The imperial decree spread like wildfire. From city to city, town to hamlet, crimson-sealed edicts were nailed to temple gates and shouted by heralds on horseback:
All able-bodied men are to return to their clans. All forces are to be gathered. The Empire prepares for the Tide.
Even in the riverside village, word arrived at dawn. The clang of the town bell called the people together, faces drawn, hands clenched. Fuine stood among them, her calm presence steadying those nearby. Zed stood a little apart, cloak drawn close, listening in silence.
The tide was no longer rumor. It was certainty.
Zed knew he couldn't remain. His place was in the clan. Whatever storms awaited, he needed to be where strength gathered, where the line of defense would be drawn.
But he also knew one thing more: this village would not survive. Not the tide. Not the flood of beasts already restless in the forest.
His eyes sought out a familiar face.
Jiro.
The youth's family stood near the back—his mother clutching his younger sister's hand, his father's shoulders hunched with the weight of fear. Zed remembered the boy's bright eyes, the eagerness that once led him to spar recklessly, the stubborn courage that had not faltered even when hopeless.
Zed approached. The family stiffened at first, but Jiro's eyes widened. "Zed!"
The name burst from him, relief and respect mingled.
Zed rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Gather your things. All of you. You're coming with me."
The family exchanged confused looks. Jiro's father cleared his throat. "Young master, we… we are only villagers. Where could we go?"
Zed's gaze was iron. "To my clan. You'll have protection there. Walls that won't break when the beasts come. And more than that—" He paused, voice firm, decisive. "You'll have a place. Not as refugees. As members."
Jiro's breath caught. "Members… of the clan?"
Zed nodded. "Honorary. Your service will be recognized. Jiro, from this day, you are my squire. My apprentice. You'll train under me, carry my blade if needed, and learn what it means to walk this path."
The boy's eyes shone with fierce pride, lips trembling as he tried to bow and nearly tripped over his own feet. His mother gasped softly, half in fear, half in awe.
"And for your family," Zed continued, voice low but resolute, "a home within the clan walls. Land of your own. No one will cast you aside."
The words struck like thunder. In a world where common folk lived and died under the shadow of beasts, to be bound to a great clan meant survival beyond measure.
Jiro's father dropped to one knee, voice hoarse. "We… we cannot repay this, young master. But you have our lives, our loyalty. Always."
Zed's expression softened, just faintly. He lifted the man by the shoulder. "Then repay me by surviving. That's all I ask."
By dusk, the family was ready. The girl clutched a small bundle of toys, the mother carried herbs and tools, the father bore what little coin they had. Jiro carried nothing but a wooden practice spear, eyes bright with the fire of a future he had only dreamed of.
Fuine watched from the doorway of the hut. Her gaze lingered on Zed as he guided the family toward the waiting cart at the village's edge. There was something unreadable in her expression—curiosity, caution, perhaps a quiet respect.
"You take responsibility easily," she said when he approached.
Zed's reply was curt, almost cold. "Responsibility was forced on me the moment I lived when others didn't."
Her lips curved faintly, but she said no more.
The road back to the clan was long. Soldiers passed them often, banners snapping in the wind, each bearing the mark of their clan—blue hawks, red serpents, silver hounds. The Empire's call had reached every corner. And above all of them hung a single truth, whispered in every camp, every tavern, every passing line of soldiers:
That thing in the northwest has stirred.
Some called it a nightmare. Some called it the herald of the Tide. None dared call it by name.
The Latian clan's gates loomed at last, stone towers flanking iron-bound doors. Guards stiffened as Zed approached, then saluted deeply when they recognized him. He had left as the black horse of the tournament, dismissed and whispered about. He returned a cultivator whose name already spread in quiet rumor.
And behind him trailed a family who would never have dreamed to step within such walls.
The guards eyed them warily, but Zed's voice brooked no argument. "By my word, they are under my protection. Honorary members of the clan. Record it."
The scribe's brush hesitated, then swept the names onto parchment. With a stroke of ink, their fates were bound.
Jiro clutched his practice spear tighter, eyes wide at the towering walls, the training fields echoing with steel, the banners snapping high. He glanced at Zed, awe brimming in his gaze. "I won't fail you."
Zed's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Then don't. Survival comes first. Pride comes later."
That night, within the clan castle, the family was shown to a modest home by the inner wall—sturdy, safe, with a patch of land for their own. For them, it was more than enough. For Jiro, it was a world reborn.
And for Zed, it was only the beginning.
The empire gathered its strength. The Tide approached. And the shadows within his dantian whispered of blood yet to come.