Chapter 6: Ashes of the Past

Location: The Watchmen's Lair – Deep in Old Brass

A sprawling underground hideout beneath the ruins of Old Brass. The air was thick with the scent of rust and oil, pipes hissing with steam as dim torches flickered against cracked stone walls. The lair hummed with low murmurs and the occasional clatter of metal—fighters sharpening weapons, strategists poring over stolen maps. At the center stood a massive iron table, its surface scarred from years of planning bloodshed.

One by one, they materialized, stepping out of the shadows like wraiths.

Adam Watchman – arms crossed, gaze cold, the faint glint of steel visible beneath his cloak.

Falther Watchman – illusions flickering subtly around his form, his presence always slightly out of sync with reality.

Layefa Watchman – leaning against a pillar, a chain coiled lazily around her wrist, the metal links glinting in the dim light.

Dethugo Watchman – unconscious, body limp in Layefa's grasp, his breathing shallow but steady.

WanLaden Watchman – standing at the head of the table, his presence heavy with authority, fingers tapping against the steel in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

A tense silence settled as WanLaden's expression darkened, his thoughts momentarily drifting elsewhere. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, measured—like a blade held just above a throat.

The Discussion Begins

WanLaden Watchman: (voice steady, controlled)

"We had already captured her. The hard part was done. But that fool…" (his fingers tapped against his arm, his tone devoid of emotion) "he decided to make things much more difficult for us."

His words hung in the air, weighted with quiet menace.

Falther Watchman: (gritting his teeth)

"Adris Matamalah is not someone we should have underestimated. We should have been on guard the moment he showed up."

WanLaden shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

WanLaden Watchman:

"It doesn't matter. No use crying over spilled milk. We failed the mission, but failure is nothing more than a lesson." (His gaze darkened, a shadow creeping into his voice.) "The next time we meet that fool, there won't be any loose ends."

Silence. A silent agreement passed between them, the kind that needed no words.

WanLaden's fingers paused their rhythmic tapping. His eyes flickered, lost in recollection.

The Revelation

WanLaden Watchman: (low, almost to himself)

"I remember now. That boy… I've seen him before. It's been years, but there's no mistaking it."

Adam's eyes narrowed, sensing something deeper.

Adam Watchman: (sharply)

"Who?"

Falther's expression darkened.

Falther Watchman:

"Explain yourself, WanLaden. You recognized him back there, didn't you? And yet, you hesitated."

WanLaden exhaled through his nose, eyes momentarily clouded with memory.

WanLaden Watchman:

"Seven years ago, an orphanage in Old Brass burned to the ground. Some called it an accident. Others whispered of witches. But the truth?" (His fists clenched, knuckles whitening.) "They were experimenting on children. And when investigators from the capital got too close, we were hired to erase the evidence. Burn it all. Kill them all. No survivors."

Adam's expression darkened. Falther remained motionless, listening.

WanLaden Watchman: (eyes narrowing)

"But that boy… the one hiding his face, was the same boy from seven years ago—the one who managed to escape the disaster."

Adam's head tilted slightly, processing the information.

Adam Watchman: (coldly)

"If that was your mission, then why is he still alive?"

Falther Watchman: (arms folded, voice edged with suspicion)

"You saw him. You knew him. Yet, you let him go."

A muscle in WanLaden's jaw twitched. He exhaled slowly before responding.

WanLaden Watchman:

"Hmph. Killing him would've been easy. But when I saw the way he ran… the fire in his eyes… it reminded me of myself as a child."

A silence settled over the room, thick with unspoken history. Then, WanLaden continued, voice lower, laced with something almost resembling amusement.

WanLaden Watchman:

"Most children accept their fate. He didn't. He clawed his way out of the inferno."

A slow smirk curled across one of the Watchmen's lips.

Adam Watchman: (grinning cruelly)

"Survivors tend to become problems."

WanLaden's gaze flickered to the speaker, but he didn't comment. Instead, he turned to Layefa.

WanLaden Watchman:

"Take Dethugo. Get him patched up."

Layefa didn't hesitate. She slung Dethugo over her shoulder, the metal links of her chain rattling softly as she stepped back into the shadows, vanishing from sight.

As she left, WanLaden turned toward the remaining Watchmen. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of something inevitable.

WanLaden Watchman: (muttering)

"The capital must feel our pain."

A massive warship sliced through the waves, its sails billowing as they caught the wind. The Royal Vessel of South Volstadtin cut across the open ocean like a great beast on the hunt, its sleek hull gleaming under the rising sun. The sky was painted in hues of gold and pink, stretching endlessly into the horizon. Below deck, the air was thick with the scent of salt and wood.

In one of the small quarters, Kente stirred.

The dreams, the memories—they never stopped. His eyes snapped open, breath shallow, body slick with sweat. The same nightmare had gripped him again. The fire.

He could still feel the heat on his skin. The smoke choking the air. The crackling sound of the flames eating away at everything. The orphanage—burning to the ground. And those eyes.

Gasping, Kente sat up in bed, his body trembling. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles white as he tried to steady himself.

Kente: (panting, gripping his sheets)

"What are these memories?"

His mind spun with fragments he couldn't piece together. The past clawed at him, raw and feral, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. His chest tightened as his head throbbed, as though something within him had been awakened—something dark and forgotten.

Just then, the door creaked open, and a muffled voice broke the silence.

Tamara Mellon: (muffled voice, amused)

"You always wake up like that?"

Kente blinked, disoriented, and turned his head toward the sound. There, perched on a crate by the far wall, was Tamara Mellon—his new roommate. The odd boy from the courtyard, still munching on something dry, his shell-patterned cloak hanging off his shoulders like an afterthought.

Tamara grinned, unbothered by Kente's current state.

Tamara Mellon: (grinning)

"Guess we're stuck together, huh? Roommates."

Kente sat up fully, running a hand through his tangled hair, still trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare.

Tamara Mellon: (cheerfully)

"You should've seen yourself back there though, man. Jumping in like a hero! Sturmgards are so cool, don't you think? That Adris Matamalah guy—whoa. The way he fights? Unbelievable."

Tamara grinned and gestured dramatically, mimicking the powerful strikes and moves of the royal fighter.

Kente's lips twitched, managing a weak chuckle in response. He was still processing everything that had happened since the test—the fight, the chaos, the way he'd ended up in this position. It didn't make sense. But then again, his life had never made much sense.

Tamara Mellon: (curious, with a raised brow)

"Hey, back in the courtyard… you said you weren't supposed to be here. What did you mean?"

Kente hesitated, eyes flicking away. But Tamara's easy grin and relaxed demeanor made it hard to lie, so he gave in.

He took a deep breath before starting.

Kente:

"Well… I was just trying to help someone out. Uche, that bully. He was picking on someone, and I couldn't just let that slide."

Tamara's expression grew more amused, and he leaned forward.

Tamara Mellon: (laughing lightly)

"So you beat up a loser and stole his spot in the exam? Dude, that's hilarious!"

Kente groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment.

Kente:

"It's not like that!"

Tamara's smirk was infectious, and Kente couldn't help but chuckle, despite himself.

Tamara Mellon: (shrugging)

"Eh, whatever. You're here now. No going back. You might as well aim for the top, right? A royal Sturmgard—like Matamalah!"

Before Kente could reply, the door to their quarters was knocked on. The sudden interruption made Kente's pulse quicken for a moment, still shaken by the remnants of the dream.

A muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

Voice:

"Madam Wolo requests your presence."

Tamara glanced at Kente with a knowing look, and without another word, they both stood and followed the messenger down the narrow hall.

Location: The Captain's Quarters

The captain's quarters were grand and well-furnished, decorated in deep mahogany that gleamed under the warm glow of golden lanterns. The room was spacious, a long, polished table at the center, surrounded by chairs where figures gathered in silent waiting.

At the far end, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, was Miss Wolo. Her molten gaze swept over the gathered students, her expression unreadable yet full of quiet authority. She exuded an almost palpable power, as though the very air around her bent to her will.

The others arrived one by one:

Timi Amadioha – arms crossed, his face stoic, eyes piercing.

Prophet Mirror – adjusting his collar with a subtle flick, eyes constantly calculating.

Bermuda & Raymond – standing side by side, unusually silent, their bodies tense but ready.

Sophia Nanny – her eerie goat-like pupils gleamed with an unnatural sharpness, her presence unsettling.

Chioma Canine – her hands twitching, alert, as though every sound and movement in the room was magnified for her heightened senses.

The room grew still as they all took their places. Kente couldn't help but glance at each of them—each one of these people had powers he couldn't even begin to understand. But there was something about them that made him feel like an outsider.