The sky is overcast and rain begins to fall. Each droplet is freezing to the touch and smashes into the dry cracked dirt below with an unnatural fury.

The many houses of the village buckle under the building storm, roofs leak and walls creak. People scurry under make-shift fur coverings, trying to conclude last minute business, cursing under breath as the rains pound down.

Three weeks have passed since Tyrian was interrogated by the Temple. He sits, staring out the window of one of the many dorm rooms built behind the main Temple’s complex. The buildings were modest, clean but made of the same bamboo and mud as the village, the pure white stone reserved for only the main Temple structure.

He was “given” a choice. Either return to his farming life, or join the Temple as an Initiate. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the underlying message, and as such, Tyrian found himself part of the Temple’s ranks.

At least it solved my tithing problems. He thought to himself. His lands were given back to the temple to be redistributed to the nearby farmers.

His father’s disappearance caused a rather sad reaction from Aunty Amun, who was more apologetic to him than anything. Both for his loss, and for forcing him in the precarious purification on the spot. He didn’t blame her, trying desperately to placate the only living companion he had in this world.

The Temple was the main governance of the village, in charge of collecting a portion of the surrounding farmlands yield, while providing a host of services to the overall majority of the small population. From healing to protection via their guardians, the Temple seemed to hold hegemony and spiritual dominance over the whole of the kingdom.

Yes, kingdom. He had found out through the mandatory classes he had to attend as part of his new Initiate rank that he lived in the Kingdom of Light. A theocracy headed by the Oracle who lived far, far away to the south in the capital city, Lumos.

His village, Laskir, was situated on the periphery of the kingdom, far to the North, a backwater in almost every regard, if not for the presence of the Temple.

Being part of the temple wasn’t so bad, he was given housing, food and even an education, though his benefits seemed to stem from the need to keep a close eye on his [Orb of Orb].

His lack of blessing from the five Divines was looked at in black & white. As far as Tyrian could tell, there were three forces within the Temple. The Sentinels, who were in charge of protection and proactive protection against darker forces. They cared not for his lack of blessing, just that he wasn’t a demon, which his purification proved.

Then you had the Medicus. Healers, local logistics, as well as being in charge of the weekly sermons and festivals. These were a mixed bag, as some were highly devoted to the Divine, while others were more in-touch with the humanitarian side of the coin.

And finally, the Scriborium. While Tyrian hadn’t seen any of their members, he was warned that they were rather zealous in their devotion to the Divines. They managed the higher administrative and external affairs of the kingdom, residing mostly in the capital Lumos, only paying visits in times of diplomatic need or crisis.

Thankfully, the head High-priestess in charge of Laskir’s Temple, Elenar, was of the not a demon not a problem faction, and didn’t immediately turn Tyrian over to the Scriborium for exorcising.

Tyrian turned away from the window, feeling the cold seep in from the rain pouring outside. Frost had begun, and he was immensely grateful at not having to hold-out alone in the dilapidated home he used to live in.

He was even given his own room to his amazement. It was simply furnished, but he couldn’t complain. A single bed and desk, as well as a small trunk for storing any of his belongings… of which there were none. The only thing he retained from his old home was his father’s knife. He had done away with all of his old clothes, the ragged garments looked wildly out of place amidst the pure white robes of the Temple, again to no complaint from his side. The Temple robes were much softer, still a little coarse compared to his old worlds’ textiles but a dragon's leap in comparison to his old clothes.

Tyrian's schedule at the Temple had been filled mostly with morning classes with Acolytes about the history and duty required of their members. Funnily enough, this meant he was in the same classes as Aunty Amun, which she found plenty enjoyable, constantly whispering further context to him as the Priests' in charge of the sermons spoke.

These weren’t classes in the same sense that he was used to back on Earth, but sermons, as there was no work to be done or questions to be asked. You were told and expected to listen and remember. There was a written language, but that was only reserved for Priests rank and above.

The history of the Temple as far as he was concerned was quite simple.

They claimed that one day, about a thousand years ago, during ‘the dark times’ the first Oracle received a prophecy from Lumia of a hero blessed by the five divines. Who, with the help of the four divine champions drove back the demons through rifts of oblivion ushering humanity into the current golden age, called the Divine Age.

It was the stuff of myths, yet spoken as fact.

A hero who could use all divine blessings? Fighting demons with a band of companions because of divine prophecy? How fantastical.

Though as far as I’m concerned it could all be true.

Tyrian was taking classes with other Acolytes despite being an Initiate, he found that he was easily the youngest member of the Temple, with the youngest Acolyte being thirteen and the oldest being over forty. Apparently it was generally a long application process, yet another point of contention for his continuted existence within the Temple confines.

Acolytes tended to the grunt work, cleaning, assisting Initiates with healing or logistical work, and going out into the village for minor needs. It seemed a little demeaning, but for the vast majority of the Kingdoms population, working for the Temple was a respected position.

After working as an Acolyte for five years and reaching Coalescence, one was given the chance to become an Initiate through the Ritual of Sanctification, essentially a background test that was mediated by the divines themselves. Afterwards, they’d decide on their path, Sentinel, Medicus, or Scriborium. Thankfully, Tyrians purification by the High-priestess served to fill the same purpose.

It’s convenient that I’m too young to be expected to do the grunt work.

Tyrian was expected to learn and practice his Orb. As such his days were free to train and explore his powers… but there was a problem.

Nobody had the knowledge of what his Orb could do. He was completely alone in discovering the extent of his abilities. If he had an [Orb of Light] then the process would be streamlined, as there were many chants and techniques known to the Temple that helped a person reach 15 Orb and Coalesce.

Coalesce was what his father had called ‘change’ at the 15 Orb mark. There was the [Hands of Light] that his mother had, a common Coalescences for many in the Temple.

If he were to go the Sentinel route, he could’ve aimed for [Sword of Light] which sounded very lightsaber-esque to him.

Coalescing was like solidifying a heavily used ability. You would gain massive ease of use and bonuses to said Coalescences, but deviating from that initial path later on would become much harder.

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Alas, he would have no help in this regard.

The question he had been mulling over in his mind for the past three weeks was: What was [Orb of Orb]?

After learning about the divines, and their corresponding elemental attributes, the history of the hero and his companions, he could only come to one conclusion.

It was un-attuned, raw power.

And soon, he’d finally be able to test this hypothesis of his.

There was scant work around the village for a young five year old child, yet Tyrian felt the need to have money, it was almost instinctual, as if the lack of money was akin to death. A legacy from his time from Earth perhaps.

As such, he had been searching for work the last few weeks. He couldn’t help around the Temple, as many of the grunt related jobs had been taken by the Acolytes, as well as the fact that he wasn’t physically capable of such tasks, save for mopping and sweeping perhaps.

But his efforts bore fruit, it was Corina actually who took pity upon him. Corina was part of the Medicus and had vented to him about the dwindling supply of medical herbs for the coming winter. The weather had turned sour, as Frost swiftly approached, and people, even Acolytes, were apprehensive about going out to harvest the wild herbs found on the periphery of the village.

Tyrian was able to convince her to let him pick up the slack, leaning heavily on the fact that he used to live on the periphery and wouldn’t be out of his element. She was a little apprehensive about sending a five year old out to work for the Temple but Tyrian pulled the cutest look he could as well as the ‘I miss home’ card before she caved in.

They settled on an agreement that she’d buy the herbs from him at market rates as long as he came back with no injuries making sure to get his promise to not go deep into the forest and only search the edges.

After a quick lesson on harvesting techniques, and being taught how each herb looked, Tyrian was given a treated fur cloak that would keep him dry in the rain, a water-skin and a small rough woven bag. For safety and to help harvest he also took his father’s hand-length iron knife.

He waited until there was finally a day clear of rain, though still dreary and overcast, before setting off to inform the sentinel guards of his mission.

“Good luck Little one.” One of the two guards wished him as he left. Markus was his name, a good man that seemed to find no fault with Tyrian despite his lack of blessing.

Tyrian took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, he watched the warmth of his breath float away in the air. Finally, he was free from the Temple.

After three weeks of being crammed with esoteric knowledge of history, duty and the divines he could stretch his legs. All the learning and memorizing was slowly driving him insane, furthered by the inability to properly practice his Orb under the watchful gaze of the Priests who would be quick to find any fault with his powers.

He still had only a single Orb worth of Capacity, but had spent the three weeks honing his control over the single Orb. Splitting the modicum of power he had into smaller more controllable slices. He found that he was able to get five nail-sized Orbs he called Motes, before feeling the Burn on his capacity. Anymore and he’d be risking passing out.

Tyrian quickly made his way through the village, his leather shoes squelching in the mud of the main road, still moist from the rains yesterday. He had changed into a more form-fitting set of clothes used by the Acolytes for their general work, as his normal white robes would’ve gotten far too dirty. The village was abuzz with life, as people tried to make use of the rainless day to finish all of their final preparations before the snow began to fall.

He watched with interest as people both bartered and bought furs and herbs to last the winter. He heard screaming about the prices being way too high and the rebuttal of Frost is near!

These arguments must happen every year.

He came to learn of the main currency used throughout the kingdom.

Orba. From Small, to Large, to Great and finally Grand Orba. It was 100 Small to a large, and 100 large to a great etc… though for all intents and purposes Laskir dealt in Smalls, Larges, and perhaps within the temple the occasional Great, with Grands being reserved for more affluent places such as the Capital.

As its name would suggest, the coins were shaped like small orbs, made of magically inscribed metal that could be broken into halves and snapped back together.

Tyrian had only seen them from afar, never having tested the magically snapping metals in person, but that would hopefully change by the end of today.

He was searching for three herbs, Soothroot, Worray, and Fire-Finger. With the last being the hardest to find and priciest for its properties against frostbite.

Tyrian made for his old home, which had been turned into a larger storage-shed by Hans and his sons, of which he didn’t see as he passed by his old fields. Their chimney was in use, so he assumed they were probably enjoying a warm bowl of Ouy after a long harvest — made longer by the disappearance of his Father Lucas.

Honestly, and morbidly, Tyrian didn’t put much thought into the man. It was like having a roommate, if not a little more intimate in the fact that he was of flesh and blood. It really didn’t help that the man could barely bring himself to talk to Tyrian because of his past scars. The five years spent together was a time of great mourning and grief, and he had heard the guy blame him on a couple occasions for the death of his mother. There really was no place for Tyrian to help if the mere thought of his wife was enough to make him ditch his son.

Tyrian went around the back of his house, taking a swig from his water-skin before getting to his first order of business.

He held out his palm and pulled from his Capacity a single Mote. The nail-sized translucent sphere of energy swirled to life much quicker than back when he was first… “blessed”, finishing in mere seconds.

He had seen techniques for other Orbs, most were hand-signs conjoined with intent.

Intent seemed more important from his learnings, while the use of hand-signs helped anchor the intended outcome in place. Like flipping somebody off, you could — in theory — just tell them to go fuck themselves, but through the use of hand-signs that intent was firmly anchored. Sometimes done even subconsciously.

Intent + hand-sign = technique.

Of course, both the intent and hand-sign needed to be both relative to each other and to the intended outcome.

So flipping somebody off and hoping to heal back their limbs probably wouldn’t work.

Tyrian focused on the small Mote of energy in his palm. He turned his hand away from himself, baring it towards the dense brush of bamboo and closed his eyes.

For multiple breaths, Tyrian held in his mind a strong intent for the Orb.

Suddenly he shoved his palm forwards as if he was pushing somebody away. The Orb pushed off his palm moving far slower than he anticipated before smacking into the trunk of bamboo with the force of a strong punch.

The massive shoot shook, a couple of thin leaves falling languidly from its bushy canopy high-above, but there was no mark left on its green surface.

Tyrian frowned. He had imagined the Orb to have flown much faster than it did, but was also surprised at the power of the small Mote of energy.

He had come to learn that at the Orb stage, the destructivity of the elements, with the exception of [Orb of Fire], was quite low. Being no better than getting up close and throwing a punch. [Orb of Light] had some capability, but only when dealing with demons specifically.

Hmm…

Tyrian took an athletic stance and closed his eyes once more. He held the intent in his mind, an almost faded memory of a warrior in robes using invisible energy to push away his foes.

He pulled forth another Mote of energy and just as it reached the center of his hand he lashed out suddenly! Whipping his palm towards the forest.

A wave of force cut forwards much faster than before, slamming into the trunk of bamboo like the crack of a whip leaving a hand-sized dent imprinted in its side. A cacophony of leaves dislodged and rained down on Tyrian as he stared at his hand in surprise.

Now that was much stronger than I anticipated.

His hand felt a little sore, as if he had overexerted his muscles, but overall the result was fairly good.

What was the difference between the push of the palm and aggressive whip of my hand?

He didn’t understand, was it the shape? Perhaps.

And why is [Orb of Orb] so… destructive? Was this the nature of raw energy?

For now, he decided it would act as the root for his first true technique: [Push]

He wanted to practice more but needed to conserve his strength for when he began to forage. His Capacity regenerated, but at the rate of one mote per hour. He hoped that rate would increase as he grew in power and capacity, or else he’d have to rest for over three days to regenerate his Capacity at the 15 Orb mark.

He’d have to ask the priests at the temple about it. Tyrian looked to the sky, it was still freshly morning, though still a little dark due to the overcast day. He’d try and stay out until a little later after midday to see if he couldn’t get in a little more practice before he returned to the Temple.

He looked towards the periphery of the forest, his silver eyes scanning the area for the three plants he needed.

He wouldn’t delve too deep into its depths, he wasn’t a fool like his father.