On a small and distinctly chilly planet in the Andron system, tucked away in the far reaches of the Outer Rim of core space, there existed a modest patch of habitable land on the seventh planet in the system. Here resided the last of the Andronians, a people as resilient and capable as they were, on a cosmic scale, thoroughly unremarkable. Except for one tiny, yet rather significant detail: they were the only beings in the known universe graced by the trickster god Tamet.

You see, an Andronian needed just a smidgen of luck, and for centuries, their mischievous deity Tamet had bestowed varying doses of it upon them at birth. This whimsical lottery of fortune meant that eventually, someone would come along who was luckier than anyone else in history, and through an improbably fortuitous mishap involving a dabble in sorcery, this individual would become The Infamous Denor Kara.

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, deemed it necessary to subject us to a brief yet crucial bout of monotony.

Before the curtain rises on the fantastical exploits of this Chosen One, we must first trudge through the obligatory prologue of normalcy – a respite of relatability before the impending tsunami of extraordinary events, involving powers and improbable heroism. Let's start with his patriarchal precursor, because even legends have to begin somewhere.

Ledo was, by all accounts, a decidedly average mechanic. He was the son of Tycho, a crotchety old goat of a man who could out-grumble a stormcloud. Ledo was as adept with a weapon as any other Andronian—a skill about as rare and prestigious as finding sand on a beach. However, Ledo had a certain meticulousness, a tendency to keep a watchful eye on the young men of his settlement, measuring them with the precision of someone who had nothing better to do. Nobody grumbled about it, though, because Ledo had a reputation: he was going to craft a blaster for each of them.

Now, these weren’t just any blasters; they were tailored to fit each boy in stock length and personality, making them as integral as a third arm. Rumors whispered through the surrounding sectors claimed that Andronians were born with blasters. Ledo knew this was a gross exaggeration, bordering on outright fabrication. The truth was, it all came down to craft and training. If luck was on their side, and the trickster god Tamet was feeling particularly lazy, their blaster cells wouldn’t fuse at a critical moment. Ledo smiled at the thought of Tamet, the celestial prankster. All any man could hope for while hurtling through the stars was a bit of luck and not dying a horrible death in the vacuum of space. That would be useful too.

In a circle of packed snow, a dozen young men, some showing the first signs of manhood, trained together. Two soldiers circled them, keeping order with the ease of shepherds herding particularly slow-witted sheep. The young men's training blasters rose and shone in the cool winter sun as they took aim at their more skilled adversaries. The soldiers dodged the boys' blasts with all the effort of a man avoiding an obligation, their enhanced shielding techniques creating protective bubbles of crackling energy. When the boys were exhausted, the soldiers raised their hands and picked them off, stunning them with bolts from their fingertips. The boys, who had thought learning with blasters was just a game, were quickly disabused of that notion, left sprawled in the snow in various states of comedic contortion.

Only the survivors would be smiling when the soldiers' stunning bolts were exhausted. After all, even seasoned warriors didn’t have enough energy to take out all the youngsters. They moved in a varied dance of unison—some awkwardly, some confidently, some boldly enough to add a roll or feint before firing. Looking at one another with the impressionability of youth, intent on impressing their peers. Adding to their desire to preen and grow in power, and ultimately distracting them from their concentration, were groups of laughing girls standing just inside the heat zone of the dilapidated houses. This was also part of the process. Any fool distracted by a pretty lady while under fire deserved to be humbled, no matter how many may throw themselves his way.

Ledo shook his head slowly at the memory of his deceased wife and how impressed she had been with his youthful skills. He was a small man with a bald head and a finely oiled beard. The oil wasn’t intentional, but he styled it to pretend otherwise. Despite the constant late autumn cold, he wore no padded jacket, and though he was relatively small, his arms were thick with muscle, his fingers deftly constructing his latest project.

The chuckle of the boy caught Ledo's attention, but he didn't turn around, not at first. Turning around would mean losing his concentration and encouraging the behavior. And Denor didn’t need any encouragement; he already had more ideas above his station than a pigeon trying to become an eagle. His father didn’t have the heart to tell him that this particular analogy was more likely to happen than Denor fulfilling his dreams.

At his rate of development, Denor would make an adequate janitor, a poor farmer, and an exceptional village idiot. Two of these were necessary and encouraged, since the boy would never be a gunsmith, but the latter seemed most likely. When Tamet was handing out blessings at birth, Denor had missed the dexterity part entirely, possibly because he was too busy falling out of his crib.

The power level readers didn’t lie. The boy consistently registered zero, to his father’s eternal shame, and would never be a warrior fit to fight against the invading hordes of Temrit and Trunians. Slowly, Ledo looked over. There, in front of the circle where the young men were fighting, Denor was imitating their movements and making a right hash of it. His finger, which his imagination had transformed into an Andronian blaster, sent imaginary bolts flying through the air with a pitiful pinging sound. Denor ducked and turned and repeatedly fell in the snow, then brought the imaginary pistol back in a clumsy backward movement that his father had long since accepted as utterly humiliating.

Fortunately, Denor's reputation preceded him, and even those who once mocked him had slid from pity to gradual disinterest. Ledo ran a hand over his beard in barely-contained exasperation, getting it covered in even more oil in the process. Denor's movements did not mimic those of the young men; on the contrary, his awkwardness was a parody of their agility. Where they shifted swiftly and with certainty, Denor’s motions were slow and hesitant. The boy would have easily died in a real combat scenario, and everyone knew it but Denor, who seemed blissfully oblivious to reality at the best of times.

A familiar anger swelled in Ledo's chest, but he suppressed it. He couldn’t afford to make Denor any more useless than he already was. If the drill instructors caught him doing this, Ledo’s humiliation would be the talk of the village. He straightened his face, frowned in his best attempt at paternal disapproval, and marched over.

"What sort of trouble are you brewing in that ingenious little mind of yours?"

Denor's fingers shook like leaves in a breeze as he sheepishly lowered his invisible blaster, peering at his palms with confusion before breaking into a warm, if slightly vacuous, smile aimed squarely at the mechanic. "Hi, Ledo! Um, just… waiting. For… stuff."

"Look, Denor," the man sighed, his voice heavy with the weariness of dealing with particularly enthusiastic but talentless offspring. "Did I send you into training with the rest of the boys? No. I sent you for a power converter, the boring, reliable kind that keeps this here blaster from detonating in the face of its user. Now, before you try any more embarrassing attempts at keeping up with your elders, remember who you're addressing. It's 'father,' Denor, not Ledo. Now do as I command!"

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Denor's face turned pale as he frantically gestured toward the pile of converters, his voice trembling like a leaf in a hurricane: "I wasn’t trying to train. Uh, I mean, maybe we could, uh, just use one of these instead? Please, Ledo? Pretty please with a power converter on top?"

"Your aim was off as usual, Denor, but a few more years and you’ll be a capable soldier," Ledo replied, proving once again that children will believe a bald-faced lie if it’s delivered with enough confidence. "I hand you a task so uncomplicated even the rusted hinges on the workshop door could manage it, only to discover it gathering dust while you indulge in an impromptu demonstration of ' Advanced Hand Waving for Beginners.' Tell me, son, did you honestly believe your flailing would somehow coax plasma bolts out of thin air? You sound as ridiculous as one of those Trunian sorcerers in your grandfather's completely fabricated and totally untrue stories."

Denor stared open-mouthed at this tirade, letting his hands flop to his sides like a pair of startled fish collectively realizing they weren't actually attached to his elbows anymore. "Ledo, sir," Denor stammered, his voice tripping over itself. "I wasn't, er, practicing or anything! Just...observing the others, that's all." He shot a nervous glance at the group of young men, their muscles straining as they ducked and dodged in the snow.

Ledo sighed. He beckoned his son closer, momentarily ignoring the gnawing frustration at Denor's stubborn refusal to call him anything but Ledo. "Denor," he began, his voice gentling a fraction, "those lads you're ogling aren't just a bunch of flashy warriors-to-be. They've put in the years, the sweat, the pain, to earn their place in this village. You, on the other hand, seem more interested in daydreaming than helping with a task. You’re jealous of them because of their age, correct?”

Denor reluctantly nodded, but when he started to speak, his father cut him off.

"That just means they're closer to death from a Temrit raid than you are," Ledo continued, completely ignoring any potential protestations as he cupped his son's neck in his rough, oil-streaked hands. "You have it in you to be a great soldier one day, my son, to finally beat back the Temrit and Trunian invaders. You can be more than just a petty scoundrel from a faraway world. But not today; today you’re still too young, and you have chores that befit your station."

Denor’s eyes lit up at the idea of being a petty scoundrel, but then he realized what Ledo had just told him. "I’m already faster than many of those boys out there! I can beat them in a draw, and I can beat them in a foot race!"

Of the various lies told that month in the village, this one won the prize for the most brazen and inaccurate. Fortunately, Ledo had a few brain cells that weren’t fermenting in alcohol, and his eyes to confirm just how awful his son was at fabrication. Tamet would be appalled, praise be to the trickster god.

"Denor, enough."

"Enough? If it were enough, I wouldn't be sitting on this cold rock in the backwoods," Denor grumbled in response, flinching as his father raised a hand to him.

"Enough," Ledo repeated, pointing to the small pile of converters amidst the rest of the junk. "Search that pile. There might be one I need if you’re lucky. Then check the perimeter defenses. Be quick. Winter is approaching and night will soon be upon us," he intoned ominously, a line that was clearly foreshadowing but completely ignored by his son.

"Yes, Ledo." Denor's head tilted forward, but he looked up with his green eyes through his blonde curls, trying desperately to hide a grin from his face. "It's just that I want to be ready to defend our settlement from the red-skinned Temrit invaders."

Ledo raised an eyebrow. Patriotism? Hardly. The boy was trying to play him, a useful trait in a devotee of Tamet, but annoying in an actual son. Well, in this case it was more annoying than difficult, as the boy had also apparently been eating paste in the corner when their lord had been doling out guile.

"I want to be a great warrior!" Denor declared, his shrill voice echoing off the walls of their modest workshop.

Ledo looked up from his bench, where he was meticulously adjusting the sight on a newly forged blaster. "And I want to be a sky-diving Aurox with bolts shooting out my eyes, but you don't see me flapping about like a lunatic, do you?"

Denor furrowed his brow, a process that took some time and considerable effort. "But Father, I have the heart of a warrior!"

"Even if you did have the heart of a warrior, you've still got the brains of a snowdrift," Ledo replied, not unkindly, but with the resigned tone of someone who had had this conversation one too many times. He knew Denor wouldn’t listen, so the insults were old and worn like good gun steel, and more for his own benefit than his son’s.

Denor puffed out his chest, a motion that caused a small avalanche of snow to tumble off his head. "I can learn! I’ll train hard, and one day I’ll be the most famous fighter in all of Andron VII!"

Ledo sighed and put down his tools. He turned to face his son, his expression a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "I know you probably won’t understand, but being a great warrior isn’t just about swinging a sword or shooting a blaster. It’s about using this," he tapped his temple, "just as much as these," he held up his oil-slicked hands and clenched them into fists.

"I can think!" Denor protested. "I think all the time!"

"Yes, but your thoughts tend to wander off and get lost in the snow," Ledo replied. "Look, lad, there’s more to life than being a warrior. You could be a fine member of this community, just like your old man. There's honor in crafting something that lasts, something that saves lives rather than takes them."

"But father!" Denor's exasperated cry rent the air, as if the sheer weight of boredom was crushing his very essence. "Can't you understand? This place is suffocating me! I want valor, and daring quests, for my name to be etched upon the scroll of history alongside the legendary heroes of yore that my grandfather tells me about! Anything less is a fate worse than death!"

Ledo chuckled. "You want to be a part of stories, do you? Well, the best stories come from those who survive to tell them. And that means being smart, being prepared. You think all those great warriors you hear about just charged in without a plan? Look what happened to your young friend Charan when the Temrit invaded, and never forget how it felt to bury him yourself."

Denor’s face fell as he briefly relived the memory. "So you think I can’t do it? That I’d just end up dead like Charan or Sulas or countless others?"

It was Ledo’s turn to grimace, remembering the inexorable humour of Sulas, who had been like a brother to him. "I think you can do plenty of things if you set your mind to it, Denor. But if you want to be a warrior, then you’ve got to start by learning discipline, strategy, and patience. And you won’t learn that by rushing into battle without knowing which end of the blaster goes boom. I don’t think that is the life for you, and I can’t afford to lose you."

Denor stared at his father for a long moment, the accidental admission briefly reaching him before he returned to his singular focus. "Alright, Father. I’ll train hard. I’ll learn everything you can teach me."

Ledo sighed. "Tamet save me, you’re not going to stop, are you?"

The boy blinked, but there were no signs of thought behind those pale green eyes. "Father, when do you think I’ll be ready to fight real battles?"

Ledo looked thoughtfully at his son. "Being ready isn’t just about hitting the target. It's about knowing when to shoot and when to hold back. It's about understanding your enemy and the terrain. And most importantly, it's about knowing yourself."

Denor looked puzzled. "Knowing myself?"

Ledo groaned. "Aye, lad. Knowing your strengths and your limits. Knowing when to push forward and when to retreat. Or when to become a janitor instead of pretending to be something you’re not. The greatest warriors are the ones who are masters of themselves before they are masters of their enemies."

Denor, accustomed to reading his father's expression and barely registering these words, said nothing more and went back to sorting the converters. He didn’t even electrocute himself this time. Much.

Satisfied for the time being that this verbal onslaught was over, Ledo turned back towards the construction of his weapon and observing this planet’s version of a sport. It might have been a cold and icy backwater, but it was the best he and his son could hope for.

This boy could live a tolerable life out in these wastes long after he was gone, provided there wasn’t a series of terrible and repeated invasions like the one from six months back.

After all, the Trunians were a safe distance away, and the Temrit invasions were sporadic and usually measured in years. What were the chances of either happening any time soon, right?

Tamet was not the god of luck; he was a trickster god, and he was smiling at the gunsmith’s oblivious thoughts.