Rain had a way of washing things clean in East Kairo, but only on the surface. The real filth — the corruption, the pain, the ghosts — always clung underneath, like it knew better than to leave.
Jayden Cross moved silently through the alleyways of Sector Twelve, the scroll tucked deep inside his backpack, hidden beneath layers of shirts and old textbooks. He didn't know why he kept it close — only that some part of him whispered it would never be safe anywhere else.
It had been five days since Master Kellan vanished.
One morning, Jayden had shown up at the ruined temple as usual. The incense pot was still warm. The training mats were rolled up. But Kellan was gone. No note. No sign of struggle. Just a single message etched into the stone wall in tiny, trembling lines of chalk:
"The eyes are watching again. Find the blade. Trust no one."
Jayden didn't know what it meant — not fully — but something inside him understood: Kellan hadn't left by choice.
Someone had come for him.
At school, the world carried on like none of it mattered.
Students filed into class, drone monitors scanned their IDs, and teachers taught from tablets while pretending not to notice when students dozed off or disappeared.
Jayden sat by the window, fingers twitching.
Something was coming. He could feel it in the air. The city was tense, as if it too was waiting for something to break.
At lunch, Kamal and his crew avoided him now. They didn't talk about the fight. Didn't need to. The story had spread like smoke: Jayden Cross fought like a ghost — fast, quiet, unstoppable.
He hated the attention.
It made him visible.
And right now, being visible could get him killed.
That night, he took the back streets home, just like Kellan had taught him. Step through shadow. Walk with silence. Breathe in rhythm with the world.
Then he felt it.
Not a sound, not a sight — just presence.
Someone was following him.
He turned the corner into a dead-end alley and waited.
The figure stepped out of the darkness slowly, like it had all the time in the world.
Tall. Hooded. Long coat soaked from the rain. A strange energy clung to the air around him, thick like steam before a storm.
Jayden didn't speak.
Neither did the stranger.
Then the coat shifted, and Jayden saw it — a broken sword, strapped across the man's back. The blade had snapped clean in half, as if it had clashed with something it was never meant to face.
The man pulled down his hood.
He was older — maybe forty, maybe fifty — but his eyes were young. Sharp. Too sharp. The kind of eyes that had seen people die and kept going.
"You're his son," the man said, voice low but calm.
Jayden didn't answer.
"I knew your father," the man continued. "Before the war. Before the purge. He walked with fire in his veins. Just like you."
Jayden clenched his fists. "Who are you?"
The man unbuckled the strap across his chest and held out the broken blade.
"Someone who owes your bloodline more than I can repay. Take it."
Jayden stared at the half-sword. The hilt was dragon-shaped, wrapped in faded crimson leather. The steel glowed faintly — not light, but memory.
"This was his," Jayden whispered.
The man nodded. "Your father's last weapon. Shattered the night he vanished."
Jayden took it slowly, and the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a jolt of warmth surged up his arm — familiar, like a heartbeat echoing from the past.
"What happened to him?" Jayden asked, his voice brittle.
The man's jaw tightened. "They came for him. The Hidden Order. The ones who buried the clans and silenced the old masters. Your father… he found something they didn't want found. Something older than the clans. Older than the city itself."
Jayden's throat dried. "What did he find?"
"A gate."
Jayden blinked. "A gate to what?"
"To the Beyond." The man's eyes flickered. "A place of forgotten gods. Of ancestral power. He stepped through it… and never returned."
The city thundered in the distance — sirens, transport drones, automated alarms — but none of it reached Jayden. Not really.
The man leaned in close. "They'll come for you soon. They'll want the scroll. They'll want you. But you're not ready yet."
Jayden gritted his teeth. "Then train me."
"I can't," the man said. "If I stay near you, I paint a target too big to dodge."
"Then help me find Kellan."
The man paused. His eyes drifted to the sword in Jayden's hand. "You want to find Kellan? Then go where the blood remembers."
Jayden frowned. "What does that mean?"
The man stepped back into shadow.
"You'll understand. When the fire calls."
Then he was gone.
Like he'd never been there.
Jayden didn't sleep that night.
He sat on his floor, the broken sword across his lap, the scroll spread out before him. The script had begun to shift, as if reacting to his energy — ancient symbols glowing with faint red threads.
As he traced them with his finger, his mind filled with images: dragons swimming through the sky, monks meditating beneath lightning trees, a mountain surrounded by flame.
Then a voice — soft, female — echoing in his mind.
"To rise, you must fall. To see, you must be blind. To awaken the dragon, you must break your cage."
Jayden's breath hitched. The scroll dimmed. The sword pulsed once, then fell still.
The next morning, Jayden went to the oldest part of the city — the Walled Garden District. Overgrown. Forgotten. Off-grid.
The only place where the past still whispered.
The trees here were massive. Roots cracked through pavement. Vines hung from shattered streetlights. And at the center, hidden beneath a canopy of branches, was an old shrine.
Jayden had never seen it before.
But something guided his steps.
Inside, the shrine was dark and silent — except for the drip of water from a crack in the roof.
At the altar stood a small statue — a dragon curled around a flame.
Jayden stepped forward.
The ground shook.
A panel slid open beneath his feet.
He dropped.
He landed hard on stone.
He stood, wincing, brushing dust from his jacket.
The chamber was lit by a single flickering orb, hovering midair. At the center: a pedestal. Upon it — a metallic cube.
Jayden stepped closer. Symbols flared to life across the walls.
When he touched the cube, it unfolded, revealing a glowing rune.
"This is the Seal of Flame," a voice whispered from nowhere. "Left behind by the Ancients. Only blood of the true line may claim its fire."
Jayden reached forward.
Fire engulfed his hand — searing hot, then cold.
It didn't burn.
It welcomed him.
The flame sank into his palm — a mark forming there: a dragon encircling a lotus flower.
Jayden gasped.
And in that moment, he knew.
This was one of the Seven Divine Seals.
And someone out there — someone — would kill for it.
Jayden climbed out of the shrine hours later.
A girl stood by the old path — long braids, combat boots, jacket stitched with torn feathers.
She looked up at him. "Took you long enough."
Jayden blinked. "Do I… know you?"
"No," she said. "But you will."
Then she turned and walked off into the trees.
Jayden stood there a moment, caught between confusion and fate.
Then he followed.