Return to Central City
The ships cut through the golden horizon, gliding into view as the sun dipped low behind the walls of Central City. Rain stood at the edge of the flying vessel, the mage banner flapping above him, the scent of salt and smoke still clinging to his armor. Below, the city stirred like a waking giant.
The crowds had already gathered.
From every corner, every roof, every open window, people leaned out to catch sight of the returning heroes. Trumpets sang across the skies, and the great bells of Midgard rang out their joy. Rain saw the harbor glinting with thousands of colored flags, and above them, fireworks painted the sky with streaks of green, gold, and purple.
At first, the sound was a blur....cheers, drums and shouts. Then it began to sharpen, a single chant cutting through the noise.
"Dor ele megardre (Elf of Midgard!)"
It was faint at first....Rain squinted, confused. But then it grew. One voice became ten.....Ten became a hundred.....A hundred became a wave of people crying out the name with joy-drunk, firelit reverence.
"Dor ele megardre!"
Rain turned to the others on the deck. Starwick slapped his back with a laugh that made the boards shake. "Too bad you're just a kid! This kind of fame could land you any woman in the city!" he roared, and the others joined in the laughter.
Rain flushed but couldn't stop smiling. It was overwhelming.
The ship docked with a soft grind and thump, and before Rain could think, the crew was swallowed into the arms of the city. Pirates and mages were hoisted onto shoulders, wrapped in silk streamers, kissed on the cheeks by strangers. The smell of spiced meats and honeyed bread filled the air, and music, deep rhythmic drums and twirling flutes set the streets alive.
Rain stepped off the ramp just as a parade wound its way past. Performers in bright, flowing robes spun in circles, throwing fire into the sky and catching it in their bare hands. Dancers with painted faces moved like flowing water, their hair braided with bells and gems that caught the firelight. Giant lanterns in the shape of mythic beasts, dragons, krakens and sky lions floated down the avenue.
Rain was frozen, drinking it all in. Then, a hand yanked his arm.
A group of drunken Midgardians surrounded him, grinning wildly. "There he is!" one cried. "Elf of Midgard!"
Before he could react, they had lifted him up and tossed him into the air.
"Elf of Midgard! Elf of Midgard!"
They threw him again, and again, and again, his laughter lost in theirs. For the first time in weeks, he forgot the battlefield, forgot the blood and the fear. In that moment, Rain felt lighter than air.....not because he was in flight, but because he was finally seen.
Tavern of Triumph
Rain darted through the celebrating crowd, laughter chasing at his heels like a wave of fire. His cheeks were flushed but not with pride, just juvenile embarrassment. It was too much. The eyes, the cheers, the endless "Elf of Midgard!" echoing like a chant from a dream. He ducked into an alley, slipping away from the voices.
The sound of music drew him forward, a chaotic string of chords and stomping boots.
He stepped through the swinging doors of a large tavern, the air immediately thick with smoke, ale, and wild energy. The scene inside was pure madness.
Sarsgaard was shirtless, balancing on a long oaken table, tankard in hand, swinging his hips with wild abandon as pirates clapped in rhythm and roared with laughter. His voice bellowed out some sea shanty that made half the women blush and the other half join in.
Rain blinked.
Then his eyes met Milito's.
The mercenary sat alone at a corner table, sipping from a silver flask. Their eyes locked for only a second before Starwick intercepted Rain with a gleeful "There you are!"
Rain was yanked into the crowd as the pirate crew surged around him, sandwiching him in the middle. The tavern erupted even louder as people caught sight of the famed elf boy. Women pressed forward, curious, flirtatious, some purely in awe.
"If you won't use your charm," Starwick whispered with a wicked grin, "then let us be your guests." He winked and stepped aside as the crowd leaned in closer.
Mortified, Rain slipped out between shoulders and spinning dancers, ducking under a low beam and stumbling toward the quieter side of the tavern. He finally sank into the empty seat across from Milito.
The mercenary looked at him calmly, swirling the flask between his fingers like it was part of his hand.
"I heard you were an exemplary swordsman out there," Milito said, not looking up at first. "Took only one hit in your first real battle. That's impressive!"
Rain opened his mouth, unsure if he should correct him, but Milito continued, his tone dry and perfectly measured. "I, however, have never taken hits since I left the training grounds… at your age."
Rain blinked again. "Was that a joke?" he thought inwardly. He wasn't sure! So he smiled awkwardly.
Milito finally turned to him, just a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Tomorrow morning. Widow's Peak. I'll teach you a thing or two… about not taking hits."
Rain nodded, surprised by the invitation but also intrigued.
He turned around just in time to catch a familiar face at the corner of the tavern. Lira, eyes wide, cheeks red, watching them from the shadows. Her gaze flicked from Rain to her father dancing on the table, and she covered her face in shame.
Rain gave her a tiny smile.
She rolled her eyes… but didn't look away.
A Moment Beneath the Noise
Rain took a deep breath and wandered over to the corner where Lira stood, arms folded tightly, still watching the drunken chaos with a pale expression of dread.
He leaned against the pillar beside her, face neutral. Then, with the smoothest smirk he could summon, he said, "If I were you… I'd be worried about getting a younger sibling any time soon."
Lira's mouth dropped open, eyes wide in horror. Then....whap! A soft slap landed on his shoulder.
"You little…!" she hissed, her cheeks flushed deep red. "Don't joke about that!"
Rain chuckled and rubbed his arm "Sorry! Just... couldn't resist."
There was a beat of silence between them. The tavern roared around them, but their little corner was momentarily still.
Lira's shoulders dropped. She looked away "I never apologized… for what happened. For....well, you know. The whole… selling you thing."
Rain blinked, then slowly shrugged "I was only a slave then. It doesn't matter anymore."
But she didn't look convinced. Her guilt was written all over her face. She wanted to say more but couldn't find the words.
So Rain gave her a softer smile and added, "They call me Elf of Midgard now... Isn't that crazy?"
That cracked the wall. Lira laughed, just a little, just enough.
"I mean, look at me," Rain continued, gesturing at his still-dusty armor. "I barely survived out there. But now everyone thinks I'm some kind of legend."
"You kind of are," Lira said under her breath. Then louder, "Just don't let it get to your head."
Rain grinned. "Too late."
Then....."RAIN IS HITTING ON THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER!" Starwick's voice exploded over the noise.
Sarsgaard, still on the table, swiveled mid-jig in drunken confusion then lost his balance and went crashing down on top of three men seated nearby.
Ale flew! A chair broke! Someone screamed, "BAR FIGHT!"
Within seconds, the entire tavern descended into a blur of swinging fists, spilled drinks, and half-hearted apologies. Rain barely had time to duck before a pirate flew past his head. Moments later, the crew 'Starwick leading the pack' was thrown out into the street like sacks of potatoes, followed by a slurred, angry bark from the tavern keeper.
Rain and Lira emerged from the shadows, breathless with laughter as the pirates moaned dramatically in the dust. Sarsgaard lay belly-up on the cobblestones, blinking at the stars.
"Next time," he groaned, "you dance, Rain."
The Scarlet Blade
The noise from the taverns had lasted almost till dawn, and Rain had barely slept as the pirate crew continued their party at the city plaza with everyone else. His eyes were heavy, his limbs stiff, but the memory of Milito's words jolted him awake.
"Damn it! I'm late!" he gasped putting on his clothes.
He ran through the quiet streets, boots slapping against cobblestone, breath frosting in the morning air. At the edge of the city, past the last of the houses and into the windswept cliffs, stood Widow's Peak a cliffside graveyard overlooking the endless sea.
When Rain arrived, the sun had just begun to rise, painting the sea in molten gold. The graves stretched on like a field of still warriors. Milito stood alone, facing one of them.
Rain paused.....
The mercenary was silent, head bowed as he laid a single crimson flower at the foot of the gravestone. On the weather-worn marble, Rain could just make out the words.
"Loving Wife"
The stories whispered through the mages and pirates came back to him, of the only person to ever defeat Milito in a duel. A woman known as "The Scarlet Blade of Port City."
When Milito turned, his face carried a weight Rain had never seen. His usual smirk was gone!
"It doesn't matter how strong you are," he said, voice low, graveled with memory. "In a fight against someone equal or greater, just one strike can mean life or death."
He looked back at the grave.
"That's how she died. She was stronger than me, faster and more skilled. But one poisoned strike… That was all it took."
He stepped away from the grave and unsheathed his sword with a whispering ring.
"After that, I forged a new sword style. One that doesn't make room for second chances."
He stood tall, eyes blazing with sharp focus. And then he moved.
What Rain witnessed next was not swordplay. It was a dance of death. Nine precise movements, flowing like liquid fire each one a perfect fusion of grace, speed, and lethal intent. Not a single wasted motion.
When the demonstration ended, Milito spun the sword back into its sheath with a snap.
"I call it The Scarlet Blade." he announced then added, "I hope you memorized the whole thing. I hate lazy learners."
Rain blinked. He had seen every motion clearly, his elven eyes registering the form. But understanding it? Was a different sport entirely.
He swallowed hard, "I… saw it. But I don't think I understood it."
Milito raised an eyebrow.
"Good! That means you're honest." And Rain was still confused, but Milito continued "Now we start the real training."
A Lesson in Elegance
The wind howled at Widow's Peak, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea and the quiet hum of memory. Rain stood with his sword drawn, eyes locked in concentration. He had watched Milito's demonstration just once but again and again he tried. He dashed into the first move, blade arcing wide.
Too fast!
His footing slipped on the gravel, momentum unchecked. By the third step, he infused Uud instinctively.....his energy flaring violet. The blade howled with power, slicing air like thunder. A nearby gravestone cracked from the residual force.
Rain froze, chest heaving. Milito's voice was cold and steady.
"When learning a technique… it's important to feel it out before you go full force." He approached the boy and gestured around them.
"Why do you think this place is called Widow's Peak?"
Rain, still catching his breath, shook his head. Milito placed a hand on one of the stones.
"These graves aren't for the common man. They're for warriors...married ones. All of them left wives behind because they rushed into battle with unrefined power. Reckless training! Like you did just now, what do you think happens on the battle field when you cant use Uud anymore?"
His gaze turned sharp, "You die!"
"You've been around pirates too long. Sloppy footwork, swinging wide like a tavern brawler."
He stepped closer and gently guided Rain's shoulder.
"My technique isn't about brutality. It's derived from the elegance of the elven general 'Sword Master: Mireth Von-Virmethorn' , paired with the instinct of a seasoned killer."
Rain was taken a-back by the last name and he asked, "You mean Von-Virmethorn like the Leviathan Virmethorn?"
He took the boy's stance and realigned it while giving an answer "Yes the Leviathan was once an elf but as years turned to centuries he became a great and terrible dragon 'Aeremir Von-Virmethorn was his name when he was an elf-ling but to this day no one knows how he transcended."
"Now… stop trying to master the blade. Start trying to feel it." Milito urged.
Rain closed his eyes. This time, no Uud. No flashy bursts. Just breath and motion.
He moved slower.....The first arc measured and precise. The second....balanced. His footwork, light as leaf on stone. By the fifth form, something clicked. The rhythm settled into his bones, and for the first time, he wasn't mimicking the Scarlet Blade rather he was dancing it.
Milito watched with a faint smile, arms crossed.
"Now you're learning."
The Princess and the Sacrifice
Rain was still catching his breath from the final form of the Scarlet Blade when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He turned and nearly dropped his sword.
Lira stood with arms crossed, clad in sleek leather training armor, her auburn hair tied back. A wooden sword rested on her shoulder.
"Uncle! So this guy is my new training partner?" she smirked.
Rain blinked. "Wait! Uncle?"
Lira chuckled and tapped her blade to his.
"Didn't I mention? My dad's sister married this old goat Milito."
Rain stared between the two in disbelief.
Milito, already gathering his coat, gave a nonchalant wave.
"You two play nice. I have a meeting at the City Hall."
Rain looked confused. "Meeting?"
Milito didn't stop walking as he added "Don't play around, also ....Lira you need to master the ninth form today."
And he vanished down the slope.
The atmosphere inside the high council room was heavy with tension. Cracked maps of Midgard were spread across a long black table, red wax markers bleeding from one side of the continent inward. Every city wall was marked with the symbol.
Sarsgaard stood at the center, arms folded, eyeing the losses from Port City. Milito entered quietly, but he didn't need to ask what the plan was.
"You're thinking of asking for help from Alfheim, aren't you?" Milito said grimly.
Sarsgaard didn't answer.
"She's your daughter," Milito added, stepping closer. "If you send her to the elves, you'll never get her back. The moment she touches those lands, she becomes their princess. Their claim! You know that don't you?"
Sarsgaard's hands tightened around a pendant hidden beneath his shirt. He looked up at the banners above the chamber.....one burned, one untouched.
"We lost over a thousand men, Milito. Midgard's core is exposed. Another strike from Muspelheim and it's over."
Milito growled. "There must be another way."
Sarsgaard shook his head slowly.
"The people need hope. And Midgard needs its borders sealed. The only ones strong enough to guard them are the elves."
A silence followed, long and aching.
"It's the only way to keep her safe… and keep the rest of us alive."
The morning sun cast golden blades across Widow's Peak as Rain and Lira trained atop the stone steps. Their practice had slowly drifted from structured form to playful dueling parrying, feinting, laughing between clashes.
At one point, Rain lunged, only for Lira to dance aside and flick his wrist with her blade, making him stumble.
"Are you actually strong?" she grinned, "or did you just hide all day at the battlefield?"
Rain raised his sword with a sheepish smile. "Hey, I killed a lot of Muspel soldiers you know!"
"With what technique?" she teased.
Their laughter echoed down the mountain, and from a nearby ridge, Enoch stood silently beside Sarsgaard, both watching with rare softness in their eyes. The boy and the girl, so full of energy, unaware of how fleeting these moments would become.
Enoch folded his arms, "He's growing fast."
Sarsgaard nodded slowly.
"And so is she."
Enoch took a deep breath and spoke more to the wind than to Sarsgaard.
"In four or five years, I'll send the boy to Alfheim Academy. That's where he'll reach his full potential."
Sarsgaard's jaw tightened.
"And by then, she'll already be there…"
Their eyes lingered on the two young warriors, laughing, clashing swords beneath the rising sun.
For a moment, the weight of war felt far away. Rain paused mid-swing, turning toward the distant sea. Dark silhouettes glided toward the harbor. Sleek, white-sailed ships, their bows carved like curling vines, their banners glowing faintly in the light.
"What are those?" Rain asked, lowering his blade.
Lira stepped beside him, eyes widening as the Elven insignia came into view, spirals of gold and green, fluttering in the wind like leaves in spring.
Enoch and Sarsgaard exchanged a long, silent glance.
"The Elves have come," Enoch whispered.
"That witch knew Muspelheim would attack, she waited for this moment to take back our daughter" Sarsgaard grinned in anger.
The wind carried no sound. Just the distant drums of a different world approaching. The beginning of an untold journey.
END OF ACT ZERO: THE PROLOGUE