Black Sword and Fragments [Vol. 1: Unforeseen Conspiracy]

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Allastor Frauzz

The morning unfurled gently over the Kingdom of Kreo, casting a warm golden light over the small, bustling town of Irongrass. Its cobbled streets stirred with life, each corner humming with its own quiet purpose. Groups of burly men, sweat glistening on their brows, grunted and strained as they worked on building their strength—a daily ritual that echoed faintly across the town square. 

Nearby, a handful of carriage drivers leaned lazily against their vehicles, chatting in low voices as they awaited the day's first passengers. And then there were the Royal Soldiers, ever-watchful, their polished armor gleaming in the early sunlight. Their presence brought a sense of order, a fragile calm to a town that knew its peace was only as steady as the vigilance of its protectors.

In the heart of the town, there stood a grand wooden house, its timeworn beams bearing the stories of countless lives. On this tranquil morning, the heavy doors creaked open, releasing a flurry of motion as twenty children poured out, their laughter and shouts slicing through the stillness like a burst of birds taking flight. They jostled and shoved, racing one another toward the waiting carriages, their bare feet pounding against the dirt path.

Behind them, a woman stood in the doorway, her hand lingering on the edge of the weathered frame. She watched the children with a tenderness that seemed to weigh her down, her eyes following them until their small forms blurred in the distance. A wistful sigh escaped her lips, a sound caught somewhere between pride and sorrow. Her smile, though sweet, held a trace of something unspoken—an ache she kept buried beneath her calm exterior.

After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward, the hem of her plain, well-worn dress brushing against the wooden floor. Gathering her resolve, she climbed into one of the carriages with practiced ease, her movements purposeful but subdued.

As the wheels creaked and groaned to life, the carriages began their slow journey away from the wooden house, which now stood solitary against the vast expanse of green. The lady turned for one last look, her eyes softening as they lingered on the place that had sheltered so many lives. A shadow passed over her face, fleeting but undeniable, as if she carried the weight of a secret she dared not speak aloud.

The winds whispered through the open fields, rustling the tall grass in a mournful symphony. Soon, the carriages were but specks on the horizon, and the house stood silent once more. 

An hour and a half later, the stillness inside the grand wooden house was broken by an energetic cry.

"Ha! Yah!" A small boy's voice rang out, determined and full of bravado. His little fists sliced through the air with all the precision he could muster. Before his next strike, he paused, narrowing his bright, red eyes and smirking with a confidence far too large for his small frame. Then, with a shout, he launched himself into an ambitious high kick, twisting mid-air like he was born to be a warrior.

For a moment, he imagined himself unstoppable—a hero in a legend, powerful and graceful, destined to change the world. But reality had other plans. His balance faltered, and before he knew it, he landed unceremoniously on the floor with a resounding thud, his small body sprawled awkwardly on the polished wood.

“Aw, aw…” he muttered, wincing as he rubbed his bruised backside. For all his imagined glory, he was still just a child, too small to control his movements the way he dreamed. If the elders had seen him, they would have chuckled fondly and shaken their heads. To them, he was simply a boy trying to sprint before he could walk.

But Allastor Frauzz wasn’t one to dwell on failure. Sitting up, his face scrunched with determination, he whispered, “No way… I have to figure it out before I turn six! I need to feel the magicules!”

Magicules. The very essence of life in the Kingdom of Kreo. This natural energy flowed through every living thing, every rock, every blade of grass. To most, the ability to sense magicules came naturally, though only after years of patient waiting. For ordinary children, this gift arrived between the ages of nine and twelve. 

But Allastor didn’t want to be ordinary. No, he longed to join the rare few—the prodigies—who could unlock this gift by the age of six. These were the ones destined for greatness, the ones who would shape the fate of the world.

Allastor’s ash-gray hair glimmered faintly in the light streaming through the window, his vivid red eyes narrowing as he clenched his fists. He wanted to feel the magicules, to let their energy course through him, empowering him, strengthening him. And in his mind, the path was clear. Once he could manipulate that energy, nothing in the Kingdom of Kreo would stand in his way.

Still, as determined as he was, he was only five. His small frame and chubby hands betrayed his lofty ambitions. He sighed, brushing the dust from his trousers as he stood up, his shoulders drooping slightly.

“I still have time. I’m young,” he muttered, as though trying to convince himself. But then, his voice grew stronger, his eyes glinting with fire. “But if I could just become a ranker now, I could rule the Kingdom of Kreo! I could have anything I wanted! And Grandpa Allan…” His voice softened at the name. “Grandpa Allan would finally take me on his adventures when he comes home.”

He allowed himself a small smirk, the thought of traveling with his beloved grandfather lifting his spirits. But the smile didn’t last long. His gaze wandered to the stack of books near his door—thick, dusty tomes filled with the secrets of magicules and stories of legendary rankers. For a moment, he considered studying, his red eyes narrowing in determination.

“For now, I should re—”

His train of thought was derailed when something else caught his attention. High above, atop his bookshelf, rested a pair of freshly baked bread buns and a glass of milk. His stomach growled in response, and he felt his mouth water at the sight.

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging and giving himself a knowing grin, “I should eat first. Yeah, food! I can’t grow stronger on an empty stomach, right?” His voice grew more resolute as if convincing himself of this plan. “Magicules can wait! The right time will come naturally… I’m sure of it.”

He reached toward the shelf, already imagining the taste of the bread, when a familiar sound stopped him in his tracks. It was faint at first—a rhythmic clash, sharp and resonant. Wood striking wood.

His heart leapt. He knew that sound. His ears perked up as the strikes grew louder, more intense.

“A duel!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up with excitement. Forgetting the bread entirely, he darted to the window. With a practiced ease born of countless attempts, he dragged over a chair, scrambled onto it, and pressed his face against the cool glass.

There, just beyond the courtyard, he saw them—two middle-aged men locked in combat. Their wooden staves clashed with raw power, sending shockwaves of energy through the air. Allastor gulped, his hands tightening against the windowsill.

It wasn’t just a duel. It was a clash of rankers, two warriors who had mastered the magicules. Their movements were fast, fluid, and precise—everything Allastor dreamed of achieving. For a moment, his breath caught, and his heart raced with the thrill of watching them.

“This…” he whispered, his voice trembling with awe. “This is what I want to be.”

But for now, he was just a boy with dreams larger than his tiny frame. A boy who couldn’t feel the magicules, not yet. But one day, he would. One day, he would stand among them, his ash-gray hair and crimson eyes unmistakable. One day, he would be unstoppable.

The two men squared off in the clearing, their breath fogging faintly in the cool air. Logan, the man clad in scuffed rubber armor, gripped his glowing sword with unwavering determination. His opponent, Zen, held his spear at the ready, his stance solid despite the faint quiver in his arms. For a moment, the world seemed to pause as the energy between them coiled like a spring, ready to explode.

Then, with a thunderous roar, Logan propelled himself forward, the energy in his feet erupting into a violent leap.

“Sword Bash!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the clearing.

The blade of his sword shimmered with raw, bright energy as it arced toward Zen. Instinctively, Zen raised his spear, bracing for the force of the blow. The clash of their weapons sent a resounding crack through the air, and Zen gritted his teeth as the weight of Logan’s strike surged through his arms, nearly buckling him.

For the next few moments, the two men were a blur of movement, their weapons clashing with relentless speed and ferocity. Each strike sent gusts of wind rippling through the grass beneath their feet, flattening the greenery in violent waves. Logan’s expression was sharp, his smirk betraying his confidence. Meanwhile, Zen’s eyes darted, studying his opponent, looking for a flaw in his approach.

But Logan was already several steps ahead.

Bright, pulsating energy began to gather along the blade of Zen’s spear, radiating with an intensity that made Logan’s stomach churn. Sweat trickled down his brow as he realized what was happening.

“Don’t tell me…” Logan’s voice faltered, his grip tightening on his sword. “Zen, you already have that skill?!”

But Zen didn’t flinch. Instead, his smirk widened, a glint of pride flashing in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Figured it out already, and you’re still relying on your cheap tricks?” His laugh was sharp and mocking. “You’ll never beat me in strategy, Logan. Never.”

The energy along Zen’s spear grew brighter, almost blinding, and Logan’s heart thudded in his chest. He knew what was coming, but there was no stopping it now.

“Fury Strike!” Zen roared, his voice a mixture of triumph and exhilaration.

In an instant, three blurry images of Zen materialized, converging on Logan from every direction. His spear flashed forward again and again, striking Logan’s abdomen and chest in rapid succession. Each blow reverberated through the clearing, the sound sharp and brutal, like the crack of a whip.

Logan staggered, his body flying backward until his back collided with the rough bark of a nearby tree. His sword fell limp in his hand as he slumped against the trunk, breathless and beaten.

“Puah!” Logan gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow. A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “I lost… again.”

Zen stood tall, lowering his spear as the glowing energy faded. His laughter rang out, warm and triumphant. “You’re too soft, my friend,” he said, shaking his head. “But don’t let it sting too much. This is the magic of training! People might betray you, Logan, but hard work? That never will. Every ounce of effort I’ve put into this—every drop of sweat while I waited to feel the magicules—has led to this moment.”

Logan chuckled weakly, shaking his head in grudging admiration. “You and your speeches,” he muttered, though his grin betrayed his pride in his friend.

From the shadow of a nearby window, a small face pressed against the glass. Allastor Frauzz watched the scene unfold with wide, unblinking eyes. His breath hitched as he saw Zen’s triumph, the glowing energy of the magicules radiating around him like a hero’s aura.

In that moment, Logan wasn’t just a man to Allastor. He was a figure of legend, a golden trophy standing victorious under the morning sun.

Allastor’s tiny fists clenched at his sides, trembling with a mixture of awe and determination. For the first time, his dreams didn’t feel so impossible.

“This is it,” he whispered, his voice quivering with excitement. “This is the answer I needed!”

He took a deep breath, his red eyes shining with a new light, a light that burned with unshakable resolve. “If I train—if I work hard like Zen—I can do it too. I can become strong, even before I feel the magicules!”

He stepped back from the window, his heart pounding in his chest. A wide smile spread across his face, so bright it could have lit the room.

“I will be the strongest adventurer,” he declared, his voice trembling with conviction. “And I’ll travel all the continents of Illunor!”

Minutes passed, but Allastor remained by the window, his eyes still fixed on the distant duel. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, his thoughts swirling with new, invigorated hope. His small fists clenched in quiet determination, feeling a new spark of resolve stirring within him. But then, he heard footsteps—quick, familiar, the sound of small feet running on the wooden floor. He turned, and there they were: a group of children, some his age, others a bit older, chatting and laughing among themselves. At the front, a lady walked with them, her presence unmistakable.

“We’re home!” she called joyfully, her voice warm and familiar.

Allastor’s gaze shifted towards her, but as soon as she noticed him, her expression faltered, a brief shadow crossing her face. Her eyes softened with something like concern.

She moved toward him, her steps slow, as though weighing her words carefully. When she was close enough, she spoke, her voice gentle but coaxing. “Allastor, you should join us next time, alright? We’re your friends here. If you keep staying in this room, while we’re out in Kreo Capital, you’ll miss the happiness of being a child.”

The words lingered in the air, light and hopeful, but Allastor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at her, his eyes gleaming with that faint trace of something unspoken—something brighter.

But before he could speak, a voice interrupted, harsh and biting.

“Ha! Allastor’s still dreaming of feeling the magicules, huh? That’s impossible. He’s only five, after all. You don’t become a ranker until you're at least ten. It’s just how it is.”

The voice belonged to a boy standing slightly apart from the group. His eyes were tired and dull, his face unremarkable, though he clearly sought attention. His words stung the air, but Allastor only smiled softly, not paying him any mind. Instead, he turned his focus back to Ishara, his smile wide and genuine as he shook his head.

“It’s okay, Aunt Ishara,” he said, his voice bright. “It won’t be long before Grandpa Allan returns from his mission. He’ll take me home, and we’ll be together again.”

The boy’s words hung in the air like a damp fog, but Allastor ignored them completely. He wasn’t interested in the mockery, nor did he need validation from anyone else. His mind was focused elsewhere, on the horizon of possibilities that stretched before him.

The boy who’d spoken earlier watched him for a few seconds, a wrinkle forming on his forehead, but he quickly sighed and let the moment pass. He wasn’t close to Allastor, not really. They’d only known each other for five months, and Allastor kept to himself, preferring his own company over socializing with others. The boy seemed to realize the futility of pressing further, so he fell silent, looking away.

But Ishara, her gaze softening even further, could not ignore what Allastor had said. Her heart twisted with sadness as she saw the unwavering hope in his eyes. She knew the truth—knew that Allan Frauzz, the old man who had left Allastor here, would never return. It was an unspoken truth, buried beneath the layers of kindness and comfort that had been offered in place of the real answer.

She watched the boy smile at her, that innocent, trusting smile that tugged at her heart. It was so easy to lie to him, to pretend that everything would be alright, but the weight of that lie—of the knowledge that she would never see his hope realized—almost brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t bear to tell him now. Not yet.

Forcing a smile to her lips, Ishara knelt down beside him, bringing herself to his level. She met his bright, eager eyes and offered a small, warm smile in return. “Alright, Allastor. You promise me, next time we travel to the city, you’ll come with us? It would be good to enjoy some days outside, so you won’t feel that time drags on.”

Allastor nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up with the possibility. “I promise, Aunt Ishara. I’ll go next time.”

Ishara smiled, but there was a bittersweetness to it, a layer of sadness that couldn’t be hidden. She paused, her fingers touching the bag at her side before pulling out something from within.

Allastor’s eyes widened as she retrieved a small wooden sword. It was unremarkable to anyone else, but to her, it was an item laden with memories. She looked at the sword for a moment, her fingers brushing over it gently, as if feeling the weight of the past before her gaze shifted back to Allastor.

“I just remembered something,” she said softly, her voice faltering as she held the sword out to him. “This sword… it was a gift from someone very special to me on my third birthday. It has memories, Allastor, memories I cherish. But now, I want you to have it.”

Allastor stared at the sword in her hand, his breath catching in his chest. His eyes shone with excitement, disbelief swirling in them as he took a step forward. “You… you’re giving this to me?”

Ishara smiled, nodding once, though there was a flicker of something like pain in her eyes. “Yes. It’s yours now.”

Without waiting another moment, Allastor reached forward and grasped the wooden sword with both hands, his small fingers curling around the hilt. The sword felt warm in his grasp, though it was nothing more than simple wood. But in that moment, it felt like the most precious treasure in the world.

“Thank you, Aunt Ishara!” His voice was full of gratitude, the light in his eyes brighter than ever as he looked up at her, his smile reaching the corners of his face.

Ishara’s heart ached, but she forced a smile, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re welcome, Allastor,” she whispered. “You’re welcome.”

Ishara sighed, the soft exhale carrying a weight of thought and feeling she wasn’t ready to voice. She watched Allastor, his wide eyes sparkling with unrestrained excitement as he held the wooden sword in his hands like a treasure, a symbol of the adventure he dreamed of. The joy on his face was impossible to ignore, and it stirred something deep inside her—a blend of tenderness and sorrow.

She had often seen him, standing quietly by the window, eyes following the stories of adventurers who passed through the town. There was a longing in him, a desire for something more than the quiet, sheltered life he knew. It was a hunger she recognized all too well. Ishara had given him the sword on impulse, perhaps, but it had been a decision born from a place of understanding. She had watched him day after day, quietly observing, and she knew that this small gesture—this simple gift—was her way of acknowledging his dreams, his quiet ambition.

She smiled, despite herself, as she saw him clutch the sword so carefully, as if it might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. It wasn’t much—a humble thing, really—but it was enough for him. And that, in itself, was enough for her too.

Two years had passed since Allastor had begun his daily training with the wooden sword, and he was now seven years old. The wide, green expanse of the orphanage lawn stretched before him, the soft rustle of leaves accompanying the rhythmic swoosh of his sword as he moved through the practiced stances. His feet shifted confidently, though not without the occasional stumble, as his eyes remained fixed on the sword stance book open beside him. He’d finished the last page—[Grade E] Sword Mastery—each movement now ingrained in his memory.

He paused for a moment, breathing in the cool air, and gazed at the open page before him. This is it, he thought. The end of the path in this book. But what comes next?

Allastor was no fool—he knew that this was but the beginning. He had poured every ounce of effort into learning the stances, the footwork, and the basic forms of swordplay, but now the book had little left to offer. If his grandfather, Allan, had been there, Allastor imagined that the old adventurer would’ve already found him something better—something more advanced. A [Grade D] or even a [Grade C] Sword Mastery book. Or perhaps, a real teacher to guide him.

He looked down at the final page with a touch of longing. Grandpa would have known what to do…

Sighing softly, he let his mind wander, thoughts turning to the man who had brought him here to the orphanage. It had been two long years since Grandpa Allan had left for a mission, and in all that time, he had heard nothing. He hadn’t returned as promised.

Where could he possibly be?

Allastor rubbed his chin, his young face wrinkling with a frown. He’s a strong Gold-rank adventurer, surely he’s on some difficult mission, right? He tried to convince himself, but doubt lingered in the corners of his thoughts. It wasn’t like Grandpa to disappear for so long without a word.

Just as he was lost in thought, the soft sound of footsteps broke his reverie. He looked up and saw her—the woman who had been more of a mother to him than anyone else, the woman who had given him the sword in the first place. Ishara.

Her expression was unreadable, but there was something about the way her shoulders were slumped and her gaze fixed on the ground that set Allastor’s heart to flutter with unease.

"Allastor..." Ishara’s voice was softer than usual, carrying a weight of something unspoken. "Might be... it’s time you need to know the truth."

Allastor blinked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. He straightened, the worry in his chest rising like a tide. The truth?

“The truth?” he echoed, his voice a little too sharp. He stood up, dusting off his simple, worn clothes, his heart beginning to race. What could she mean?

Ishara didn’t look at him right away. Her eyes were cast downward, her lips parted as if trying to find the right words. Allastor waited, the sudden stillness between them heavy with something unsaid. He felt it in the air—a tension that hung between them like a storm waiting to break.

Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "About your grandfather, Allan..."

The words hit him like a wave. Allastor’s breath caught in his throat. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. The sword he had held so confidently just moments ago now felt heavy in his hands, as if it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths.

What is she trying to say?

He stared at Ishara, his heart pounding in his chest, and for the first time in two years, he truly looked at her—the woman who had been his rock. There was sadness in her eyes, something deeper than just concern. A sadness that made his own heart ache.

“Grandpa…” he whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain calm. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

Ishara’s gaze softened, but the sorrow in it was undeniable. She took a step forward, closer to Allastor, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Allastor,” she murmured, her voice breaking slightly. “I... I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how to. Your grandfather... he won’t be coming back.”

Allastor’s world seemed to tilt, as if the ground beneath him had suddenly disappeared. His mind raced, searching for something—anything—that could explain her words. But there was nothing. No explanation that could make sense of this.

“Grandpa…” he whispered again, this time more to himself than to her. His breath became shallow, and the sword slipped from his fingers, clattering softly to the ground.

Ishara’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder, a silent comfort, but it did little to ease the storm raging in Allastor’s heart.

No. It can’t be true.

But as he looked into Ishara’s eyes, he knew it was. The truth was there, in the way she looked at him—full of love, but also full of sorrow. A sorrow she couldn’t protect him from.

“I know this is hard, Allastor,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But you’re not alone. You still have me... and the others here. We’ll take care of you.”