The Underworld..
Midan clan....
Lydaeus slowly opened his eyes.
Right next to him was the man would had bought him at the black dais.
The one would had given him freedom.
The man in black.
They were in a carriage.
Lydaeus looked through the window and realised they were out of the capital.
The path they were taking was surrounded by tall trees.
Where were they going?
Lydaeus turned and stared at the man in black, hoping he would give him answers.
But he uttered not a word.
He didn't even look at him.
Lydaeus sighed and stared at his hands.
There were no chains.
And his legs were free too.
He was finally free .
Or was he? What if his destination was worse than what he had suffered?
That.... he didn't have an answer to.
The carriage came to a sudden halt.
" We're here" the rider said as he came down from the horse.
Then placed a stool for the man in black to descend.
And Lydaeus followed.
And he saw.... the mountains!
And built on the folds of these mountains was... The Cold Moon sect.
High in the folds of the mountains, where the mists cling to stone and the wind carries the sound of distant bells,there lies the place of discipline.
It was no place. No sanctuary.
But a fortress of training built from weathered stone and dark timber.
Its courtyards are vast,lined with flagstones worn smoothly by countless steps.
Its walls bear the faint marks of fists and staffs from generations before.
Here, the disciples move as one, their uniforms of white and sky blue catching the lights of the morning sun.
The garments are simple, unadorned save for the deep sash tied at the waist _ white for purity of resolve and sky blue for clarity of spirit.
From a distance they appear like a tide of pale frame, rising and falling with each strike, each stance ,each breath.
The training ground itself is divided with ritual precision.
One yard is set for stances where disciples kneel in silence, bodies held against the pull of time.
Another holds the wooden posts, their surfaces darkened by blood and sweat.
Beyond lies the weapons hall, long and shadowed where racks of daggers,blades and spears rest under the watchful care.
At the far end... beneath a canopy of ancient pines, stands the meditation court_ a circle of stone etched with symbols of discipline, where silence is held longer than speech.
The masters walk among them robed in deeper hues of blue, their presence unyielding but never cruel.
Their words are few, their connections exact, their eyes sharp as steel.
Disciples do not question.
They bow. They obey. They endure.
Days blur into weeks,weeks into months,until the year turns and still the rhythm does not change.
Here, life is reduced to its essence.
The body hardened.
The breath measured.
The mind stilled.
Beyond the gates, the world may be loud and shifting but within these walls time itself bends to discipline.
The young are shaped.
Not for comfort or praise but to be remade into something unyielding.
Lydaeus watched as the disciples moved liked puppets being controlled by strings.
Knowing fully well that soon enough, he would join them.
And he didn't want that.
He doesn't want to be controlled.
He hates being controlled.
And he doesn't know why.
The disciples didn't pay him attention.
And he wondered if they've ever broken the rules.
Lydaeus followed the man in black willingly into his residence.
The moment he stepped in...
He froze.
Unable to move.
He tried moving his legs but nothing happened.
His legs failed him.
Suddenly... he fell to knees.
It was against his will.
The air was heavier, the silence was more profound as if the walls themselves remembered every voice of command ever spoken within them.
They were no bright lamps.
But the glow of a single lantern, its light steady and soft, casting long shadows against the stone.
A low writing desk of dark wood stood against the wall, a single scroll unrolled and a resting in its holder.
Beside it, a shelf with a handful of books or manuals_ treatises on form, records of past disciples, or silent reflections bound in parchment.
A cot lay to one side, not grand but neatly kept with folded blankets and a cushion.
On the far wall hung a rack adnored with weapons.
The man in black turned.
His gaze on Lydaeus like a disgusting creature.
" You kneel when you come to my residence." His said. His voice cold and distant.
" The Underworld is divided into sections.
The sections are divided into clans
The clans are divided into sects.
Each sect has its ways.
And the Cold Moon sect has five different ways."
" The way of the helpless
The way of the merciless
The way of the fearless
The way of the hopeless
The way of the heartless "
Then he went ahead explaining what each way meant.
The burdens it carried.
The sacrifice he would have to pay.
He explained all except the way of the heart less.
" They call me Master Draal"
He said as he removed his hood revealing his long grey hair.
He removed his silver iron mask revealing the deep scar he bore by the side of his cheek.
" And I'm the master of the way of the heartless. Hence forth, you shall be my disciple"