The guild hall was alive—rowdy, buzzing, overflowing with disbelief. The moment Ren, Muchen, and the silent armored "Sir" walked in, the entire place erupted.
Chairs scraped. Tankards clattered. Heads turned.
"They cleared the Ironroot Depths? With just THREE people?"
"Three F-ranks?! Impossible!"
"Who's that tall one? Never seen him before."
The praise hit Ren and Muchen like a storm. They froze just inside the entrance, unsure whether to step forward.
Seraphon stood behind them, wings hidden beneath his traveling cloak, expression unreadable. Calm. Observing. Silent.
Seraphon then led the boys out of the guild and to a nearby inn.
Ren exclaimed: "Ahh yes, this is the way life is supposed to be, a life of a celebrity."
Muchen grumbled: "Celebrity my ass, all of that for nothing, and they made the place stuffy, the only reason you liked that Ren is because you lack validation, all the love you needed from parents especially your father now in a desperate attempt to fill that void you desperately seek it from others"
Ren immediately stopped in his tracks speechless.
Seraphon let out a soft chuckle: "Okay boys we are here at the inn stop the bickering."
As the trio entered the inn the were met with a burst of attention as the rumours of them had spread.
The first wave of attention hit Ren.
The girl his age—short hair, bright eyes, always ready to spar—practically launched herself at him.
"REN! That's incredible!! How did you even—"
Before she could finish, the slightly older mage, robes fluttering dramatically, crashed into the conversation.
"Obviously he must've strategized brilliantly. Ren, darling, ignore her—talk to me about your mana usage."
Ren tried to formulate a sound. It came out as a squeak.
Then the significantly older spearwoman arrived like a thunderstorm.
Sharp eyes. Confident posture.
"Children, move. The boy clearly needs someone mature to debrief him. Ren—walk with me."
"He's not going anywhere with you!"
"He's coming with me!"
"You're too old!"
"And you're too childish!"
Ren backed up as the argument grew into a full verbal war.
"Uh—guys? Girls? Maybe we shouldn't—"
No one listened.
Soon they were literally pulling at his arms.
"I— SERAPHON?!"
Seraphon watched with a slowly growing, amused smile.
"Help! Please?!"
Seraphon folded his arms.
"No."
"SERAPHON!!"
"Farewell, Ren," Seraphon said with the serene doom of a man watching nature take its course.
Ren was swallowed by the bickering trio, dragged bodily away from the cheering crowd as they argued about who would "personally interrogate" him about the raid. His pleas echoed through the guild:
"NO PLEASE—NOT ANOTHER QUESTIONNAIRE—SERAPHOOON—"
Seraphon actually chuckled.
A soft, melodic chuckle.
Muchen stared after Ren, horrified. "Should we… save him?"
"No," Seraphon said. "He must learn."
As the hall resumed its roar, a shy girl about Muchen's age edged toward him. She held a parchment with trembling hands.
"H-hi Muchen… um… I made something for you. A sketch of you fighting in the raid. I heard you did amazingly and—"
Muchen blinked.
"Oh! Cool drawing! Are you asking me to judge your art? Or is this some kind of crafting submission?"
Her shoulders slumped.
"No, I… I made it for you."
"Oh! Like a trophy replica? Nice! It looks amazing you're a real good artist."
She sighed, staring at the floor and blushed a bright red.
Seraphon exhaled slowly.
"For a boy so quick on the battlefield, your perception is… selective."
Muchen smiled proudly.
"Thank you! I trained really hard!"
Seraphon placed his face in his hand.
SCENE VI- SECRET SCENE
The room was older than language.
A shrine of dust and stone, lit only by a single lantern whose flame danced like it feared waking the shadows carved into the walls. The masked man sat upon an altar that might once have crowned kings or condemned traitors.
He spoke the moment the lantern flickered as if he hadn't stopped speaking for hours, days, or centuries.
"Ah… and now we return," he murmured, voice like parchment sliding across old wood.
"To where the three threads intertwine again."
He drew a line in the dust—straight, determined.
The Monkey's Rise
"The monkey climbs," he said.
"Always climbs. Even when his hands blister. Even when the branch cracks beneath him."
He drew a jagged swirl above the line.
"Tested by dungeon and fate… yet still he laughs. Still, he makes light. Still, he charges ahead as though the world must bend to his stubbornness."
He tapped the swirl.
"And someday… it will."
The Fox's Arrival
Next, he drew a looping curl in the dust, clever and delicate.
"And the fox," he whispered,
"slips in with soft steps and a smile that never tells the whole truth."
He tilted his head as though listening to some distant narrator.
"Foxes are rarely chosen by fate—they choose it themselves.
He is curiosity wrapped in quiet pain. Mischief hiding potential.
A boy who does not yet know the number of masks he will wear…
or the power that will bloom when the last mask breaks."
His gloved hand lingered on the symbol.
"Foxes do not walk paths.
They rewrite them."
The Angel's Burden
Then he drew wings—a radiant sigil cracked down the centre.
"And the angel… ah, the angel."
He leaned back, as though savouring the story.
"He watches them from the high boughs; feathers dipped in duty.
He guides. Protects. Nurtures the young heroes with a patience forged from divinity…"
His voice softened into something almost tender.
"But even angels bend.
And his wounds are older than the stars these children wish upon."
He traced the crack with reverence.
"The burden he carries will one day demand a sacrifice.
Perhaps of himself.
Perhaps of them."
The Story Marches On
He swept his hand across the dust—the symbols swirling as though alive.
"Three wanderers.
Three sparks.
Three fates that should never have met… yet now cannot be separated at least not for now."
He tilted his bone-marked mask toward the darkness.
"Yes… yes. I see it now. The next chapter."
The lantern dimmed.
His mask seemed to smile.
"And oh… how beautifully disastrous it will be, to see the wings of an angel fall so far down from the high stool he stands on."
He rose without sound, cloak dragging behind him like a shadow still dreaming.
"Let the tale continue."
SCENE VII
A year had passed since Muchen, Ren, and Seraphon first walked into the Verdentha guild as timid F-rank champions. In that time, they had clawed their way up two ranks, now proudly bearing the title of B-rank champions.
The guild hall buzzed with their reputation. Whispers followed them through corridors:
"Did you see the rookies take down that Elemental Wyrm?"
"Seraphon's guidance… unmatched. Those boys are unstoppable together."
"Chosen rookies, and yet they fight like seasoned veterans."
Ren had grown into his refined, confident self, occasionally tossing a smirk or a wink at guild members who tried to flirt or challenge him. Muchen, still wide-eyed and earnest, now carried the presence of someone who understood battle instinctively, though still prone to clumsy charm outside combat.
Seraphon's figure had become legendary in its own right. No one knew his full name, and the guild members respectfully referred to him as the Mentor, a title he bore with quiet dignity. His aura of calm authority steadied everyone around him, especially Muchen and Ren.
The three sat together in the guild's sunlit training yard. Ren twirled his twin fangs, now fully manifested, the first two tails of his Apostle glowing faintly behind him. Muchen's golden aura headband shimmered as he tested the evolved Stoneborne Staff, the first stage of the Ruyi Jingu Bang's next evolution humming lightly with latent power.
Seraphon stood before them, hand on his cane, gaze fixed on the horizon. "A year here has served its purpose," he said, voice steady but firm. "You have grown stronger, faster, sharper. But Verdentha can only teach so much. Your next trial is not in guild halls or in controlled raids."
Muchen blinked. "Trial? Uh… like, the big one?"
Ren smirked, crossing his arms. "Finally. I was beginning to think Seraphon enjoyed keeping us in this little playground forever."
Seraphon allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. "No playground lasts forever. There is a place called the Verdant Spire—a nexus of energy and challenge. Few have returned from it unscathed, but it will test everything you've learned and forge you into champions far beyond B-rank."
Muchen's mouth dropped open. "Verdant… what now?"
Ren leaned forward, excitement gleaming in his eyes. "Sounds perfect. Dangerous. Unpredictable. I like it."
Seraphon ignored the banter, his gaze sharp. "I will guide you, as always. But this is a test of teamwork, instinct, and mastery of your Apostle bonds. No guild support. No prepared raids. Just you two… and whatever the Spire decides to throw at you."
Muchen swallowed nervously but nodded. "We can do it. Right, Ren?"
Ren gave a confident grin. "Of course. Let's show the Verdant Spire what the chosen rookies can do."
The mentor's eyes softened slightly. "Good. Then prepare. At dawn, we leave. The path ahead is unforgiving, but by the time we return… you will be more than guild champions. You will be legends."
As the sun set over the guild courtyard, the boys trained until the stars burned bright overhead, unaware of just how far the Verdant Spire would push them—but certain of one thing: together, they would face it all.
SCENE VIII
The Verdentha trail was unforgiving. Jagged cliffs rose like teeth, thick forests swallowed the sunlight, and every step threatened to throw them into mud, rushing streams, or worse.
Seraphon led silently, his aura a calm, steady silver-white glow. Muchen and Ren followed close behind, alert, tense, every muscle coiled.
Seraphon finally spoke, voice cutting through the wind and rustle of leaves:
Seraphon: "The goal is simple: protect me. Every hazard, every beast, every unexpected danger—it is your responsibility. Fail, and consequences are real. Think of this as a trial, not a spar."
Ren scoffed, purple aura flickering faintly around him.
Ren: "A trial, huh? I thought this was just a walk in the park!"
Muchen's golden aura flickered nervously.
Muchen: "Park? This looks like we're walking straight into death…"
Seraphon ignored their chatter, scanning the path ahead.
The first real test came in the form of a cluster of Verdentha Shadow Cats, predators influenced by lingering Ethereal resonance. Their eyes glimmered unnaturally, claws leaving faint streaks in the air.
Seraphon gestured sharply.
Seraphon: "Muchen, left flank! Ren, intercept forward! Control your aura—conceal, then strike!"
Muchen darted left, trying to sense the cats' movements. Sparks flared faintly along his arms, but the aura wasn't fully stable. He struck, but the staff wobbled slightly, almost misaligning the strike.
Ren moved to cut off another cat, aura flickering as he tried a small illusionary diversion. The attack worked, but imperfectly—one cat swatted the illusion aside and lunged.
Seraphon stepped forward calmly, moving a hair out of reach and letting them adjust mid-fight.
Seraphon: "No hesitation. Anticipate, react, adapt. Your Apostle power will respond only when you are confident in your control. Do not rush."
Muchen and Ren nodded, teeth gritted. They worked together, covering gaps, correcting each other's mistakes. After a tense few minutes, the cats were driven off—but neither boy had fully unlocked their new Apostle abilities.
The weeks passed in similar fashion. Every day, Seraphon led them through increasingly perilous paths: cliffside ledges, rushing rivers with magical currents, dens of minor Ethereal beasts.
At each obstacle, Seraphon forced Muchen and Ren to act as his protectors. He deliberately let danger approach, testing their coordination, aura control, and instinctive combat responses.
Muchen's staff responded to him more consistently, vibrating faintly as he adjusted aura flow and strike angles—but he could not yet trigger the Golden Trickster's Rod second stage.
Ren's Twin Fangs flared with purple sparks, and he experimented with illusionary and physical strikes, trying to force the flame-like motion he knew would evolve into Flamefang Form—but it remained just out of reach.
By the end of the month, both were bruised, scraped, and exhausted. Sweat and dirt clung to their skin, and the forest seemed to Muchenr with new dangers around every corner. Yet, they had survived every hazard Seraphon threw at them.
Ren, sitting on a mossy rock, wiped his brow.
Ren: "This… this is insane. And somehow… fun. I can feel it, though—something's changing. I just need more control."
Muchen, golden aura flickering softly, nodded.
Muchen: "Yeah… the staff… it feels like it wants to do more. Like I just have to let it."
Seraphon's expression was calm, almost unreadable.
Seraphon: "Good. You are beginning to understand the balance. Your powers will respond—but only if you can maintain control under pressure. The Verdant Spire will demand much more than this."
Both boys exchanged a glance, exhaustion and excitement mingling. They had not unlocked the next stage yet—but they were closing the gap. Each day, each hazard, each misstep was forging the skills and control necessary to awaken their Apostle powers.
SCENE IX
The second month began with the first clear sign that Muchen and Ren were improving. Their muscles moved with more coordination, aura flows were steadier, and instinctive combat decisions came faster. Seraphon, observing silently from the edge of a ridge, smiled faintly. It was time to escalate the difficulty.
Seraphon: "Control is only half the battle. Power is meaningless without versatility. From now on, you will fight under conditions that strip away your reliance on aura, on familiarity, on comfort. Adapt—or fail."
Muchen groaned, swinging his staff experimentally.
Muchen: "So… wait, no aura at all?"
Ren laughed, purple sparks dancing faintly over his hands.
Ren: "Great. Bare-handed, blindfolded, and probably hungry while we're at it, right? Perfect."
Seraphon didn't answer. Instead, he led them into the thickest, darkest part of the Verdentha forest.
Training Tactic One: Bare-Handed Combat
Seraphon first commanded them to leave their Apostle weapons behind. Muchen and Ren circled each other warily, fists and feet the only tools available.
Ren's movements were precise, his training with illusions and attacks manifesting in fluid dodges and calculated strikes even without aura. Muchen, relying on raw instincts and terrain awareness, anticipated Ren's feints, using the forest undergrowth, rocks, and uneven ground to pivot and leverage attacks.
Seraphon watched silently, stepping in only when one of them made a critical mistake that could have resulted in a real injury.
Seraphon: "Good. Ren, you rely too much on experience. Anticipate instinct, not just strategy. Muchen, your awareness is sharp, but you must learn to act before instinct alone warns you."
Training Tactic Two: Blindfolded Coordination
The next challenge was disorienting. Seraphon tied soft cloths over their eyes, leaving only the faintest sliver of light to avoid total darkness.
Muchen and Ren had to navigate the forest together while engaging in mock combat against projected threats—falling branches, false animal cries, and Seraphon's own movement to simulate attacks.
Muchen's headband glowed faintly as golden sparks began reacting automatically to sound and vibration, subtly hinting at his Apostle's influence beginning to integrate with his senses. Ren's aura flickered, barely visible, as he experimented with using subtle telekinetic nudges and illusionary echoes to locate Muchen without sight.
After several failures and minor bruises, both boys began anticipating each other's movements. Their coordination grew almost silent, almost wordless, each step a conversation.
Seraphon finally broke the exercise.
Seraphon: "Enough. You are beginning to feel each other's presence. This is how you will survive when the unexpected comes. Control is irrelevant if you cannot adapt to the unknown."
Training Tactic Three: Mixed Combat Scenarios
Seraphon escalated further: fighting bare-handed in confined spaces, fighting in shallow streams where footing was treacherous, combining illusion, subtle aura bursts, and conventional attacks—all while protecting Seraphon from simulated "raider" assaults.
At first, Muchen struggled with restraint. He wanted to unleash full aura bursts, but Seraphon intercepted, forcing him to conserve and focus on precision. Ren, usually composed, found himself forced to rely on quick improvisation instead of refined technique.
Together, they learned to cover each other's weaknesses: Muchen's instinct and terrain awareness balanced Ren's speed and precise strikes; Ren's illusions distracted and misdirected opponents, giving Muchen openings.
End of Month Two:
By the end of the month, both boys were bruised, exhausted, and sweaty—but the signs of growth were undeniable. Their movements had become smoother, more anticipatory, more harmonious.
Ren, sitting on a moss-covered log, smirked.
Ren: "Not bad, kid. You might actually be useful one day."
Muchen, golden aura faintly flickering as he massaged a sore wrist:
Muchen: "Ha. Don't get cocky, purple spark. You're not the only one improving."
Seraphon, arms crossed, simply observed them both, faint silver aura pulsing around him.
Seraphon: "The Verdant Spire will demand everything from you. By the time we reach it, you will need every skill, every reflex, every ounce of control you can summon. And only then… can your Apostle powers begin to evolve."
The forest echoed with their laughter and banter, but beneath it, both boys knew the truth: this was only the beginning of the real trials.