The village of Oakhaven was a city of vertical divides. In the Upper District, the "Gifted" dined in crystal-walled restaurants, eating meats seared by controlled dragon-fire. But in the Lower Sluices, the air was thick with the scent of charcoal, cheap soy, and desperation. The cobblestones here were slick with the runoff of the mountain rains, and the buildings leaned against one another like tired old men. In Oakhaven, you were either a "Master of the Hearth," owning a grand restaurant and a title, or you were an "Ordinary"—the invisible hands that kept the gears of the village turning.
Fourteen-year-old Konja Munka fanned the flames of a small, rusted portable grill. He didn't have a storefront. He didn't have a mahogany counter or silk banners. He had a wooden cart with a wobbly wheel and a dream that felt far too big for his empty pockets.
"Get your Spirit-Skewers here! Five copper a stick! Seasoned with Munka-salt!" Konja shouted. His voice cracked slightly—a reminder of his awkward transition into his mid-teens, a fact that usually made the local girls giggle and the local bullies sneer.
Konja was a Munka, a family once known for their legendary "Beast-Binding" techniques, but now mostly known for their staggering debt and fallen status. Unlike the elite who summoned towering behemoths to guard their estates, Konja's only companion was Zale, a small, blue-furred creature perched on his shoulder. Zale looked like a cross between a mountain fox and a lightning bolt, with oversized ears that twitched at every sound. Zale was a Crest-Mon, a creature bound to Konja's soul, but currently, the little guy was only good for lighting the grill with tiny, frustrated sparks when the damp wood wouldn't catch.
"Still peddling street meat, Munka? I thought the health inspectors would have burned this pile of junk for fuel by now."
Konja didn't need to look up to recognize the nasal, arrogant tone. Baron Vane stood there, a boy the same age as Konja but nearly a head taller, dressed in a silk training gi that cost more than Konja's entire cart. Baron was a scion of the Vane family, owners of "The Gilded Plate," the largest restaurant in the Upper District.
Behind him stood his shadows: Kiro, a wiry boy with a cruel mouth, and Soma, a hulking youth whose arms were already the size of Konja's thighs.
"It's better than the cardboard you serve at your father's place, Baron," Konja replied, flipping a skewer with practiced ease. "My meat is actually fresh. Yours just tastes like gold coins and disappointment."
"Watch your tongue," Baron hissed. He raised a hand, and orange energy—Prana, the life force that fueled the world—swirled around his palm like a miniature sun. "You're an 'Ordinary.' A Munka without a Great Beast is just a cook with a pest problem. You're polluting the air of this district."
The Spark of Conflict
Baron didn't wait for a rebuttal. With a casual, cruel flick of his foot, he kicked the leg of Konja's cart. The wood groaned, and the grill wobbled dangerously. Red-hot coals spilled onto the damp dirt, hissing as they died.
"Hey!" Konja stepped forward, his eyes flashing. He didn't have a massive Prana reserve like the elites, but he had spent every morning since he was six years old practicing the Iron-Palm Kata. It was a martial art style his grandfather taught him, originally designed to tenderize the toughest monster meats, but equally effective at breaking stones—and ribs.
"What are you going to do, Street-Rat?" Kiro laughed, stepping up and crossing his arms. Kiro's Crest-Mon, a stony-eyed Gale-Hawk, circled overhead, its shadows dancing over the spilled food. "You haven't even unlocked your first Inner Gate. You're just a kid playing warrior with a spatula."
Konja felt a heat rising in his chest—not from the grill, but from his core. "Zale, eyes up."
The little blue creature chirped, its fur standing on end as static electricity began to pop and hiss. In Oakhaven, a fighter and their Crest-Mon acted as a single unit. If the human provided the martial technique and the creature provided the elemental energy, they achieved Technique Synthesis.
"Baron, leave him alone! Don't you have a spoiled life to get back to?"
A new voice cut through the tension. Walking down the stone steps was Mina Sol, a girl from the local apothecary. She carried a basket of silver-leaf herbs, her long dark hair tied back with a crimson combat ribbon. Mina was one of the few "Gifted" who treated the street vendors with genuine respect. She had a quiet strength, and it was a poorly kept secret in the Lower Sluices—though a complete mystery to the dense Konja—that she often found reasons to walk past his cart three times a day.
"Mind your business, Mina," Baron grumbled, though he lowered his hand slightly. The Sol family provided the medicines for the village; even a Vane had to be careful. "We were just teaching the peasant about the hierarchy of Oakhaven."
"The only thing you're teaching is how to be a coward," Mina said, stepping firmly beside Konja. She looked at the ruined coals and the dirt-stained skewers. "Are you hurt, Konja?"
"I'm fine," Konja said, his face flushing a deep red. "I don't need a bodyguard, Mina."
"Stubborn as a mountain mule," she whispered, a small, exasperated smile tugging at her lips.
The Duel of the Sluices
Baron's face twisted. He hated the way Mina looked at the "Ordinary" boy. "Fine. If you're so tough, Munka, let's have a Sparring Bet. Tomorrow at the Training Grounds. If I win, you move your cart out of the Lower Sluices and into the wilderness where the monsters can eat you. If you win... well, you won't win."
"And if I do?" Konja asked, his grip tightening on his iron spatula until the metal creaked. "If I win, you pay for a full year of my family's restaurant taxes. You pay the debt that keeps us on the street."
The crowd of laborers and shopkeepers that had gathered gasped. That was a fortune in copper.
"Deal," Baron sneered, his Prana flaring bright orange. "I'll enjoy watching you crawl in the dirt. Prepare to lose everything, Munka."
As Baron and his lackeys walked away, Kiro's hawk letting out a mocking shriek, the weight of the moment hit Konja. He looked at Zale, who was currently trying to save a stray piece of seasoned meat from the mud. He looked at Mina, whose eyes were filled with genuine worry.
"You know he's reached the second level of the Searing Palm technique, right?" Mina asked softly. "He's been training at the Academy with high-grade Spirit-Stones. He's powerful, Konja."
"I know," Konja said, looking at his own calloused, soot-stained hands. "But he's never had to fight just to keep his stove lit. He's never had to go to bed hungry so his Crest-Mon could eat. I have. That's a different kind of training."
Training Under the Pale Moon
That night, while the rest of Oakhaven slept, Konja stood in the small, weed-choked clearing behind his family's cramped shack. The moon hung large and yellow over the peaks, casting a ghostly light on the training dummy he had built out of old rice sacks and sand.
He went through the motions. Strike. Pivot. Breathe. The Iron-Palm Kata required perfect rhythm.
"Zale! Sync!"
The small creature hopped onto Konja's shoulders, wrapping its tail around his neck. It began to hum, a low vibration that sent blue Prana flowing into Konja's arms. This was the foundation of Prana-Clad Martial Arts. He wasn't shooting massive beams of energy yet, but his punches began to crack the air with the sound of a whip.
I have to get stronger, Konja thought, sweat dripping from his chin and soaking his collar. Not just for the cart. For the Munka name. For my father's broken back and my mother's tired eyes.
As he pushed his body to the limit, striking the sandbags until his knuckles bled, deep in his spirit, something stirred. A dormant power, inherited from a lineage of dragon-tamers and ancient sages, felt the first flicker of his true resolve.
Tomorrow wouldn't just be a fight for a spot on a dirty street corner. It would be the first step in a journey that would take him across the kingdoms.