The deeper Rowan went, the quieter it became. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of leaves crunching under his boots. This was the Level 1 zone of Glavenreach Woods. The trees here were taller, their canopies thick enough to block out most of the sunlight. The air was colder, and the shadows deeper.
Rowan tightened his grip on his sword. His chest ached, not from fear, but from anger. He hadn't slept well in days. His muscles were sore. Just yesterday, he'd killed three horned rabbits and nearly bled out after one of them bit through his leg armor. But he was still standing. Still fighting. Because he had no other choice.
Suddenly, a growl broke the silence. Rowan spun around as a shadow-fanged lizard dropped from a tree above, its tail snapping through the air toward him. He barely raised his sword in time. The impact knocked him off his feet and onto the cold, damp ground. The beast hissed and charged again.
Rowan rolled to the side, pain flaring in his ribs. He slashed upward with his sword, slicing across the lizard's front leg. The creature shrieked and spun toward him, jaws open to bite. He stepped back, but too slowly. Its tail crashed into his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward.
"Damn it…" he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to steady his breathing. He didn't rush. He waited. The lizard lunged, aiming straight for his throat. This time, Rowan ducked low and drove his sword into its gut.
The beast screamed, thrashing wildly, but he held on. With a final push, he twisted the blade and tore it free. Blood sprayed across the forest floor. The lizard collapsed, twitching. Rowan fell beside it, panting hard. His hands trembled. But he had won.
And that wasn't the only fight. In the days that followed, Rowan kept pushing forward. He battled again and again—horned boars, bone-jaw apes, venom squirrels. Each fight left something behind: bruises, cuts, torn gear, or pain deep in his bones.
Sometimes, he could barely lift his sword by the end of the day. But he didn't stop. He learned. He adapted. He began predicting beast movements. His dodges grew sharper. His strikes more accurate. Bit by bit, he got stronger.
He had turned ten now. After five months of surviving the forest and selling beast parts, he held four gold coins in his pouch. Not much to a noble. But to Rowan, it was everything.
Then, one day, something changed. After killing two stone-clawed wolves, Rowan collapsed under a tree, too tired to even move. His breath came slowly, but his heart beat steady. Inside his chest… something felt different. A warmth spread through his body. A steady pulse of energy, like a door was opening deep within him. He closed his eyes.
He knew this feeling. This was advancement. He had broken through. Rowan was no longer just Awakened. He had reached the Disciple stage.
When he opened his eyes again, the night sky above looked clearer than ever. The air felt sharper against his skin. He stood and swung his sword once. It cut cleaner than before. His grip felt lighter. His body responded with a new smoothness. He was stronger than yesterday. He could feel it. Even his control over aura had increased. Reaching Disciple rank at just ten years old was an impressive feat.
That day, Rowan returned home earlier than usual. His body still ached, but it didn't matter. He had done something great. On the way back, he stopped by a street vendor and bought warm bread, roasted meat, and sweetroot tea. It was rare for him to treat himself. But this wasn't just for him—it was to celebrate with his mother.
As he entered the estate, he noticed something strange. More eyes followed him than usual. Servants glanced at him, then quickly looked away. He tried to ignore it. Maybe he was imagining things. He reached their wing and carefully balanced the food in one hand. He opened the door with the other, calling out:
"Mother! I'm home!"
Silence.
He blinked. The room was empty. He set the food down and checked the back room. Nothing. He checked the small garden behind the house. Still nothing. His heart pounded faster. He came back to the room, now looking more carefully. Something felt off. There were faint signs of struggle—an overturned cushion, a cracked vase on the floor.
"Mother?" he called again, louder this time.
No response.
The warm bread had gone cold. His hands began to shake. Then he heard something outside. A rustle. A groan. Rowan ran out the front door and followed the sound. Near the garden wall, beside the side path, he saw a figure lying in the grass.
"Reene?!"
She was crumpled on the ground, her arm twisted, her face pale and bloodied. Rowan dropped to his knees beside her. "Reene, what happened?!" he cried, voice breaking. She moved her lips weakly. Blood clung to the corner of her mouth.
"...they took madam… knights… from the estate…"
Rowan froze. "Knights? From House Vexlaar?"
She gave a tiny nod. Her eyes dimmed. He stared at her, stunned. Of course. This was the Vexlaar estate. No one could have done this without permission. That meant they allowed it. Or worse, they ordered it.
His heart dropped. Rowan stood frozen. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His fists clenched so hard, his nails cut into his palms. Then he moved. He ran to Reene's side and gently lifted her off the ground. Her breathing was shallow, her clothes torn and stained with blood. Rowan didn't hesitate. He picked her up in both arms. For a Disciple, this much weight was nothing. His steps were steady, though his heart pounded with fear and fury.
He carried her across the estate, ignoring the stares of passing servants. Some whispered. Others quickly turned away. He didn't care. He made his way to Master Harnes' quarters and kicked the door open.
"Master Harnes!" he shouted. "It's Reene—she's hurt!"
The old man looked up from his worktable, startled. He rushed over the moment he saw her. "What happened?"
Rowan laid her down on the small cot inside. "She was attacked. Push came from a knight, I think. I don't know how bad it is."
Harnes checked her pulse, then began opening a wooden box filled with salves and herbs. "Barely alive," he said. "I'll need time."
"Do what you can," Rowan said, his voice tight, cold. "I'll be back." Then he turned and left the room without another word.
Soon, he reached the heavy gold gate that separated the Main wing from the rest of the estate. Two guards in silver-plated armor stood firm, spears crossed.
"Halt," one of them barked. "This area is off-limits."
"I'm Rowan Vexlaar," he said, panting. "Where's my mother? She's missing!"
The guards didn't move. "That is not your concern."
Rowan's eyes widened. "Not my concern? She's my mother!"
"You'll be informed when the time is right," the second guard said coldly. "If you are not informed, then you have no right to know."
He stared at them, silent. A storm raged behind his eyes. He wanted to scream. To force his way in and demand answers. But what would that accomplish? He was just a boy. Ten years old. Even as a Disciple, he was barely considered an elite warrior. The knights standing before him could crush him in a single strike. Charging in would only mean death.
If House Vexlaar had taken her, this wasn't a mistake. It was planned. That meant there might still be time. But if he acted out now, if he made himself look like a threat, they might just get rid of him.
He stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Then, slowly, he turned around and walked away. Every step felt like a defeat. Like he was abandoning her. His mother was already ill, barely able to stand on some days. She needed rest, warmth, care. But now she was in their hands. The very people who had ignored her for years. What would they do to her?
The thought made his stomach twist. He clenched his fists tighter, fingernails digging into his palms. He had to stay calm. Think straight. He needed answers. And he needed them soon.
No matter what it took.