Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

He rose to his feet, dressed in simple training clothes—a loose shirt, lightweight pants, running shoes—and left the room.

He began to run.

Ten kilometers. Fifteen. Twenty.

He sat cross-legged on the stone and closed his eyes.

The second core pulsed, absorbing the energy, growing denser, more potent. He did not rush. He simply breathed, and let the work be done.

°°°

Then he moved to the training grounds.

Nero walked over. The young man looked up, his expression neutral.

A nod.

They moved.

He did not use his lightning. He did not use his fire. He used only his body, his reflexes, the instincts honed by years of training. The young man pressed, and Nero gave ground, letting him commit, letting him overextend.

A step inside the guard, a twist of the wrist, and the young man’s sword clattered to the ground. The exchange lasted perhaps thirty seconds. The young man stared at his empty hand, then at Nero, and nodded. Respect.

°°°

When he finally rose, the water had cooled. He dried himself, dressed in clean clothes, and moved to the kitchen.

He ate at the small table by the window, the morning light warm on his face. The food was simple, but it tasted good. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

Back from training. You?

More or less. I need to push harder. The competition is coming.

A pause. Then: Meet later? The garden by the fountain?

He set the phone aside and finished his meal, washing the dishes, wiping the counter. The small routines of ordinary life. They grounded him, reminded him that beneath the battles and the visions, he was still just a young man trying to find his way.

The anchor was a woman with dark hair and a serious expression. Behind her, images of smoke and rubble filled the screen.

The footage shifted. Aerial views of destroyed buildings, streets choked with debris, rescue workers picking through the ruins. The anchor continued, her voice grave.

Nero watched, his expression still. The images were distant, abstract—smoke and rubble and bodies covered in sheets. But the numbers were not. Thousands dead. Men, women, children. Lives snuffed out in a single night.

He turned off the TV and sat in the silence.