Chapter 7: The First Attack

The training ground became their second home. Day after day, the clash of steel rang out, sweat dripping, muscles aching, and voices echoing with determination.

Ren’s hammer shook the earth with every swing, his laughter masking the strain in his arms.

Daichi cursed under his breath as he struggled to balance his broadswords, but each failure only hardened his resolve.

Aisha’s naginata danced with elegance, her movements growing sharper, more precise, until Gerald himself began to watch her with quiet approval.

Haruto’s arrows flew silently, each shot more precise than the last, his calm presence grounding the group.

And Kian’s katana burned with flickers of flame, his frustration slowly giving way to control, each strike a step closer to mastery.

Franco visited often, sometimes to repair what they broke, sometimes just to laugh at their mistakes. Gerald pushed them harder, reminding them that weapons were not toys but extensions of their souls.

Seasons changed. The scorching summer sun beat down on their backs, the monsoon rains soaked the ground beneath their feet, and the chill of winter tested their endurance. Through it all, they trained.

They bled. They stumbled. They rose again.

Days blurred into months, months into years.

The children who once struggled with wooden swords grew taller, stronger, sharper. Their weapons no longer felt heavy in their hands — they felt natural, like parts of their bodies.

And so, five years passed in relentless training

The village had grown alongside them. The orphanage was renovated, its walls freshly painted and its halls filled with laughter. New merchants had begun trading in the area, bringing goods and travelers from faraway places. Houses multiplied, streets widened, and the population swelled to nearly five hundred — a great leap from the mere two hundred souls who had lived there five years ago.

Within the orphanage, a familiar figure stood among the children. He wore a loose white shirt with buttons, paired with long trousers folded neatly to resemble three‑quarter pants. His build was well‑trained — not overly large, but strong and balanced, the kind of physique shaped by years of discipline.

He bent down, patting the heads of the younger kids one by one. Their faces lit up with smiles, voices rising in playful chorus:

“Brother, when will you play with us?”

“Pick me up!”

“Tell us a story!”

He laughed softly, answering each with patience, his presence warm and reassuring. To them, he wasn’t just another older boy — he was their protector, their guide, their big brother.

As he turned, the light caught his face. It was Kian.

No longer the lonely child who once clung to five friends for comfort, he had grown into someone admired by all. From a boy struggling with fire and fear, he had become a figure of strength and kindness — a brother to every child in the orphanage, and a symbol of how far they had all come.

Kian slowly stepped out of the orphanage, the warm chatter of children fading behind him. On the road nearby, a pair of travelers passed, their voices hushed but urgent.

“Hey… did you hear about that village? It was attacked by a strange bandit group…”

Before Kian could process their words, shouts erupted from deeper within the village. A cluster of villagers came running, panic etched across their faces.

“Run! Bandits… run!”

Kian’s eyes widened. He spun back toward the orphanage, his heart pounding. The children stood clustered at the doorway, confusion and fear spreading across their faces.

“Stay inside!” he barked, his voice firm but protective. “Don’t come out until I return. Fast — get in!”

The kids panicked, but their trust in him was absolute.

“Yes, brother!” they cried, scrambling back into the safety of the orphanage.

Kian watched until the last child disappeared inside the orphanage. He slammed the door shut — Slaaam! — his hand already resting on the hilt of his katana. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the village entrance.

As his feet pounded against the dirt path, his thoughts raced faster than his body.

I can’t let them suffer… not after everything we’ve built.

Five years of training… this is what it was for.

I promised myself I’d protect them — I won’t fail now.

The smoke rising ahead twisted his gut, but his resolve only hardened.

This village gave me a home. Those kids gave me a family.

His grip tightened on the katana’s hilt.

No more fear. No more hesitation. Today, I fight as their protector.

The air was thick with smoke. Ahead, he saw one of the bandits hurl a flaming bottle — a crude molotov — into the merchants’ post. The fire erupted instantly, consuming wood and goods alike, the crackle of flames mixing with the villagers’ screams.

Kian’s eyes widened. Fury surged through him. He unsheathed his katana in a single motion, the steel gleaming as he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos:

“Hey! What are you doing?! I will not let you damage this village anymore!”

He dashed forward, his speed fueled by determination. The blade in his hands began to glow — orange, then red — until it was engulfed entirely in fire.

The nearest bandit turned, raising his sword to parry.

Slash! Kian’s flaming katana cut clean through the steel.

Slash! His follow‑up strike carved across the bandit’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

The other bandits froze, their eyes widening in shock. The flames reflected in their terrified gazes. They understood instantly — this was no ordinary swordsman.

Kian’s flaming blade cut through the smoke, his stance unwavering as the bandits closed in. The village burned, cries echoed through the streets, and for the first time in five years, their training would be tested in blood.

This was only the beginning.

This was The First Attack.