Denor awoke sporadically throughout the day, and on one such groggy occasion, he was quite certain he heard his grandfather having a chat with Ledo just outside the cabin. Later that afternoon, the question itching at his brain, he decided to ask.

Tycho, in his usual pragmatic manner, nodded. "Yes, Ledo did come from the south with rather grim news. The village, it seems, has been thoroughly wiped off the map. Our scouts found no lingering invaders. They did what they could—burned the bodies and salvaged what was left from the ruins. If only we had listened to the chief scout and checked the bodies were dead first. Oh well, easy come easy go."

Denor, in a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to sit up straight, locked eyes with his grandfather. "I’m going to find the people who did this, grandfather. They have been a cancer on this planet, and I am the…" His face screwed up in a supreme act of concentration. “Grandfather, what’s the thing that kills cancer?”

Tycho's sigh was the kind that only grandfathers with too much experience and too little patience could muster. "Denor, even after the scouts sifted through the rubble and asked around in New Titania, nobody has the faintest idea who these attackers are. They weren’t regular Trunians. Chasing them would be pure folly."

“You make my plan sound bad. All I have to do is acquire a ship, learn how to pilot it, blast off into space, and then attack the Trunian fleet until I come across the right ship.”

Tycho frowned at him but said nothing.

"Plus they had these weird snakes coming out of their shielding. I bet their space ship does too! Do you know any group that uses such a bizarre technique?"

“Weird snakes? That’s pure evil!”

Denor’s eyes lit up. “So you know about the people who did this?”

Tycho paused, pondering and watching the boy’s rapt engagement, then shook his head slowly. "People with weird snakes? No, none that I’ve ever encountered. I just wanted attention."

Denor frowned, his youthful determination not yet extinguished. “I could still find them. I just need to look really hard for weird snakes.”

"I’ve journeyed through many lands, Denor, and I’ve never heard of these ‘weird snakes’ you’re so fixated on."

“What about Vernia? Did they have weird snakes?”

“I’m not that old!” growled Tycho, with a sigh after that implied he was humorously resigned to the inevitable. He brought his grandson a bowl of stew, if for not other reason than to shut him up. It was a great improvement over what his own son had ever managed to concoct. He also loosened the bandages just enough for Denor’s newly healed hands to emerge. "Eat up, and I’ll tell you about Vernia. If only to put an end to this nonsense about weird snakes."

“But I’m not finished talking about weird…”

“Oh yes you are!” Tycho replied, bulldozing over the top of this dangerous fixation early so he didn’t have to hear about it for the rest of the day.

"You’ve been to the lost empire?"

The older man scowled. "I told you, I'm not that ancient, Denor! Vernia and its star empire fell long before most of the other empires even existed. It was an terrible place, they say. Swing a dead cat and you'd hit a necromancer or three. Put four of them in a hut and you've got a dozen evil plots hatched. A terrible people looking to conquer the universe. So they created this thing of power—a mask. And they gave it to their god-king, or whatever they called him. He and his hordes cut a swath... well, from what you and Ledo said, you know already what that’s like. But imagine entire planets falling, Denor, instead of villages. Peoples wiped off the face of the known galaxy."

The boy nodded, his eyes fixed on his grandfather's weathered face, searching for any hint of deception. He spooned the stew into his mouth, chewed absentmindedly, and wiped the spilled liquid away with the back of his hand. Denor was a messy eater, but Tycho was used to only half his stew finding the boy’s mouth at the best of times.

"As the tales go," began Tycho, his voice threading through the chilly air like a cautious loose thread with an audience of precisely one idiot, "great fleets of ships from all corners of the galaxy banded together, led by some other ancient empire with more time on their hands than sense, and smashed Vernia’s power into so many pieces you’d need a very good map to find it all. They took the mask, broke it into bits, and each contingent got a piece, hiding them like squirrels hiding nuts, hoping no one would ever be daft enough to piece it back together and unleash another round of cosmic headaches."

Denor, meanwhile, was wrestling with an unexpected piece of cartilage that had sneaked its way into his stew. His brow furrowed like a field ready for planting, but apparently the crop wasn’t going to be ‘sensible questions’. "How does anyone know about the mask?" he asked.

Tycho’s smile twisted. "Ah, lad, you’ll find there are always people with noses longer than their good sense, poking into things best left alone. They learn secrets they’ve no business knowing and then find it terribly hard to keep their mouths shut. Mark my words, you'll meet some of them in your life. Possibly when you look in a mirror."

Denor’s spoon halted halfway to his mouth. "Why would anyone else be in my mirror, grandfather? I know what a reflection is."

Tycho sighed, this conversation was going to get harder before it got any better. "No, lad, never you mind. People are always on the lookout for power, and some are sniffing around for Vernia's secrets. This latest upstart is undoubtedly one of them. Let’s hope that if he’s up to no good, the devils get him before he spills more blood."

"It isn’t devils he should worry about," Denor said, handing his grandfather the empty bowl. "More, please. And a favor."

Tycho returned from the stove with more stew, his eyebrows doing a little jig of curiosity at his grandson’s display of what could charitably be called ‘thought’. "What is it, boy?"

Denor took a deep breath, attempting to arrange this new and mysterious concept in an order that a human with a Non-Denor mind could comprehend. "I can't find and kill these people."

Tycho's eyebrows, having finished their jig, now shot up in surprise. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said in a while.”

Denor nodded, blissfully ignorant of the insult. "I need your help. My father taught me a lot about fighting. You taught him even more about advancement. I need to know everything."

Tycho raised an eyebrow, which was getting quite the workout today. "Are you sure you want to go down this path, boy? It’s a treacherous one, and has little resemblance to all those fanciful stories you’ve heard."

"If you don't teach me, I'll find someone else who will. Someone less competent."

The old man pondered this for a moment, then sighed. "They would probably fill your head with nonsense too. Well, you saved my son, so I suppose I owe you a favor. Are you absolutely certain there’s no talking you out of this?"

"I will take revenge, but I must get stronger!" Denor declared with the fervor of someone who had just found a new favorite catchphrase, sending bits of stew flying.

Tycho rubbed a splatter of stew and cartilage off his face with the same resigned expression most people used when forced to talk to Denor. “You will do everything I say,” he replied, his tone brooking no argument, “and you’ll do it just as I tell you, understood?”

Denor sighed, hearing Ledo's words echoed in his grandfather's voice. "Yes, grandfather."

"Very well. We'll start after you’ve finished your stew." Tycho stood up, his back creaking like an old door. "I’ll tell you all about the forms and the styles. Then we’ll get down to some serious training."

***

The portable heater valiantly battled the merciless winter chill, sending flickering shadows of intermittent power dancing across Tycho's weathered visage. Across from him, Denor, a mop of blonde curls eternally plastered to his forehead, sat with eyes wide in anticipation.

"Alright, lad," Tycho rasped, his voice like gravel in a blender, "you've pestered me enough. Now that you’re all patched up, we shall begin to unravel the mysteries of The Path."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Denor edged closer, nearly vibrating with excitement at this capitalisation. He’d been gnashing his teeth in frustration ever since Ledo’s attempts to teach him were cruelly interrupted. Now both men were arrayed before him like a pair of grim tutors saddled with an unpleasant task, an accurate summation on account of Denor being there.

Ledo chuckled, a sound as dry as old parchment and clearly competing with Tycho for ‘grizzled veteran’ status. "First up, there's the Iron. The weakest link. They can barely channel aura, their punches as fierce as a kitten’s batting. Most of the men in our village were Irons, which is why the sorcerer and his cronies sliced through them like butter."

Denor wrinkled his nose. "I thought Andronian men were strong?"

Tycho snorted. "The ones who venture into space, yes. The rest? Utterly useless. We don’t tell them that though, as they’re strong compared to the average person, and a man with a punctured ego isn’t much use as a warrior."

“That’s an understatement,” Ledo chimed in, though Denor saw the pain lurking in his eyes.

“Through sheer grit or dumb luck, the braver souls reach the Jade stage,” Tycho continued, nodding to Ledo for the next part, like they had practiced this routine carefully.

“Now, that’s where things start to sparkle, lad. Aura begins to condense, forming a Jade Core deep within. Punches turn into hammer blows, and they can sense power levels around them."

Denor’s eyes lit up. "Sense it? Without a reader?"

"Not far off," Tycho conceded, another hint of surprise showing at Denor's rare moment of insight. "But their control is still shoddy. Like a sieve trying to hold water."

Denor frowned. "Sieves aren't very good at holding water, are they?"

"Exactly! Which is why they strive for the next stage: Lowgold. The core solidifies, control tightens. They can shape their aura into basic tools – swords, shields, maybe even a walking stick with a bit of bite."

Denor's jaw dropped, eyeing the man’s stick. "You mean that..."

Tycho smirked. "Yes, I made it there. Not exactly the useless old man I pretend to be, am I? But a Lowgold's just a child playing with a stick compared to a Highgold. Here's where things get fancy, lad. They can compress their aura into madra, a potent substance that lets them unleash incredible techniques."

“What are aura and madra?” he asked, and was immediately greeted with a sigh by Ledo.

Tycho smiled. “Aura is the energy surrounding objects and things that you can obtain. Madra is when you absorb that energy and create something useful from it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ledo ran a face over his hand. “Look, son, Aura is just another name for the energy that comes off stuff. Madra is you using that energy to do things.”

Denor looked blankly at his father.

“Okay, for the last time. Look at me closely, Denor,” Tycho said, waving his stick at him to gain his attention. “Aura is food and drink. Madra is the energy you get from that for your techniques.”

Denor leaned forward, enthralled. "Techniques? Like fireballs or invisibility?"

"Fireballs, lad, certainly, a Highgold can do all kinds of things with enough creativity. Makes for some right spectacular brawls, I tell you."

Denor's breath hitched. "Brawls? With all that power?"

Tycho's eyes twinkled. "The best kind, lad, provided your own shield holds of course. But even a Highgold ain't the peak, that’s just what I hit. There's rumored to be levels beyond that. Truegold, Underlord, Overlord… The Path never truly ends. Some stories claim there's hidden stages beyond even that – a Monarch, they’ve decided to collectively call it. Makes a mockery of even the strongest Overlords in the central systems, that's for sure."

Denor sighed, a mixture of awe and longing in his voice. "A Monarch? Sounds like something out of legends."

Ledo rolled his eyes, watching the boy completely entranced in the stories his own father was spinning him. Nobody had seen the power of a Truegold in generations, let alone this talk of lords and monarchs. “Oh father, you and your stories. ‘Monarch comes after Overlord. My medicine man is overcharging me. This thing on my back keeps getting larger.’”

Tycho eyed his son and scowled at the visible incredulity, a low rumble in his chest. "Legends and stories they may be, lad, but there's always a sliver of truth in every tale. Now, enough talk. This heater is dying a death, and so is the light. Time for an old man to chat to your father about the latest scouting reports then get some shut-eye. Remember, The Path starts with a single step. You interested in taking yours?"

Denor's eyes shone with determination. "More than anything, Grandfather."

Tycho's smile, though faint, held a flicker of pride. "Good. Because tomorrow, we start your training."

With that, he got down to discussing important matters with Ledo, and Denor drifted off into a sleep that was filled with fanciful dreams of flying and fireballs.

***

They stood on the frozen outskirts of the village, a delicate sprinkle of snow attaching itself to them in real-time, like nature's own rather enthusiastic dusting. "Patience, Denor, that's the key," Tycho rasped, his voice now sounding like a dynamite and a quarry doing a tango across his larynx, having thoroughly trounced his own son in the grizzle-off from the previous night. He now stood across from Denor, hunched over in a posture that resembled nothing close to the fighting style Ledo had shown him. "Understanding the toll of power takes finesse, not brute force."

“Can’t I have both?” Denor asked.

Tycho sighed, the boy was much too eager.

Denor, eager as an eager puppy that was particularly eager with eagerness, shifted his weight, but his tongue didn’t loll out of his mouth to complete the analogy. This time. "I am ready for anything you teach me, grandfather."

Tycho straightened, his rheumy eyes flashing with a spark of ancient mischief. "Ready, you say? Then respect the wisdom that comes with age, you over-eager child! Power, especially the kind you plan on wielding, is a fickle mistress that takes time to control. The higher you climb the sacred arts, the more it seeps into your very being."

He gestured towards his home, where Ledo was once more facing his greatest nemesis: cooking breakfast. "Why do you think your father is playing housewife instead of conquering the stars? He understood the toll it takes on a man’s mind."

Denor leaned closer, intrigued, as if proximity could grant him the wisdom hidden within the walls of the house, a feat at which he failed miserably on account of the house stubbornly refusing to pass wisdom through osmosis.

"As you progress," Tycho continued after Denor’s attention resumed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "your increasing energies not only strengthen your body but twist your mind. A brain encased in an Iron body is a bit eccentric, but nothing terrible. A Jade's focus can turn into an obsession. As you go further up the food chain, you’ll meet increasingly bizarre individuals. The power changed them, not just the illusion of having power over the greater universe, but their mind rebelling against the changes they have pushed their body through."

Denor frowned. He’d heard whispers of crazed sorcerers succumbing to paranoia, and he had seen Litarn teetering on the edge of madness when captured. But surely, he was different, right?

"Grandfather," he argued, "I control my mind. It doesn't control me."

For most young men, this would be a foolish statement, but since Denor had so little mind to control in the first place, it was actually feasible.

Tycho snorted, sending a dusting of snow cascading from his beard. "Control? You naive whelp. It's a symbiotic relationship. You shape the energies to do as you will, and in turn, they shape you. They whisper promises of power, dull your inhibitions, warp your very perception."

A cold dread pooled in Denor's stomach. He craved power, yearned to reach a stage high enough to make those who destroyed his village pay, but not at the cost of his sanity.

"Is there… a way to resist?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Tycho's gaze softened, a rare sight on his gruff face. "There is balance, young Denor. Discipline. You must not just control your energies but understand them too. Respect your power, but don't let it consume you. Remember that, and you might just end up a little eccentric, like me. Now, let’s see what Ledo has made of you! This should only take an hour."

Denor, for all his youthful optimism, had briefly entertained the absurd notion that his grandfather, Tycho, might be joking. This whimsical fantasy was swiftly banished within the hour. By the time the first rooster had even thought about clearing its throat, Denor was already exhausted, standing still only when commanded to do peculiar exercises that seemed designed by someone with an advanced degree in the field of Sadistic Torture.

There was precious little sword-wielding involved in this so-called training, which irked Denor to no end since Ledo had rescued his sword and he was itching to use it. This was until he finally grasped the lunatic method behind his grandfather's palpable madness. Tycho's philosophy was simple: first, break the boy's spirit and body, then mold what’s left into something useful. Denor's morning began with the glamorous task of hauling water, shifting stones, and running with added weights—bags filled with stones or pieces of old armor strapped to his young, aching frame. It was a delightful symphony of grunts, groans, and gasps for breath.

Finally, after an eternity (which the fickle mistress known as ‘Time’ insisted was only an hour), the moment Denor had been yearning for arrived: combat training. But it came with a cruel twist. "Remember what your father taught you, for his lessons came from me!" Tycho bellowed. "A sword is just a metal spike. A warrior’s true weapon is his body. No matter how sharp the sword, it's useless without a capable hand to wield it. We are going to build Iron with you, Denor, so that you may wield the metal of the sword as an extension of yourself!"

With that, the old man proceeded to teach Denor every single trick, move, and underhanded technique he'd picked up over a lifetime of adventuring and brawling—plus a few he seemed to invent on the spot. Tycho, despite seeming at least four times Denor's age, handled his grandson as if he were a particularly floppy rag doll. Denor had once accused his father of unfair fighting, but Ledo's methods were the epitome of sportsmanship compared to Tycho’s brutal onslaught. Kicks, punches, headbutts, and elbow strikes became the order of the day, and Denor found himself intimately acquainted with the snowy ground. Well, that was going to happen regardless of what he was doing, but even more so than usual while doing this particular training.

As has been established though, our young hero is tenacious in his single-mindedness, and started fighting back as best he could, even landing a few punches and kicks. Tycho, however, seemed unhurt, not because Denor was pulling his punches, but because the old man moved with the speed and agility of a much younger warrior. As the minutes dragged on, Denor's strikes grew more frequent and his ability to parry improved.

Tycho called a halt. "Good. It seems like my son has taught you the fundamentals well enough."

Denor, doubled over and gasping for air, looked up. "Is that how you taught my father?"

"Like this? No," Tycho replied, straightening up. "I was much harsher because I didn’t want him following in my footsteps. Now, I want you to fetch some herbs for my joints from my local ‘medicine man’. Do that, and we’ll start working with the sword."

Denor, elated by the prospect, sprinted off, falling only a few times in his eagerness. He knew that the sooner he mastered swordplay, the sooner he could avenge his people. When he returned with the herbs, he found the room cleared of furniture. In the middle stood both Tycho and Ledo, and their fists were taped up.

"Hello?" Denor ventured, dropping the herbs and looking puzzled.

"Now the training really begins," Tycho declared, and the two men advanced on him.

“Why? What’s going to happen now?” Denor asked with the innocence of a boy who hadn’t just been pummeled to death by his immediate family.

This was probably going to change very soon.