1 Kizaer Verdam
The relentless force of morning surged across all creation.
The sun gradually illuminated the walls of that small town. Few of its citizens were already toiling before being graced by the touch of morning divine light. Some carried loads, others herded their animals, fishermen returned from their nocturnal catch, and a few stumbled along with the remnants of alcohol, music, and the company of certain ladies.
The movement was scarce, silent, and timid, yet that small town exuded life.
In a modest thatched house in the southern part of the town, where the first rays of the sun had not yet reached, faint grunts of effort and unintelligible mutterings could be heard.
A child who had just turned eight that day was practicing military exercises even before glimpsing the sun.
"Argh… 56… my arms are burning… Argh!.. 103… I can't… 125… 159… I can't take it anymore… 210, argh… hmm… 280… I'm definitely going to die… 390… 470… Heavens, help me!.. 500!"
Kizaer Verdam, a pleasant-looking youth. His face was smooth, devoid of the infantile features and baby fat. His gaze was strangely firm for someone of his age, with emerald eyes. His hair was a shade of black, with a few nearly imperceptible strands of fiery red. Standing at a height of 1.40 meters, he was average among his peers. His body wasn't fully muscular, but the contours were visible. His hands bore scars and calluses, as if belonging to an adult who toiled tirelessly in the fields.
*Plaft* – Kizaer collapsed onto the sweat-soaked ground. His lungs gasped for air as desperately as a compulsive gambler sought money to keep betting.
"Get up," a stern voice echoed.
"Try to rise and complete your morning exercises, Kizaer!" roared a deep, gruff voice.
"I can't take it anymore, Grandpa! Today is my birthday, and you promised to ease up on my morning exercises!" protested young Kizaer.
"Humph! I'm already easing your burden by allowing you to complete only one-third of the repetitions. Now pull yourself together and finish the thousand repetitions. Then switch to Training Form No. 7 and do another thousand repetitions. Don't forget the Special Breathing Exercise I taught you, and you'll be excused from your duties." A smile that resembled a death threat crept across the corner of Kizaer's grandfather's face. "Consider it my birthday gift to you," he said with a firm, weathered voice that brooked no questioning of his orders.
"The Heavens have no eyes! I've been forced to do these exercises since I was five! What did I do in my past life to deserve this horrible karma? Someone save me from the clutches of this executioner!"
*Pah* – The sound of a sharp slap punctuated Kizaer's rant.
"Ouch!" Kizaer cried out, frantically rubbing his back in a contorted position.
"Shut that rebellious mouth and finish your exercises. As a form of discipline, I'm revoking the 'relief' you would have received on your birthday," admonished Kizaer's grandfather after the slap.
"Please, have mercy, my Great Grandfather!" Kizaer quickly pleaded. "Master of the great arts and possessor of profound wisdom, how could this unworthy and insignificant I possibly vex someone as magnanimous and merciful as you, Oh Incomparable…"
"SHUT UP!" roared the old man, annoyed. "You little rascal, if it weren't for me raising you, but some other family, after finding you wandering the alleys and eating scraps of whatever you came across, you'd surely have taken the position of a family patriarch due to your cunning ways. Get back to your exercise, and this time, keep your beak shut. That's an order!" Grandfather said, slowly raising one of his hands, almost subconsciously, with his palm wide open, as if it were choosing which part of Kizaer's body to strike on its own.
"Yes, immediately, Grandfather." Kizaer replied hastily and diligently resumed his exercises. Although it was an excruciating task, his small body had grown accustomed to those repetitions. All the suffering and grumbling were merely part of his little act, an attempt to "soften" the stubborn old man's stony heart. To think that all the effort, sweat, and tears had been in vain…
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A few hours later…
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*Knock, knock, knock*. Soft taps echoed on the old wooden door of Kizaer's house, which seemed like it would collapse into pieces at any moment.
"Mr. Bandolen, young Kizaer, good morning!" A sweet voice came from behind that shameful excuse for a door. "Have the morning exercises finished?" There was a zealous and maternal concern in that gentle voice.
"Oh, Hoho, good morning." Old Rymann said, opening the decrepit piece of wood that passed for a door. "How beautiful the mornings become with your presence, young Mayare. I've told you many times: Call me Rymann, not Mr. Bandolen. Otherwise, it sounds like we're at least two generations apart." The old man corrected, his face flushed with excitement.
"Hehe, how could I do that and disrespect Mr. Bandolen's seniority?" Mayare insisted politely, accustomed to this scene every morning.
"shameless old thing…" Kizaer muttered quietly to himself, his voice so low it could be compared to a mouse's squeak.
*Pah!* – Suddenly, the sound of a sharp slap.
"Ouch!" Kizaer cried out, frantically rubbing his back as he squirmed.
"Dare to repeat what you said, and I'll make you do so many exercise repetitions that you'll wish you were dead before they're over!" Old Rymann bellowed.
"Hehe." Mayare laughed, used to witnessing the strange interaction between grandfather and grandson. "Well, I'll leave this basket of morning fruits to brighten your day. Enjoy!" Mayare said, leaving a small basket on the doorstep and departing without attempting to understand the reason behind the commotion.
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A few moments later…
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"Grandfather, I'm going." Kizaer bid farewell after eating some of the fruits that Mayare had brought him, and he rushed out of the house, nearly tearing off what was called a door—a thing that resembled the lid of an old coffin.
"Don't get into trouble, you little rascal," replied the old man, part annoyed and part filled with… jubilant thoughts about Miss Mayare.
Kizaer sprinted through the narrow streets of the southern part of the city, heading westward toward the Martial Arts School of Free Feathers. There, children and young people gathered to learn about the practice and manipulation of the Flux, as well as the history and deeds of great warriors and the origins of the city they called home.
