Morning light bathed the citadel in gold. The sky was clear, and the air felt fresh. The quiet hum of magic still lingered in the walls, soft and steady, keeping the place alive and strong. Birds circled above the highest towers. The scent of dew mixed with the warm stone, and sunlight slipped between the tall marble pillars.
Protheus stood on one of the higher balconies. He looked down at the training grounds. Below, the students were already beginning their second day of training. Their voices echoed up from the courtyard — shouts, laughter, the clash of practice weapons.
His eyes moved from one group to the next. Thalion stood among his students, correcting sword stances. Faelar was guiding Mark's arrows with quiet, firm words. Eryndor gave nods of approval to Vincent's heavy strikes. On the far end, Vaelrya raised her hand, and a wave of wind pushed through her students, testing their balance and control. Althaea watched Patricia and Erika practice magic circles. Sylvanna moved between her healers, her touch light and reassuring.
The instructors were doing well. The children, though tired, looked focused. Determined.
Protheus allowed himself a small smile. They were learning. They were growing. And this was only the beginning.
After watching them for a while, he turned away. His footsteps were quiet as he walked down the marble halls of the citadel. He didn't need to say anything. The instructors knew what they were doing.
His thoughts drifted as he walked, the sound of his boots tapping softly against the polished marble floor. He reached the southern wall just as the morning breeze shifted, carrying with it the scent of far-off trees and the faint sting of ash that still lingered in the world beyond.
He thought of something the students had mentioned before. During the feast, some had quietly talked about the south — about a stronghold that still stood. A place where survivors had gathered. One of the last safe havens before the end came.
They said it was in the southern part of what used to be Metro Manila — somewhere in Laguna.
He hadn't thought of it then. But now... something pulled him. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something more.
He stepped into the open air, his long white coat shifting in the breeze. With a deep breath, he rose from the ground, floating higher and higher until the citadel was far behind him. Then he flew south — not fast, not slow. He let his senses stretch, watching, listening.
The land below was quiet. Forests had swallowed roads. Cities had become ruins. Some buildings still stood, but they were empty, cold. Only nature remained, and the silence.
Minutes slipped by as he drifted through the sky, eyes scanning the world below with quiet focus. He watched for anything — a curl of smoke rising between the trees, a flicker of movement against the rubble, the faint glow of firelight hidden among the ruins. Anything that spoke of life. Of people. Of hope.
Finally, in the distance, he saw it — tall walls built from scavenged stone and metal, watchtowers with flickering lights, people walking on the ramparts. It was real. The stronghold existed.
He had no intention of drawing attention. As the stronghold came into view, he veered off, drifting down into the shadows of a nearby forest. The trees muffled the distant sounds of the settlement, and the scent of pine and ash lingered in the still air.
There, beneath a canopy of tangled branches, he paused.
With a quiet breath, he raised a hand — not in haste, but with the steady precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The magic responded like a ripple across still water.
His features began to shift.
Pale skin warmed into a soft, earthy brown. The long white hair shortened, darkened, becoming the black of wet stone. His eyes, once luminous and ocean-deep, dulled to a dark, steady calm — the kind of gaze that passed through crowds unnoticed. The faint glow that clung to him, that quiet hum of power, faded like fog in morning sun.
His robes followed, unraveling into simpler shapes. The silk and enchanted cloth gave way to coarse fabric — a weatherworn coat, threadbare at the sleeves. His boots cracked and dusted over, worn from imagined miles. No sigils. No shine. Just a tired man, too quiet to fear and too steady to pity.
By the time he stepped out of the trees, the elegance was gone — no more shimmering aura, no regal stride. What remained was a man cloaked in dust and silence, a wanderer among many.
He walked toward the stronghold slowly, joining a small group of people heading in the same direction. No one gave him a second look. He was just another tired man with a calm face.
As he entered the gates with the crowd, no one stopped him. The guards looked alert but tired. They checked each person with a glance, then waved them through. Protheus kept his head down and moved with the others.
Inside, the stronghold was alive. People moved between makeshift homes, stalls, and work areas. Children ran barefoot, laughing. Adults carried supplies or talked in hushed voices. There were tents, broken signs, and salvaged furniture. Nothing was new, but everything was used with care.
Protheus walked slowly, taking it all in. He saw food being cooked over open fires. A small clinic built from old wood and tarps. A blacksmith hammering away at broken tools. There was sadness here, but there was also hope. People were surviving.
He sat on an old bench near the edge of a marketplace. No one paid him any attention. Around him, conversations filled the air — plans for repairs, talk of food, memories of lost homes.
A group of teenagers passed by, laughing over something small. One of them wore a torn school uniform. Another had a wooden sword at his waist. For a moment, Protheus saw the students at the citadel in their place.
These people had held on. Somehow, they had built a life here. He understood now why some of his students had spoken about this place with such weight in their voices. This wasn't just another ruin. This was home.
The stronghold buzzed with life, even in the early morning. Protheus moved through its narrow streets, silent and observant. He passed families gathered around fires, cooking simple meals from root crops and dried meat. Children played with sticks and scraps, their laughter a soft contrast to the weariness in the eyes of their parents. Along the edges of homes, people patched roofs, mended clothes, or cleaned old rifles.
It was survival—but not without warmth. They still smiled and hope for a better future.
Before the dusk came, Protheus moved toward the largest structure within the stronghold.
It stood near the center—half-collapsed, scorched, and reinforced with scavenged steel beams. From the fading insignias and crumbling cement, it had once been a government office. Now, it functioned as the heart of the stronghold's leadership.
Protheus paused just beyond the gate. Armed sentries watched the approach. He spoke no words, only raised a hand and vanished from sight.
Invisible, he slipped through a narrow break in the side wall, moving silently down darkened corridors. The scent of rust, smoke, and old paper filled the air. He followed the low murmur of voices to a room lit with oil lamps and weighed with tension.
Inside, eight men sat around a long, battered table in what used to be a city government's meeting chamber — the kind of room where local leaders once argued about zoning laws, traffic systems, and disaster response plans. Now, its dusty walls and faded banners bore witness to a different kind of crisis. Survival, not civic order, was the agenda now.
The air was stale, heavy with the scent of sweat, mold, and the faint tang of old paper. A broken ceiling fan hung limp overhead, swaying slightly with each gust from the open window. One corner of the room had been cleared for maps, all hand-drawn or salvaged from abandoned government offices. Threads and pins marked trade routes, safe zones, danger areas. The whole wall was a patchwork of desperate guesses.
A broken radio hissed from the windowsill. It hadn't picked up a signal in days.
"It's been four days without any word from Mendoza's team," said a tall man with graying hair and a fraying officer's coat. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't had water in hours. They missed their check-in the night before last. We need to find out what happened."
"They were headed north," someone muttered — a younger man, arms crossed, eyes sunken from sleepless nights. "Into the old zone of Metro Manila."
"What could they possibly be looking for?" asked another, seated near the corner. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "That place has already been stripped clean"
"Not completely," the younger man replied. "There were rumors of a hospital complex and a storage bunker, still unopened and unlooted."
"Rumors," the older man snapped. "We're sending people out based on campfire gossip now?"
"We didn't have much choice," the officer cut in. "We're down to two days of clean water. Maybe three days of food if we stretch it. And the farms aren't producing fast enough. We needed a miracle."
"And so we sent kids."
"They volunteered."
"They were hungry," the man growled. "That's not the same thing."
A long silence followed. The weight of it pressed down on the table like a physical thing. No one wanted to say what they were all thinking.
"We had to try," the officer said again, softer now. "It was a lead – our last one. The warehouse is running dry, the canned goods nearly gone. We're cutting rations again tonight."
"We've already cut rations three times this month."
"I know."
"I have men digging through the mud for edible roots," another said quietly. "Boiling weeds just to make thin broth. They've started stealing from each other again – not for weapons, not for ammo, but for something to eat."
"And what happens if Mendoza's team doesn't come back?" someone asked. "What happens when that's confirmed? What then?"
"We send another team," the officer said, without looking up. "And another, if we have to."
"To die?"
"To buy time."
A sharp bang echoed outside — a door slamming in the wind — and everyone flinched, hands drifting instinctively to weapons. That was the world now: silence, tension, survival.
In the corner, where shadows clung to the rough stone, a man stood still, wrapped in quiet sorcery. His presence, once bright and unmistakable, was now hidden beneath layers of old spells. To a passing eye, he looked like any other traveler: a weathered coat over his shoulders, sturdy boots dusted from long roads, a faded scarf covering half his face. But there was a certain grace to him, a quiet authority in the way he held himself, something that even the dirt and disguise couldn't fully hide.
Protheus said nothing. He remained in the corner, hidden by his magic, listening without response.
He had heard enough. Rafael Mendoza's group, those teenagers, had been sent north into the ruins of a shattered city, drawn by the faint promise of food and medicine. They had gone willingly, yes, but only because desperation had left them with no other choice. Their disappearance wasn't a failure of courage; it was a failure of the world they had inherited.
But none of them knew that the group they feared lost was already safe. They were training under his care, thriving at the citadel, preparing for what was to come.
The leaders did not know that. And they could not know yet.
Protheus turned silently and stepped back into the night, leaving behind their fears and concerns.
He stayed the night in the stronghold, blending into the rhythm of its people. He made no announcements, left no trace of magic. Instead, he listened. He walked the alleys and side paths after dusk, careful to note the whispered concerns—shortages, threats from the outside, sickness spreading near the lower quarters.
When the streets quieted and the fires dimmed, he slipped into the shadow of an alleyway and vanished.
A moment later, he was back in the citadel.
He issued the command, and the chef golems began preparing what he needed—nothing extravagant, nothing that would draw suspicion. Only food that could last, comfort, and nourish. Enough for the night.
Once ready, he stored everything in silence. One by one, the meals vanished into his magical storage — sealed, hidden, and ready.
Then he returned.
He moved through the stronghold under moonlight, unseen and unnoticed. What he carried, he gave it freely to the residence.
Bundles of food appeared in quiet corners — beside sleeping families, near weary workers, laid gently on worn blankets where children huddled close. Dried fruit and soft bread. Smoked meat wrapped in cloth. Simple gifts, left in silence.
By the church ruins, an old woman found a full satchel hanging from her door. She wept without sound and whispered a prayer into the dark.
Protheus didn't speak. He just watched, still and quiet.
From the rooftops, he looked out over the walls and flickering lights. The stronghold pulsed with a stubborn will to survive—fragile, imperfect, but undeniably human.
He stayed until the deep hours of night.
Then, just before the gates began to stir, he slipped quietly into the trees and vanished.
By the time sunlight brushed the distant hills, he was already far to the north. His form shifted slowly back to its true state—soft light returning to his eyes, his steps growing weightless once more, like someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Yet the stronghold lingered in his thoughts. The faces. The laughter. The fragile, stubborn hope.
And the truth he always carried: even in the wreckage of the world, compassion endured.
He did not return to the citadel right away. Instead, he flew low across the sleeping land, letting the remnants of dreams and memories drift over him like tides in a forgotten sea. Below, the world stretched out in silence and scarred beauty—abandoned roads veined with moss, hollowed buildings wrapped in vines, faded signs whispering the names of things long gone. Everything had broken. But not everything was lost. Not while people still looked out for one another. Not while kindness still moved quietly through the cracks.
Protheus descended near a dried riverbed along the edge of the old highway. He walked—not because he had to, but because he longed to feel the earth beneath his feet again. His magic had built a sanctuary, but it was the land itself—the bones of the world—that whispered its truths to him.
He remembered the weight of centuries: ancient wars, collapsed kingdoms, empires turned to ash. But none of it had felt quite like this. This wasn't just history repeating itself. This was a wound so deep, it cut through time.
And yet...
In the south, in that quiet stronghold, people had found ways to laugh. They broke bread together, even when there wasn't enough. They watched over one another, even when no one was watching over them. Despite the fear, the hunger, the aching grief—they had not given in to the dark.
That mattered.
That meant everything.
After a while, Protheus decided to return to the citadel.
The stronghold had quieted. The people were asleep, their breath slow and steady beneath threadbare blankets. His work was done—for now. There was nothing more to give without questions rising, and questions would bring the wrong kind of attention.
So he turned his gaze northward.
His form shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight as he stepped beyond the walls and into the woods. By the time he reached the clearing, the false face had melted away—dark hair fading to white, dull skin brightening to the glow of ocean pearl. The quiet aura of power returned, wrapping around him like a mantle of wind and starlight.
Then, with a whisper of air and a flick of his coat, he rose.
The forest fell away beneath his feet. Trees blurred, roads vanished, and the sky unfolded before him—wide and cold, streaked with the faintest hint of coming dawn. He flew low, close enough to the earth to hear it breathe.
The world was not silent.
Below him, ruin had become territory. Scattered along broken roads and forgotten ruins, the remnants of the dark still lingered—monsters that moved like shadows, feeding on rot, fear, and neglect. Most were small. Some were not.
Near the shell of a collapsed supermarket, he saw them: thin-limbed things with mouths like broken glass, pawing through scraps in the dark. He didn't slow. A single gesture, a twist of his fingers mid-flight, and a pale circle of light unfolded around him. The things stopped. Then they simply ceased—turned to dust on the wind, as if they had never been there at all.
Farther on, a trio of winged husks burst from a hollow tower, screeching. Their cries never reached the ground. A thread of force lashed outward—silent, exact. The creatures dropped like stones, shattered before their wings could beat a second time.
Protheus did not speak.
He did not relish the destruction. He offered no judgment. Only balance. Only removal.
He had long ago accepted that part of his power was quiet cleansing. Not for glory, not for gratitude—but for the spaces people walked, for the paths they might one day reclaim.
By the time he reached the southern wall of the citadel, the wind had shifted. He could feel it—warm and gentle, laced with the soft rhythm of home.
The towers rose against the pale sky like ancient sentinels, their white stone bathed in the light of early dawn. The air shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. Birds circled above, and the soft hum of wards greeted his return like an old friend.
Protheus slowed.
He landed on the highest spire without a sound, the soles of his boots touching the marble as if the stone had been waiting for him. The citadel stretched out below—peaceful, still asleep. Only a few early figures moved near the training grounds, setting up for the day's lessons.
For a moment, he stood there, eyes closed, letting the wind curl around him.
He had left this place full of thought, burdened by what-ifs and whispers of the past. He returned with quieter certainty. The world was still broken—but people, at least some people, were still trying to hold it together.
And perhaps, that was enough.