ivan
Imagine a city called "Seven Men," stretching across a vast plain like a carpet of red clay and white marble. Its buildings share a uniform color, as if molded from the light of a setting sun: brick-red walls embraced by white limestone engravings. From a distance, the city looks like a living mosaic of fire and ice. Small mountains surround it, veiled with morning mist, giving the city a sense of safe seclusion, as if it exists in a world of its own.
The strangest thing about Seven Men is its streets: oak trees are not just decorative—they serve as lamp posts, with glass lanterns fixed to each branch, casting a warm light that resembles old oil lamps. At night, the city transforms into a glowing forest. Gardens are few, yet nothing feels lacking. Every corner is as clean as if never touched, and every street shines as though washed daily with the dawn's dew. No chaos, no random noise.
Uncle Van snapped his fingers in front of Ivan, who seemed lost in thought, unaware of his presence. Van said sternly, "Are you going to stay like this the whole time? I didn't bring you here to fill the house with negative energy." He sighed as he walked toward the kitchen and added, "It's been a whole week since you arrived, and you still can't adjust to this city. Maybe because it's nothing like the place you came from."
Ivan raised his eyebrows, as if Van's words were an insult, and replied sarcastically, "Really! Old man, it's true I came from a poor village, but that doesn't mean you have to remind me of it every time." He calmly flipped through the pages of the book in his hands, then added more seriously, "But what really distracted me is how you described the city before we arrived. I thought you were exaggerating. But here, I don't need to hold my nose anywhere. All I see is unbelievable cleanliness. No feces on the ground, no insects, no livestock in the streets. It's like you live in another world while we live in a swamp."
Van chuckled as he turned on the faucet, saying, "Is that what's bothering you? You sound like a caveman stepping out of his cave for the first time. I thought you didn't like the city, but it seems it's much simpler than that."
Ivan examined every corner of the room. It was neatly arranged, elegant in its details, but something was missing. No pictures, no family portraits, no souvenirs indicating someone had lived here long. After a brief silence, he asked in a low, wary voice, "Where are your memories, Uncle Van? No photos, nothing that points to you or your family... It's like the house is lifeless. Did you move here recently?"
Van stopped what he was doing, as if the question caught him off guard, then laughed lightly, though it wasn't genuine. A laugh that might fool others, but not Ivan. "Impressive. Seems you've got a sharp eye, boy. Yes, I moved into this house recently, shortly before we met."
Ivan narrowed his eyes, staring at Van as if scanning him inwardly, trying to extract the truth. Van's brown eyes didn't waver, firm and steady. Then he said, half-joking, half-warning: "Why are you staring at me like that? Think I'm lying?"
Ivan summoned his ability to ignore and brushed off the question as if it hadn't been asked. He stopped staring, replacing it with a new, more direct question: "I haven't asked you this before... What were you doing in Summer Village?"
Van moved closer and sat beside him on the bench, getting comfortable before answering, "Are we in an interrogation or something?" The old man pondered Ivan's curiosity, realizing he wouldn't stop until satisfied. Then he adjusted his posture to sound more serious and said, "Work, plain and simple. I went there at a client's request. I'm a lawyer, and someone hired me to handle a legal dispute over land ownership in the village."
Ivan had no idea what a lawyer's job was or its importance. In their village, disputes were often resolved amicably among the locals, without any need for formal intervention. Life there was simple, centered on farming—work that everyone knew and passed down through generations. For this reason, he hesitated to ask anything that might reveal his ignorance, choosing silence over being seen as an outsider.
Van sat quietly, waiting for the next question, as if he knew Ivan's curiosity wasn't yet satisfied. Ivan felt that moments like this—when silence was broken by words—dissolved some of the mystery between them and opened doors to deeper understanding, maybe even building a trust still in its early stages.
At that moment, a conversation returned to Ivan's mind—one that took place days ago when they stood together in the cemetery. Van had told him then that he was alone… That statement had stuck in Ivan's mind, pushing him now to delve deeper into the old man's character, who, despite living with him, remained shrouded in mystery, as if part of his life was still locked away.
Ivan said hesitantly after a brief silence, "So then... I have one last question. When you said you live alone, did you mean you have no family at all?"
Van looked at him calmly, didn't hesitate, and said simply, "No… I have a son. But he chose his own path. He decided to live alone. Said he wanted to rely on himself. He's traveling the world now, trying to find himself in his own way."
Ivan relaxed into his seat, as if a weight had finally lifted off his chest. The questions that had echoed in his mind like a child's persistent voice finally began to quiet. He stretched a bit and yawned, then lazily flipped through the book again, before suddenly lifting his head as if remembering something and said playfully, "Hey, old man Van... don't you have a question you want to ask me? Don't you care to know me better?"
Van pulled a small key from his pocket and turned it between his fingers thoughtfully before replying: "Let me think… Seems you didn't attend school, yet you can read and write. Who taught you?"
As soon as he finished the question, Van noticed a subtle change in Ivan's face—like an old sorrow creeping into his features. The boy lowered his gaze and fell silent for a few seconds of heavy quiet. Van sensed he had touched a wound by accident, but didn't break the silence.
Suddenly, Ivan gently slapped his own cheek, as if waking himself from his thoughts. He lifted his head and said clearly, trying to mask his emotions, "My mother taught me. In small villages like ours, we rely on self-education. Parents teach their children until age twelve, then they can take a test to determine if they continue studying or follow another path. All the credit goes to my grandmother, who taught my mother well… and my mother taught me in turn."
Van commented, "What a wonderful grandmother." He handed the key to Ivan gently, placing it in his palm, then rose from his seat and said softly, "This is the house key. Keep it. You can come and go whenever you like, no need to wait."
Ivan took the key in silence, not saying a word—either because words failed him, or simply because there was nothing to say. His eyes remained fixed on the old man, who put on his long black coat as usual—a coat that seemed to carry an aura of mystery and quiet charm that couldn't be ignored.
Van headed for the door, then turned around and said calmly, "Come on, let's go out for a bit. A walk in the city won't hurt."
Ivan didn't hesitate. Opportunities like this shouldn't be missed, especially when this place was starting to spark his curiosity more and more.
Van and Ivan walked side by side through the streets of the city, which seemed to surround them from every direction, as if watching them silently. The buildings loomed above them like silent witnesses to centuries of stories. The weather was mild—not hot, not cold—but what caught Ivan's attention was the strangely still air, with not a single breeze, as if time itself had paused for a moment.
Despite the pleasant weather, Van wore his heavy winter coat, black as ink, as if the cold followed him alone. Everyone around them wore light clothes, as if they lived in a different city the old man couldn't feel. Ivan didn't understand why, but sensed there was something unusual about it… something beyond personal taste.
Van broke the silence in a calm tone as he observed the surroundings, "Isn't this a beautiful city?"
Ivan looked at him for a moment, then returned his gaze to the cobblestone path and replied, "Even the name… it feels like it hides something—a symbol, or a story."
Van smiled lightly and nodded, "The Seven Men… the name alone is a tale. An ancient city, lived through centuries of history. Some say it was one of the first cities built in ancient times, where knowledge was hidden and shared in whispers."
He paused briefly, then turned to Ivan with eyes that seemed to dig into his memory, "Would you like to know the real story behind that name?"
This time, Ivan didn't show much excitement. Something inside him preferred to discover the truth for himself—to dive into old books and trace the tales through their remnants rather than others' words. Still, he didn't interrupt Van, just replied softly, without looking at him: "Honestly... I don't think I'm that interested in the story. But if you want to tell it, I won't stop you."
Van let out a short chuckle, light as a rare breeze in that still air, then said, placing his hands behind his back as he continued walking, "Since you're not excited, I'll keep it brief...
they stopped at a street corner, where a half-eroded stone statue overlooked the square, and continued in his deep voice: "The city was named in honor of seven men. Just seven, yet they left an indelible mark on the fabric of this place. They were completely different, but united under one banner… building a city worthy of humanity."
"The first was the Sage, a man tireless in his search for the secrets of the soul and spirit. He didn't speak much, but when he did, hearts were changed. The second, the Commander, a man of fire and iron, who defended the city when the walls collapsed and stood tall until his final breath. The third was a merchant with a sharp mind, who knew how to turn ashes into gold. Thanks to him, the city's economy flourished. The fourth was an artist, never seen without painting on walls or carving stone. He turned streets into poems that walked the earth."
"The fifth was the Historian, the city's memory. He collected books and manuscripts, writing down everything—even the small moments others ignored. Then came the Judge, a man who knew no favoritism. His words were a scale, and justice was his sword. And the seventh was a man of faith. Not the kind who scares people with sin, but the kind who gently guides them toward the light."
Van looked at Ivan, as if waiting for a reaction, then added: "Each of them departed in their own way. But the city still remembers them. In fact, sometimes, it's said their souls still linger here."
Ivan wondered silently, a heavy inner silence, about the truth behind Van's tale. To him, it felt more like a children's story, one spun from threads of virtue and noble ideals. Seven men, each embodying a noble trait: wisdom, courage, cleverness, creativity, love of knowledge, justice, and righteousness.
They stopped at a wide square, centered around a small fountain whispering the sound of water amidst the marble silence. The square was surrounded by seven pristine white statues, carved from marble, standing in a circle as if in an eternal council.
Ivan examined the sculpted faces, each bearing a different expression—pride, sorrow, contemplation, quiet anger. Then he turned to Van and asked with curiosity, "Are these faces... really theirs? Are these their real faces?"
Van looked at the statues one by one, as if rereading forgotten stories, then slowly shook his head. "No, these are merely imaginations… visions created by people's memory when facts disappeared. There are no real pictures of them, no drawings in historical records. And if you notice, all these faces are young… but in truth, most of them weren't known until their faces had aged and their steps had grown heavy."
A short silence followed, before Ivan broke it in a low, contemplative voice: "They escaped oblivion. Their faces and names were forgotten, but their deeds remained… clinging to life despite the passage of time."
Ivan silently wondered to himself, eyes still fixed on the Sage's statue: "I wonder what it feels like for those who were forgotten completely, as if they never existed in history. Those who made a difference, then were swallowed by oblivion as if they had never been."
Amid the calm atmosphere, where sunlight filtered through gray clouds, shyly touching the damp pavements, and the city slept to the sound of soft winds after a long stillness, nothing hinted that something unusual was about to happen. In the heart of that serenity—unexpectedly—a loud explosion rang out, its echo ringing in Ivan's and Van's ears. Ivan froze in place, his face painted with shock. His heart trembled for a moment, not from fear, but from the sheer surprise. Both turned instinctively toward the sound's source, where a column of smoke was rising across the street.
Van didn't hesitate for a second; he dashed toward the smoke with a swiftness unbefitting a man of his age, his long coat fluttering behind him like a war banner, leaving Ivan stunned in place, unable to believe what his eyes saw. He had no idea that this old man hid within his wrinkles a fitness that could rival youth. After a moment of disbelief, Ivan began running after him, trying to catch up.
At the site of the explosion, people gathered at a distance, watching from afar what was happening. A gold shop had been the target, and the scattered glass and thick smoke told the story of the scene. From within the smoke, a strange-looking man emerged, wearing a mask that completely covered his face, revealing only his eyes.
He held in his hands a strangely-shaped sword, radiating an ominous energy. It wasn't a sword meant for slashing, but a weapon for destruction... for explosion.
The criminal emerged with the agility of a professional killer, leaping over rooftops at lightning speed. He thought he had gotten away with it, but his steps suddenly froze... Old Van was standing in front of him, as if he had appeared out of nowhere.
A moment of silence fell over the area, and signs of shock and worry appeared on the thief's face, despite the mask hiding his features.
The thief spoke in a tense voice, mixed with panting and anger: "Who the hell are you, old man?! Get out of my way… is your life worth nothing to you?!"
Van smiled calmly, took out his cigarette as he usually did, lit it quietly as if nothing was happening, then blew the first puff slowly and said in a calm, sarcastic tone: "This generation… doesn't know how to respect their elders."
Another silence fell over the place, but it wasn't a peaceful one—it was more like the silence before a storm. The masked thief bit his lip in fury and shouted explosively: "You've truly lost your mind! Trying to play the hero at your age? I'll make you regret this… they won't even find your remains to collect!"
The thief lunged at Van quickly, his eyes gleaming with danger, after launching a burst of explosive knives at him. But the old man wasn't easy to deal with—he jumped high into the air with a grace that didn't match his age, letting the knives hit the wall and cause a violent explosion that left a deep hole and thick dust.
In a single moment, Van disappeared from the sky and reappeared behind the masked thief's back like a ghost. He whispered into his ear in a cold voice that sent chills down the thief's spine: "Old man… behind you."
The thief's eyes widened, and without thinking, he swung his explosive sword backward, trying to strike his ambusher—but Van was faster than he imagined. In a blink, he had returned to his original position, standing firmly, his eyes calmly watching his opponent like a seasoned killer.
Van began to walk forward with slow, steady steps, running his fingers through his thick beard, his gaze scanning the thief from head to toe. He said in a quiet but threatening tone: "A robbery in broad daylight? Is this boldness… or stupidity?"
The thief began to retreat, step by step, fear creeping into his eyes. He realized his opponent wasn't an ordinary man, but something beyond logic and limits—someone who couldn't be defeated even with all the weapons in the world. Suddenly, the thief turned and ran, weaving through the narrow alleys, trying to carve out a path to safety at any cost, while Van followed him with calm determination.
Moments later, the thief looked back and saw a woman standing at a corner. He suddenly grabbed her and pulled her in front of him as a human shield, placing his explosive sword against her trembling neck. He shouted desperately: "Stop! One more step and I'll slit her throat! Don't test me… my hands are stained with blood, and one more won't make a difference!"
But Van showed no reaction. His face remained still like stone, his steps continued with the same steadiness, as if the sword against the woman's neck was nothing but a piece of wood. As for the hostage, tears streamed down her cheeks, and her lips trembled in fear. She looked at the old man pleadingly, but he didn't even blink. As if he had a plan… or simply feared nothing.
Old Van charged, like a fleeting shadow, visible only as he passed, stirring behind him a swirl of dust and stunned silence. Ivan remained in place, stunned, unable to keep up with what had happened, as if time had chosen to leave him behind as a spectator.
At the heart of the scene, Van had already arrived. He needed no weapon—he simply grabbed the thief's sword with his bare hands, as if the metal were a brittle branch from a dried tree.
The thief's eyes widened as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, while his mouth gaped in a scream that never made it out. Everything froze, except for the pounding of his heart, slamming in his ears as he watched the deadly punch coming at him in slow, fatal motion.
Van's fist wasn't just a punch—it was a pressurized tornado in a single instant. It struck the thief's face, crushed his nose, lifted him off the ground, spun him like a helpless doll, then slammed him to the ground with such force that the earth groaned beneath him.
The thief growled beneath his mask, his voice choked with blood, laced with sharp, knife-like breaths. He raised his head, dirt clinging to his hot blood, and his eyes blazing like someone who had lost his mind: "You damn old man… this is the first time… the first time someone dared to hurt me like this… I won't forget it. I'll make you regret it. I'll blow you up in front of everyone!"
The masked thief plunged his explosive sword into the ground forcefully, then pressed it slowly as if triggering a timed charge. From where he lay on the ground, Ivan watched the scene with eyes wide with terror. He couldn't move, cold sweat running down his forehead. His heart pounded like war drums as he saw the strange glow rising from the sword, as if the earth itself was about to rip apart.
Van sensed the danger, despite the little time left. But he moved like lightning, trying to get the nearby civilians out of the battlefield, moving at an incredible speed. In less than a second, Ivan felt strong arms lift him off the ground. As he was carried away, he heard the explosion echo behind him, saw stones flying and a blinding light engulfing everything.
A massive water dome appeared suddenly, covering the area like a protective shield. It was as if the sky itself had intervened. Ivan felt awe as he stared at the water dome. No one understood where it had come from, but it was enough to contain the explosion, limit the destruction, and trap the flying shrapnel within.
Van landed gently on the ground, carrying Ivan whom he had just saved from death. He placed him down and looked around, searching for the source of the water dome. Before he could speak, a group of four uniformed fighters appeared, escorting the masked thief, who seemed unconscious, dangling between their arms.
He looked small now, worthless, just a shadow of a criminal who moments ago was a source of terror.
One of them stepped forward—a tall man with sharp features and a stern but respectful gaze. He said clearly: "Hello, I'm Mark, commander of unit B20 of the Riters. We were impressed by your bravery, old man, and thank you for protecting the civilians. Sorry we were late."
Mark extended his hand to Van, and the old man shook it with a satisfied smile, saying: "No need for thanks, as long as you've caught the criminal." Mark looked at the thief in his men's arms and added: "You're right. This man is very dangerous. He's wanted for multiple thefts and murders. We've been chasing him for a while."
Then Mark turned and left with his team, leaving behind a strange calm settling over the place. He said in a friendly tone: "I'll leave you now. Goodbye… and thank you again, brave old man." Ivan sat silently, his eyes still fixed on the water dome that was starting to fade. Everything seemed like a dream… but it was real. Very real.
Then he turned his gaze to their uniforms. It wasn't just a uniform—it was a silent declaration of power. The Reiters' emblem: an inverted silver pyramid crossed at the center by two gleaming swords, with a crescent moon underneath pointing to the sky, as if welcoming the light or defying the darkness. Ivan hadn't noticed this symbol when he met Foden the last time—perhaps the shock and shortness of the meeting had overshadowed the details… but now, now he saw what he hadn't seen before. The emblem belonged to the strongest governing organization in the kingdom—perhaps in the whole world.
He turned toward Van, the old man who seemed preoccupied with studying his features, as if reading the thoughts in his head. Van spoke in a neutral tone as he sat on a nearby rock: "Before you start asking questions… let me catch my breath. That run wore me out." But Ivan, with a skeptical expression, said: "Do you think I'll believe that?"
Van sighed, then pulled out a small water bottle, took a sip, wiped the sweat from his forehead, then said with a tired but serious voice: "Alright, no need for questions. I'll tell you directly… My father was one of the Reiters officers. I trained under him since I was your age, and maybe harder than any training you've gone through… so those efforts weren't in vain."
Ivan felt something stir inside him, as if a flame had suddenly ignited. An overwhelming, sudden desire to become stronger. To be able to face what he had just witnessed—not just watch. He said with calm excitement, filled with determination: "That sounds amazing… Can I do the same? I mean… if I train? I want to be stronger. When the beast attacked our village, I couldn't do anything but give up… but I don't want to live like that anymore. I want to be able to face any danger that threatens me."
Van noticed the change in his tone, and saw in his eyes that blue gleam , like the sky before a storm, a mix of hope and danger.
He scratched his head and said in a calm voice: "The world of power is a path full of dangers, kid. Maybe it's better to stay where it's safe, among ordinary people... Anyway, I'm here, and I'll be your shield if you need it."
Ivan took a step back, his face grim, and said with frustration:
Van's eyes widened in surprise, then he let out a sarcastic laugh, staring at the sky like someone hearing an old joke: The Riters' test? At your current level? You'll die in the first minute."
But Ivan's resolve didn't waver ,instead, his features grew more firm and resolute, gradually erasing Van's laughter. Then Ivan said with a voice that carried a burning spark: "If my level isn't enough… then I'll train. Didn't you say I have hidden potential?"
A moment of silence passed as Van weighed the situation in his head. Then he finally said firmly: "Alright… I'll train you. But there's one condition before I agree. You have to run at full speed, nonstop, for a whole hour. Any drop in your top speed — or if you stop? You start over."