July 2, 6:40 a.m. — Villa Fortunae, Cossyra Island

The acrid scent of smoke still hung heavy in the air as a young Carthaginian boy named Hanno, and his little sister, Astarte, cautiously emerged from a hidden shelter beneath their home. The shelter's entrance, camouflaged by a thick layer of earth and grass, had protected them from the fiery chaos that had consumed their village.

"Where's papa?" Astarte cried, as Hanno lifted her onto his back and carried her through the charred remains of their home.

"I don't know," Hanno sniffled, making his way out into the streets, his eyes taking in the horror before him—burnt houses, blackened debris, and the lifeless bodies of their fellow villagers strewn across the ground. "Let's go check on nanna and baba."

Trembling, Hanno approached the ruins of his grandparents' home, carefully lowering Astarte from his back. Together, they stepped into the burnt remains, where the once warm, sturdy walls now stood as skeletal frames. Amidst the rubble, Hanno spotted a familiar object—a wooden jewelry box, scorched but miraculously intact. It rested in the ashen hands of their nanna. With a heavy heart, he carefully retrieved it, the weight of loss pressing down on him. Astarte's soft sobs filled the air, but before Hanno could offer comfort, a distant, rhythmic thudding reached his ears—the unmistakable sound of an approaching army. 

Panic seized the kids as they glanced at each other, their instincts urging them to flee. They sprinted out of the village and into the forest, the underbrush scratching at their legs and the shadows of the trees providing a fleeting sense of safety. Finding a tall palm tree, they scrambled up its rough bark, settling among the high fronds. From their vantage point, they could see the source of the noise: nearly one hundred men, armor glinting in the dying light, marching in perfect unison up the path toward the old volcano. 

Hanno watched with a mix of wonder and terror as the disciplined ranks of soldiers moved closer. His heart pounded as he realized the scale of the force. Suddenly, Vice Commander Hadrianus, with his keen eyes, spotted the boy hiding among the leaves. Without hesitation, he drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. The arrow whizzed past Hanno's head as he slid down the tree just in time, hitting the spot where he had been perched. The near miss left Hanno breathless on the ground. He grabbed Astarte's hand, ready to run again, but a brief conversation halted them. 

"Should we go finish them off, sir?" one of the guards asked Hadrianus, eyeing the children. 

"No," Hadrianus replied curtly, "save your energy for the battle ahead. They are no threat to us." 

Relieved but still terrified, Hanno and Astarte took the chance to disappear deeper into the forest, the shadows of the mountain forestry swallowing their small forms as they ascended the volcano.

4.7 miles southwest, 7:14 a.m. — Magna Vulcanus Crater, Cossyra Island

Hanno and Astarte reached the outer forested edge of the crater, their breaths coming in quick gasps as they slowed their pace. The bright glow of the sun illuminated the scene before them: a tranquil pond at the center of the crater, reflecting the vibrant colors of dawn. However, the serene beauty was marred by the sight of a fierce battle taking place around the pond. 

"Look," Hanno said, pointing, "It's the old mountain man!"

"It is!" Astarte replied, stepping in front of Hanno. Both recognized Set—an old man known to pass through their town on his way to the shore. But now, here he was, locked in combat with two fearsome warriors, Virgilius and Nikandros. Though they were half his age, Set's movements were swift and surprisingly faster.

The old man moved with a fluid grace, as he sidestepped and parried their every strike. The children's eyes widened in awe and fear as they watched the clash unfold. Then, to their astonishment, Set paused mid-fight, turned toward the pond, stepped into its cool waters, and splashed his face, ignoring the two weary warriors behind him.

Seizing the moment, Virgilius and Nikandros had a brief, silent conversation using hand signals. 

Nikandros gestured sharply, mouthing, "Let's run the sweep maneuver." 

Virgilius wiped some sweat from his eyes and nodded in agreement. 

With a shared resolve, the two warriors rushed toward Set, taking advantage of his seemingly vulnerable position. Virgilius swung his sword at Set's head, but the old man ducked low, the blade slicing harmlessly through the air. At the same moment, Nikandros swiped his spear across the ponds's surface, aiming for Set's legs. In an incredible display of agility, Set retracted his legs mid-air, dodging both attacks simultaneously before landing back on his feet, completely unphased. 

"Well done," Set remarked, his voice commanding genuine praise. "Working together has indeed increased your odds. The pond waters rippled as Set stepped back, holding his hands out as if to calm the fire burning in Virgilius and Nikandros' eyes. "Your strength is undeniable," he began, his voice steady but edged with an authority that even the gods would not dare challenge. "Your training? Impeccable. But I can tell your victories were against opponents who were not your equals. They were weaker—divided, disorganized, or simply ill-prepared to face you."

Nikandros, his dark eyes narrowing, spat back, "You think we are conquerors of cattle? We were forged in the heat of wars waged by the greatest empires."

"And yet," Set interrupted, stepping to the side as a ripple in the water brushed against his calf, "none of those empires prepared you to fight someone like me."

Virgilius growled, the muscles in his shoulders flexing like a lion ready to pounce. "You dare mock the legions? I have bled and killed for the glory of my people!"

Set smirked faintly, an expression that only fueled their rage. "And have you ever bled because you were outmatched? Or do you only bleed when your own mistakes cut you?"

Their tempers snapped. In unison, the warriors lunged forward, water exploding into the air as their feet churned the pond. Virgilius' sword arced toward Set's head while Nikandros aimed low with a sweeping strike. Set ducked, the blade slicing air above him, then sprang backward just in time to avoid Nikandros' low attack. Water splashed in dazzling arcs, catching the midday sun like shards of glass, but Set was already moving.

"Too slow," he taunted, his voice carrying over the splashing chaos.

Virgilius growled and leapt forward with an overhead strike, his blade cutting through the mist of water droplets hanging in the air. Set sidestepped, catching Virgilius' wrist mid-swing and twisting it just enough to send him stumbling into Nikandros, who had charged from behind. The two warriors collided with a resounding splash that sent waves lapping at the shore.

On the hill above, the children watching gasped in unison, their small hands clutched tightly together. "The old man doesn't even have a weapon!" Hanno exclaimed, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"Shh!" Astarte hissed, her wide eyes never leaving the fight. "It's because he's toying with them!"

The warriors regrouped, circling Set like wolves closing in on their prey. This time, they moved as one—Nikandros feinted left while Virgilius swept in from the right, their blades carving synchronized paths toward Set. But Set moved like water itself—flowing, bending, and twisting out of reach.

Their blades clashed mid-air as Set turned their synchronized attack against them, spinning away just as their weapons crossed dangerously close to each other's flesh.

Set tilted his head, the faintest smile playing on his lips. "I see now," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Individually, you are formidable. But together, you are something extraordinary. Your contrasting styles weave into an attack that is both unpredictable and unified—like opposing tides merging into a single force. Few can merge such differences into attacks so synchronized. Yet, your coordination is still flawed. If you can sharpen your ability to truly mirror each other, to move as extensions of the same will, you will achieve a mastery few can oppose."

Frustrated, Virgilius roared and launched himself forward, his sword whistling as he brought it down with all his strength. Set sidestepped at the last moment, using his palm to guide the blade downward into the water. The splash sprayed them both, and for an instant, the world was a blur of motion and droplets.

Nikandros took advantage of the distraction, thrusting his blade toward Set's ribs. But Set twisted his body in a near-impossible contortion, narrowly avoiding the strike. In the same motion, he grabbed Nikandros' wrist and pushed, sending him skidding backward through the water.

The children on the hill erupted into cheers. "He's untouchable!" Astarte cried.

"Is he even human?" Hanno whispered, awestruck.

Virgilius and Nikandros exchanged glances, their breaths ragged but their determination unbroken. They launched into a complex maneuver, leaping in tandem and spinning their blades in a deadly dance meant to confuse and trap Set. For a moment, even the children fell silent, holding their breath as the warriors' blades blurred in the sunlight.

But Set moved faster than their eyes could follow, ducking low under one strike, pivoting to dodge the next, and finally stepping into their formation to break it apart. With a sharp splash, he swept his leg in a low arc, sending both warriors tumbling into the water.

As they scrambled to their feet, dripping and fuming, Set stood tall, his expression unreadable. "You're strong. You're skilled. But you're not invincible. Learn to fight without ego, or you'll always be vulnerable."

The children cheered louder now, their voices echoing across the hills. The two warriors glared at Set, but beneath their frustration lay a flicker of understanding—one that would hopefully take root long after the pond's water had settled.

"What's so entertaining?" A low, gravelly voice broke the children's excitement.

Hanno and Astarte spun around, their faces draining of color. Vice Commander Hadrianus stood behind them, his polished armor glinting through the canopy's dappled sunlight. Around him, the shadows of nearly a hundred Roman soldiers blended with the trees, their presence so silent and overwhelming that escape seemed unthinkable.

The children were too terrified to answer.

Hadrianus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by their silence, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, two soldiers stepped forward. They grabbed the children and forced them to sit beside the vice commander on a fallen log.

Hadrianus' gaze swept over the battlefield in the crater below, where Set danced between Nikandros and Virgilius, their swords thrashing through the air but never quite finding their mark. A faint smirk curled at the corner of his lips. 

"Ah," he murmured, his tone light but laced with malice, "now I see what's caught your attention." He pulled a canteen from his belt, unscrewing the cap with a practiced wrist flick. Offering it to the trembling children, he added, "A friendly little skirmish between our finest warriors. Go on—have a sip. Let's watch and see how they perform, shall we?"