Chapter 51: Ronan’s memories

Chapter 51: Ronan’s memoriesChapter 51

When the helmet was placed upon Ronan’s head, a faint glow surrounded him. The others instinctively closed their eyes as if reacting to an unseen force. When they opened them again, the world had shifted.

They now stood atop a mountain, surrounded by clouds and wind, the horizon stretched with a quiet stillness. Confused, they glanced around—then they saw them.

Three figures stood nearby: a young boy, no older than four, quietly observing two teenagers sparring. The older boy looked around sixteen, while the girl appeared to be about fourteen. Just by looking, one could tell they were family.

The girl lunged forward with her wooden sword. The older boy parried it effortlessly, but she quickly flipped through the air with grace and force, catching him slightly off balance. She seized the opening and attacked again—but he was ready. With a swift motion, he swept her legs from under her and placed his blade gently on her neck.

"You lost, Jane," he said with a smug grin.

His expression darkened briefly, as if recalling something painful, but it quickly gave way to laughter.

"I told you, you’re still not at my level, little sister," he teased, offering her a hand.

She pouted but didn’t argue as he helped her up.

Then a small, determined voice piped up from the side. "Fight me!"

They turned to see a tiny boy—Ronan—clutching the wooden sword Jane had dropped. His black hair matched theirs.



"What are you doing, Ronan?" the older boy asked, bemused.

"You only pick on the weak! If you’re a real man, fight someone strong!" Ronan yelled, his tiny voice fierce as he charged forward.

The boy, Jaime, sighed and sidestepped easily, continuing to talk to Jane as if Ronan’s wild swings didn’t even exist. The child kept slashing, missing every time.

"He just loves me more," Jane said, annoyed at Jaime’s questioning glances.

"Loves you? But I’m his brother too!" Jaime replied, ducking another clumsy strike. This time, he playfully smacked Ronan on the backside with his wooden sword. The boy tripped and landed face-first in the dirt, erupting into loud sobs.

Jane laughed, then ran up, scooped Ronan into her arms, brushed off the dirt, and placed him gently on her shoulders, offering him a piece of candy. The tears stopped immediately.

Then she turned to Jaime.

"This is the difference between us," she said coldly. "You hurt him. I comfort him."

Jaime blinked, confused. "What?"

Before he could fully process her words, Jane was already walking away with Ronan. Jaime chased after them, trying to play with Ronan, but the boy slapped his hand away angrily.

At the top of the slope, Han and the others stood silently, smiling as they observed the heartfelt scene. The bond between the three siblings—Jaime, Jane, and Ronan—reminded Han of his own family.

The vision shifted again.

They were now inside a grand, ancient-style mansion—not modern, but regal in every sense. Lavish paintings adorned the walls, and priceless artifacts stood proudly in display. Though the group could see everything, they remained unseen, unable to touch or speak. Even Aiden, usually quick with sarcasm, stayed silent.

A six-year-old Ronan ran past them, bolting into a room where Jaime now stood, clad in black battle armor with twin dark blades strapped to his back. He was clearly preparing for war.

"Come in," Jaime said, noticing him.

Ronan hesitated, then obeyed.

The room fell silent until Ronan spoke.

"You’re leaving again?"

"Yes," Jaime replied softly.

"But why? Why do you have to fight? Why do people have to die?" Ronan asked, eyes wide with innocence.

Jaime knelt and patted his little brother’s head.

"You won’t understand yet, Ronan. Maybe when you’re older."

Ronan pouted, but his expression soon turned serious. He remembered his other brothers—older than Jaime—who had gone to war and never returned. Jaime sensed the change in his expression and patted his head.

"Don’t worry," Jaime said gently. "This brother will always come back to you."

Ronan stayed silent, his tiny fists clenched. He hated feeling helpless.

"I’ll bring you something special for your birthday," Jaime added with a smile, rising to his feet.

"Stay safe," Ronan whispered softly, then quietly stepped out toward the main hall.

Inside, several middle-aged men and women sat in a formal arrangement, their expressions solemn. At the top of the hall sat a man with long black hair and sharp eyes—Ronan’s father. He was currently in the middle of a serious discussion with the family’s elders.

"This ’Exterminator’... he’s the main supporter of the Greydawn family. Reports suggest he may be an Awakener," one elder stated, his tone grave.


The room fell silent at the mention of an Awakener. Fear crept into their expressions. Awakening granted individuals terrifying abilities—known simply as Skills—and wielders were often devastating in battle.



"What rank do we believe his skill to be?" another elder asked cautiously.

"We’re not certain," the first replied. "But considering the number of our men lost, we estimate his skill is at least B-rank, possibly higher."

Murmurs broke out in the hall.

"If a commander of ours were to face a B-rank Awakener, what’s the likelihood of victory?" the patriarch asked, voice even.

One man, likely a strategist, thought for a moment before answering. "Roughly 70% chance, my lord. One of our commanders did manage to defeat a B-rank Awakener once."

"In that case..." the leader said, eyes narrowing, "we must assume this Exterminator is A-rank. Send more scouts, double our surveillance. We will eliminate this threat first, then bring the Greydawn family to justice for their crimes."

The elders nodded in agreement, and the meeting slowly dispersed.

Once alone, the patriarch sighed—a deep, exhausted sound. The war was not going in their favor.

He turned toward Ronan, who had been standing quietly at the side. "Come here, son."

Ronan approached and respectfully greeted his father. Surprisingly, the stern-faced leader of the Steele family lifted him effortlessly and placed him on his shoulders. No matter how intimidating he appeared to others, to Ronan, he was still a gentle father.

As they strolled through the ancient hallways, Ronan asked the question that had been weighing on his mind. "Father, why don’t we have any Awakeners in our family?"

His father sighed. "Come. I’ll show you."

They entered a vast room lined with stone statues—towering figures of men and women, each wielding weapons with flawless precision. Despite being stone, their poses conveyed power and mastery.

"These," his father began, "are the ancestors of the Steele family. Warriors whose feats shaped human history. Every single one of them was a legend."

He gestured to each statue in turn, explaining their contributions—how they led armies, saved cities, or fought off terrifying monsters.

Then he stopped before one statue in particular—a man with spiky hair, a cigarette resting in his mouth, and ten swords strapped to his back.

"How did he even use all those swords?" Ronan asked in awe.

His father chuckled at his puzzled expression. "That’s Eric Steele, the first to master the ’Art of Ten Blades.’ He was known as the God of Swords and was considered the strongest of his time."

Ronan looked unconvinced. Every ancestor was apparently the "strongest" in their era based on his father.

But then something caught his attention—at the very back of the room stood a lone statue, separate from the rest. Its presence felt... different.

He moved closer.

This figure had a calm, composed face, untouched by fear. At each side hung a sword, and on his back was a large sheathed blade that exuded quiet power.

"Ah," his father smiled. "You’ve got good instincts."

Ronan frowned. "Even a fool could tell he’s special. He’s practically displayed like a treasure."

The patriarch laughed. "You’re not wrong. That’s Jared Steele—the very first Steele. The founder of our bloodline. The man who began it all."

Ronan tilted his head. "Let me guess... the strongest of his time?"

His father shook his head. "No. He was more than that. Jared Steele wasn’t just strong—he was called the greatest human to have ever lived. Some even say he surpassed the gods."

"Do you believe that?" Ronan asked.

His father paused, gazing up at the statue. "I don’t know. I’ve never seen a god or fought one. But when I look at this statue... I feel something. A greatness that words can’t explain."

His voice lowered, carrying a heavy emotion. "The Steele family has endured for countless generations... but now, it feels like we’re nearing our end."

Ronan looked up, startled by his father’s tone. It was the first time he had seen such gloom in his father’s eyes.



"You asked why we have no Awakeners?" the patriarch asked.

Ronan nodded.

"It’s because we Steeles once had a unique ability—our own power, different from Awakenings. But... it’s been sealed. Lost. And we still don’t know why."

Ronan nodded again, understanding the gravity of their situation.

At the far end of the room, Han and the rest stood silently. Though they couldn’t interact with Ronan or his father, they were captivated by the magnificence of the statues.

Aiden’s eyes lingered on one statue in particular—one that stood out from the rest. Unlike the others, this figure held no weapon. Instead, he simply raised a single hand, fingers splayed as if commanding the very world itself.

Aiden frowned.

He walked closer and squinted at the name etched at its base:

Conner Steele – Leader of the Shadow Legion.

Aiden’s brows furrowed. "Why does he look like a damn bastard?" he muttered under his breath.

But his instincts were sharp. Something about that statue unsettled him... and he couldn’t explain why.

To be continued.....