That night came rushing back to him, vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. The cold stone walls of the prison cell, the flickering torchlight casting trembling shadows, the heavy weight of his impending death pressing down on his chest.
He had lost everything—his honor, his family, his future. And then, Naomi appeared.
She came to him like a dream, her presence both a balm and a blade. He could see the anguish in her eyes, the silent war waging in her heart. Then, with a trembling voice, she spoke words that shattered his already broken resolve.
"Jethru, I love you. In this lifetime, it will only ever be you."
At first, he refused. He was a condemned man, a criminal branded with shame. What kind of future could he offer her? How could he allow the woman he loved to taint herself with his disgrace?
But Naomi was relentless. She had bribed the guards for privacy, for time—precious, fleeting time.
She took his hand and, with quiet conviction, whispered a vow as solemn as any spoken before an altar. "From this moment, in this life and the next, I call you husband."
It sounded like a wedding vow.
And then, in that dark and musty cell, where despair clung to the walls like damp rot, she gave herself to him.
Their union was filled with grief, desperation, and love so fierce it burned. For those few stolen hours, there were only the two of them. Nothing else.
Before she left, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, he made her promise—she would not come on the day of his execution.
But fate had other plans.
Day of the Execution.
Jethru stood shackled in the open prisoner’s carriage, enclosed only by wooden grills. Beside him were the most notorious rebels of Northem, men whose crimes were written in blood.
The crowd jeered, their voices a storm of curses and hatred. Rotten fruit and stones rained down on them, bruising skin and pride alike. The stench of filth filled the air.
The junior disciples of the Zen Warriors. The very ones he had once trained, their faces twisted in scorn.
He had once called them brothers. Now, they looked at him as if he were the plague.
Did they truly believe he had cheated? Did none of them doubt the accusations?
How could his brothers be cruel? Didn’t they know what kind of person was he?
Betrayal curled around his heart like a vice.
He turned his gaze to the other prisoners—hardened criminals, men who had taken lives without remorse. He did not belong among them, and yet, here he was.
Then, at an intersection, chaos erupted.
A group of commoners surged forward, shouting, pushing, creating a violent commotion.
The soldiers rushed to contain the crowd.
By the time order was restored, the prisoners were gone.
He ran, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs. He didn’t know who had orchestrated the escape, nor did he care. The only thing that mattered was survival.
Clinging beneath the rebels’ carriage, he traveled for hours, his arms trembling with the strain, his body numb from the cold.
Jethru thought he was given a second chance at life and he would take it with open arms.
Clinging beneath the rebels’ carriage, he traveled for hours, his arms trembling with the strain, his body numb from the cold.
At last, the capital was behind them.
When the opportunity arose, he let go, rolling into the underbrush. The rebels never noticed his departure.
A fugitive. A man stripped of his name, his honor.
Drifting from town to town, hiding in the shadows, surviving on scraps. Until at last, he found refuge in Mount Roca.
There, he buried the past and lived the life of a hermit.
It was already afternoon when Lara, Reya, and Sandoz arrived. The temple cast a long shadow that covered the dilapidated hut.
The congee had long gone cold. Reya sighed, rekindling the fire and stirring the porridge until wisps of steam curled upward. She ladled generous portions into bowls and handed them to Alpha and Omega.
The little girl eagerly clutched her bowl, her fingers wrapping around its warmth. Although she had eaten plenty earlier, hunger stirred in her belly once more at the sight of food. Without hesitation, she brought the bowl to her lips and slurped, savoring the taste.
"What took you so long? Good thing I already ate. If I had waited for you, I might have died of hunger." He scoffed and rolled his eyes dramatically.
Lara chuckled, shaking her head. Sometimes, she swore her master was a child trapped in an old man’s body.
"We were looking for an inn, but a kind old lady offered her courtyard," she explained. "Her son and his wife recently moved to the capital, so the place was empty. She said we could move in right away."
Jethru smirked. "The woman is that kind?" His voice held clear skepticism.
Lara grinned. "Grandpa, I gave her one gold ingot as a down payment and promised another once we moved in. Why wouldn’t she be ’kind’?"
Jethru scoffed. "I see. Money talks, huh? You brat! You’re such a spender. I bet you’ve already squandered enough gold to last me five years."
Lara crossed her arms, a teasing glint in her eyes. "That’s because you’re a miser, Grandpa. You hoard your wealth like a dragon sitting on a pile of silver. What’s the point of all that money if you never use it? Or are you planning to let someone else enjoy the fruit of your labor?"
Jethru shot his disciple a look of utter disdain. Before he could retort, a feeble cough cut through the air.
Samuel’s weak voice carried a quiet authority.
"Why do I feel as though I’m listening to two unruly teenagers bickering?" he asked, his gaze settling on Jethru with mild reproach. "Jethru, is that how I raised you?"
"No, Master. But this young lady, she always teases me." Jethru spoke casually. He did not notice that he referred to Lara as a ’she.’
"Why did you take a female as a disciple?" Samuel was curious. Not many people would want a girl for a disciple."
"Hmm." Jethru rubbed his chin, as if debating how to answer. "Well, I saw that she had some potential—"