Industrial Revolution

In a location where a multitude of individuals assemble to experience a communal dinner event, overhead suspends large, radiant lights that flash like a glamorous exhibition of exquisite gemstones. The illumination it emits is no longer tinged with a straw hue, but instead radiates a brilliant, refined white, causing the room to be exceptionally well-lit.

This time, the banquet was attended by the King of Caeloria himself, savoring the delicious feast before him. His wife, Queen Amarta, who seated beside him was sometimes skimmed at Alorian who appeared across from her, fascinated in conversation with Fiona, who seemed quite serious.

With interest, Amarta inquired, "My dearest child, is there something so irresistible to share that you've yet to touch your meal at all?"

Alorian turned with a radiant smile still on his face and replied, "No, Mother, we were just thinking about how to remain unnoticed by someone out there."

Amarta furrowed her brow, expanding more curious. "Is there an intent to leave the castle?"

The dark-haired boy nodded, a stark contrast to his blonde-haired siblings. "Is it allowed for us to come visit sister Isvhara?"

"What for?" asked Alorian's mother, who was now dressed in a more casual black outfit. Nevertheless, her shape was still discernible through the fabric.

"Aunt Amarta, as you know, Alorian will be facing a series of trials, right?" replied Fiona with an enthusiastic tone. "By finding out what Prana is, he and I can improve our knowledge."

Upon hearing the term, amid the clinking of silverware at the dinner occasion, the room suddenly fell silent, and all the attendees turned their look toward Alorian. From the expressions they unraveled, there seemed to be a mixture of curiousness with a suspicion of how they knew the word, which had vanished out of eras.

"Fascinated, your kids even know the old speech of the magic," a rough yet eerily resonant voice echoed throughout the corners of the room. "Alorian has grown fast, Artonius, I can see tremendous potential in your son."

The elder's stare then shifted to Amarta, who appeared sour and detested her grandmother's desires. "You should allow him, Amarta, after all, it's for his future success," she said.

"Fiona, we know that Isvhara comes here once a week, correct?" Suddenly, the woman in front of Fiona emitted, her braided hair cascading over her left shoulder. "You can learn from her during that time."

"But, Mother," exclaimed the girl with a hint of whining in her voice. "That's not even assured! She might be too busy to come here."

"Exactly," her mother reacted, pressing on not allowing her daughter to go to Ishvara's place. "What makes you think it's any different when you go there? She has many responsibilities at that school, sweetie, you should understand."

Under her mother's stern tone, the ten-year-old girl shrank back, choosing silence and not wanting to argue. As a result, the elder in the room sneered, "Maretta, that's why your children won't succeed in the trials because you keep holding them back from becoming better."

"Learn from your sister, Amarta," the elder advised while sipping her tea. "Do you wish for your child to turn out inconsequential?"

The words landed like a razor-edged blade, its impact stabbing the hearts of the parents, leaving a searing mark. It was a harsh rebuke, and Maretta felt the rising surge of anger within her, but she understood that her standpoint wouldn't alter the situation.

Yet, in this tense moment, a heavy charismatic voice intervened. It was a voice that carried the weight of experience and control, attempting to bridge the divide between them. "Grandmother, please, that's enough. This has gone too far."

"Why is that? Couldn't you bear to hear a simple truth?" Her mood had abruptly soured, and she rose from her seat, leaving the banquet. "Don't blame me if your children lack competence. Are you still hesitant to trust in me, Artonius?"

The sense of relief when the elder disappeared behind the great door washed over the room, mainly for Amarta's relative, who had endured the woman's critical remarks.

The splendid feast had come to an uncomfortable and awkward conclusion, leaving a sour taste in the mouths of the elite. It was an event that nobody wished to immortalize in remembrance.

"Next time, courteously instruct your grandmother on the finer points of etiquette!" The voice cut through the atmosphere as people began to disperse. The man with cropped black hair shot a sharp and stern glance in the direction of King Caeloria, his displeasure unmistakable.

"Herich, we need to talk," Artonius delivered his decree without a hint of remorse.

The king's longstanding bitterness towards Herich was entrenched over the years, rooted in a history that extended even before Herich had defied him during the crucial conference that had shaped Caeloria's future. Their strained relationship was no secret, and the tension between them had only cultivated more enunciated with time.

"Honey, perhaps this isn't the suitable moment for this discussion, especially with our children here," Amarta added as her hand on the muscular man's arm, drew him into a tight embrace as she urged for restraint. "Let's address this matter with a clear mind."

Artonius considered his wife for a moment, thoughts of conceivable consequences weighing on him. Eventually, he acquiesced to Amarta's counsel. He then redirected his attention towards Herich, who still stood there.

"Meet me in the conference room tomorrow; non-attendance is not an option," he directed Herich with a resolute tone, the tension between them observable in the atmosphere.

Herich's facial expression hinted at subtle defiance, but he ultimately agreed to Artonius' order with a broad smile, mischievous glancing at Amarta. "Fine, perhaps this will open your eyes to realize your influence among them."

Departing the grand chamber behind, they departed as a unit, with his wife Maretta and their two children, Erdant and Fiona. The room was now left with the inner circle.

Alorian, with his perceptive and inquisitive nature, moved closer to his parents. He could sense the tension and unspoken unease between them. With a sincere desire to understand, he inquired, "Father, is there an issue we should be aware of?"

Artonius, a formidable figure, shifted his attention to his young heirs, his face concealing the worry that lurked beneath. With a solemn demeanor, he knelt before Alorian, his massive frame in front of Alorian. Placing both of his hands firmly on the child's shoulders, he offered heartfelt advice.

"Stay resolute in the face of your trial, son," he whispered, his voice filled with a father's tenderness. "Let your strength shine through."

Alorian nodded and responded, "But, Father, could you allow me to go to sister Isvhara?"

As darkness gave way to dawn, the celestial throne of the night surrendered to the sun's warm embrace, signaling the commencement of daily life in the bustling metropolis of Caeloria. This city never truly rested, its heartbeat synchronized with the ceaseless activity that had sprung forth from the Industrial Revolution.

Beneath the soft glimmer of gas lamps that lined the cobblestone streets, a diverse array of vehicles traversed the thoroughfares. These meandered from elegantly modified horse-drawn carriages, which had evolved in tandem with the changing times, to steam-powered contraptions adorned with an intricate collection of gears and cogs.

Furthermore, steam-driven automobiles, with their polished brass exteriors, could be seen discreetly parked at the corners of intersections.

The city's architecture was a testament to both engineering prowess and artistic sensibility. Every structure seamlessly integrated steam-powered mechanisms, resulting in a cityscape that paid homage to the spirit of the revolution while maintaining an aesthetic that was nothing short of breathtaking.

The golden hues that bathed these buildings, reflecting the first rays of sunlight, imbued them with an air of opulence that left no detail unattended.

Fashion had undoubtedly transformed as time marched forward, and this era was no exception. Passersby displayed their attire that left Alorian in constant awe, exuding elegance and modernity with their black suits and bowler hats.

Some even sported goggles and incorporated chronometers and machinery into their clothes, creating a fashion statement that was unconventional yet undeniably exquisite.

Amidst the background of clinking hammers striking iron, the metropolis fussed with work. Long benches lined the sidewalks, occupied by individuals enthralled in reading newspapers, savoring their meals, or simply relaxing.

However, beneath the flashiness and opulence it offered, lurking in the shadows and hidden among the narrow crevices amidst the refuse, Alorian caught glimpses of his past life—the life he had once struggled to survive. They were the impoverished, forced to scavenge through the trash to fulfill their hunger.

"Alorian, do you intend to stand there forever?" the man's voice echoed through the streets, its tone so blunt that it startled the child.

He was a mysterious man, shrouded in an all-black cloak that concealed his entire identity. His white hair was hidden beneath a flat cap, and square-shaped spectacles added an aura of intrigue to his appearance.

In contrast, Alorian donned a uniform similar to the man's, save for his square hat, and round glasses decorated with a chain that encircled his left ear. He hastily caught up to the figure. "I apologize, Mr. Brendant," Alorian replied, his voice tinged with a mix of astonishment and contrition.

"I had no idea that this city could be so incredibly beautiful." Alorian couldn't help but marvel at the wonders that lay before him.

"It's accepted," Brendant responded as he continued to walk alongside Alorian toward their destination. "But our travel to the martial arts school is still quite a distance ahead of us."