurried scrawl read:
"Ascended Soul Focus: The key is emotional impetus + Equivalent Exchange. Beware the personal cost."
The words felt like a warning and a promise all at once. Kaelen exhaled, letting the smoke-filled wind carry the last of his tears. He pressed the parchment to his chest, recalling his father's final moments—Erol had died protecting not just the city, but also Kaelen's chance to discover this power.
He gazed one final time at the columns of smoke that marked the end of Harborough. I'll return one day, he vowed silently. When I've got the strength to finish what you started.
With that, he turned his back on his burning home and followed the riverbank south, every step carrying him farther from the life he'd known. The dawn sky behind him glowed a malevolent red, like embers in the aftermath of a wildfire. A fitting omen, perhaps, for the trials that lay ahead.