Heartstone

The air around Arthur's homestead buzzed with preparation. Smoke from the massive cooking pots curled into the afternoon sky, carrying the aroma of hearty soups and spices.

Brea, clad in a simple apron, stirred a large cauldron alongside Arthur's wife, Mira. Their hands moved with swift precision, chopping, stirring, seasoning, and tasting. Dozens of pots bubbled over open flames, feeding the hungry and the displaced. Children darted between the legs of adults, sneaking bread and smiling at the stern-yet-kind Mira.

Brea wiped the sweat from her brow. "We'll need to fill every stomach tonight," she said. "They'll need strength for tomorrow."

Mira nodded. "Arthur says the fight is coming fast. It might be our last big meal before the storm."

Meanwhile, on the training field, Reu was demonstrating basic sword techniques to a group of capable yet skeptical townsfolk. His voice carried across the clearing, sharp and confident.

"Step with your left. Pivot on your heel. Bring the weight into your strike! Again!"

But among the murmurs, discontent was brewing.

A stocky young man on his 30's spat at the ground. "How can this be? What can a teenager possibly teach us?"

Reu turned calmly, still holding his sword at his side. "I am twenty-four," he replied, voice cold and steady, "and I've fought more battles than you've seen in your lifetime."

The man sneered. "Shut up! I could knock you out with a single blow."

With a grin, Reu sheathed his sword. "Hmm. How about we try it?"

The man cracked his knuckles, his fists clenched tight. "You'll regret this."

"C'mon," Reu said, beckoning him forward.

The man lunged with a wild, heavy punch, but Reu merely sidestepped, graceful and composed.

"Ahaha! You look like a little girl chasing butterflies," Reu taunted.

Another furious swing came, but again Reu dodged with ease. With a quick spin, he delivered a swift kick to the man's rear, sending him tumbling face-first into the dirt. The crowd burst into laughter.

Reu raised a hand to quiet them, then reached out to help the man up.

"No shame in learning," he said. "Take my hand."

But the man, humiliated and red-faced, ignored the offer. Instead, he crawled toward a nearby wooden rake, eyes burning with shame and rage.

Reu raised an eyebrow. "How do you expect to fight with a rake?"

The man growled and rushed him. In a blink, Reu blurred forward, his movements too fast to follow. The rake was gone from the man's grip.

"But," Reu said, now holding the weapon pointed back at him, "it becomes dangerous in the hands of someone trained."

The man froze, stunned.

Reu turned to the watching crowd. "If you want to retake Gursh, start by gripping your weapons like you mean it. Train like your lives depend on it—because they do."

The crowd stood straighter. Even the arrogant man, though ashamed, had a glimmer of newfound respect—mixed with resentment—in his eyes.

Elsewhere, near a shaded sparring circle, Toby and Arthur were locked in a brutal match. Their fists met with loud thuds, sweat flying from each blow. No powers. No weapons. Just raw strength and grit.

"Add power to your punches, Toby! Don't hold back!" Arthur barked, dodging and countering.

Toby grit his teeth, his arms sore and body aching. Arthur was a wall of experience, impossible to overcome. Each time Toby attacked, Arthur evaded and struck back with expert precision.

But Toby didn't give up. With a desperate move, he vanished and flickered behind Arthur, his fist aimed at his mentor's back.

Arthur ducked.

"Too slow."

His fist sank into Toby's gut, and the younger fighter crumpled to the ground. The onlookers gasped, then erupted into applause. Even the children clapped.

Moments later, Toby opened one eye. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Arthur laughed heartily. "Nope. You're too kind to kill. But remember this, Toby: power alone won't win battles. Your heart and your mind must lead, and your power should follow."

Toby, still groaning in pain, grinned. "Noted, Arthur."

Arthur offered him a hand. "Be strong, Toby. If you want to achieve your dreams, this is just the start."

Far to the south, at the Lunas base, tension hung in the air.

Killi stood beside his sister, Killa, who winced as she touched the tightly bandaged stump where her left shoulder had once been. Blood had long stopped flowing, but the pain—both physical and emotional—still burned hot.

"Damn that John Blackheart," she growled, her voice laced with venom. "Even in death, he crippled me. He stole more than flesh—he stole my pride."

"It had to be done, sister," Killi said softly, his voice heavy with guilt. "If I hadn't intervened, you would have been lost."

Killa's eyes gleamed with fire, her jaw clenched. "One good arm is all I need to crush my enemies and bend Gursh to my will. And after that... all of Gresia shall bow."

Killi dropped to one knee in solemn respect. "The paladins ready themselves for an all-out assault. Scouts report they move with haste and fury."

"Then we shall greet them with steel and fire," Killa snarled. "Ready the men. Fortify every approach. I want the buildings around the base laced with traps and the archers poised like shadows."

"They've recovered from the Helos battle," Killi noted, rising. "and the paladins, they know our tactics. A night assault might be too obvious."

Killa's lips curled into a wicked smile. "Then we turn the obvious into a lure. Let them think us predictable. Let them come hungry for blood. And then... we unleash the storm. Show them that the Lunas do not die quietly—we scream, we bleed, we bite until the end."

Killi nodded, eyes alight with fierce pride. "With pleasure, sister. We will make them regret ever stepping foot on our soil."

Back at the Paladin war camp, Junior Officer Runy Figets stood before two captains.

Under a sky streaked with crimson clouds, Runy stood atop a makeshift platform surrounded by banners flapping violently in the wind. His voice thundered over the assembled paladins. "On the third day, we march south to cleanse Gursh of the last Ashkin scum and claim final victory for our fallen brothers and sisters. No more hesitation. No more retreat."

Captain Montaro stepped forward, steel in his eyes. "I'll lead the first platoon, sir. We'll strike hard and fast."

Runy nodded sharply. "Good. Captain Fussa, you'll take the left and right flank, and guard our rear with precision. Be wary—expect traps, guerrilla tactics, hidden blades. The enemy is desperate and dangerous."

"Understood, JO," Fussa replied, her voice calm but resolute.

Runy raised his right hand. His fingers shimmered, shifting and twisting into solid iron—the unmistakable transformation granted by the Iron Heartstone. A hush fell over the troops as they watched.

"This ends now," he declared, each word like a hammer on stone, igniting fire in the hearts of every soldier within earshot.

As captains saluted and left.

Runy pulled out an echo stone. A spectral figure shimmered into view.

"Runy. The reports say the war isn't over."

"Give me a week," Runy insisted. "I'll erase every last Ashkin."

"You're running out of time."

"I won't fail, sir."

As the image faded, Runy smirked and muttered to himself, "Soon, all this... every acre, every title, every soul... will belong to me and I can't wait no more." His eyes gleamed with ambition, the shadows dancing across his hardened features as he turned away from the dying glow of the echo stone.

He pushed aside the tent flaps and stepped into the brisk night air, the cold wind biting at his cheeks, but he paid it no mind. His voice rang loud and clear across the camp. "Captains! Ready your men. Tomorrow, we march on Gursh! The sun will rise to witness our victory!"

The two captains responded in unison. "Understood, sir! For glory and for vengeance!"

Runy stood tall, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight, his fist glowing faintly as if sensing the bloodshed to come. He stared into the distance, toward Gursh, and whispered, "Let the age of Runy begin."

At Arthur's camp, a crowd gathered as he gave a rousing speech.

"Tomorrow, before the first light, we march to the Lunas. When they fall, the paladins will have no reason to stay. Gursh will be ours again!"

A roar erupted from the mob.

Behind him stood the trio and Enci.

"I want to come," Enci said, stepping forward with a determined look in his eyes. His small hands were clenched at his sides, and though his voice trembled slightly, there was no mistaking the resolve behind his words.

"Nope," Brea replied gently, shaking her head. "Tomorrow's battlefield is no place for a child—or for someone like me. I'll be more useful keeping everyone fed and safe back here."

Reu nodded, crossing his arms. "She's right, kid. This fight—it's going to be brutal. You've got a brave heart, but war doesn't spare the brave. It chews them up."

Toby crouched beside Enci, lowering himself to the boy's level. He smiled, trying to ease the tension in Enci's tight shoulders. "Don't worry. We'll kick every ass that stands in our way. Every sword we cross, every trap we disarm—it's all for Gursh... and for your father."

Enci's voice cracked as he whispered, "Just... please. Save my father. Don't let him die out there."

Toby placed a firm hand on the boy's head, steady and warm. His voice was low but resolute. "You got it. I promise. On my life, we'll bring him back—or we'll make sure he knows you never gave up on him."

As night fell, the final preparations were made. Gursh's fate would be decided with the dawn.