Somewhere deep within the forests of Warnerheim, clusters of tall, simple stone structures stood proudly against the wilderness. These were not ordinary buildings—they bore the unmistakable rough-hewn architecture of the Kronan people. Towering yet primitive, they blended naturally into the rocky environment. Dozens of Kronans, the rock-skinned species native to Rhea, moved about with purpose, their stone-like frames heavy and deliberate with each step.
Amidst the structures, one building stood out. It was the tallest among them and adorned with ancient carvings that told forgotten stories in the Kronan dialect—likely the tales of their ancestors. This building, carved from a single massive slab of volcanic stone, was evidently the seat of power and judgment in this Kronan settlement.
Inside this great hall, a familiar figure kneeled on the rocky floor—fat, nervous, and still breathing heavily from his escape from Shilute. This was the same Kronan who had once confronted the young stone child but fled in terror upon realizing his strength.
Towering above him on a raised dais was a massive Kronan unlike the others. His rocky exterior was jagged and weathered with the erosion of centuries. Sitting on a throne hewn directly from the floor itself, this was Chief Kronan—the presumed leader of this tribe, and perhaps one of the few remaining ancient warriors of Rhea.
The chief's molten-orange eyes gleamed with disbelief as he processed the story.
"You're telling me… you saw him spit out rock? From his mouth?" he said, his voice deep like shifting tectonic plates.
"Yes, Lord Chief," the fat Kronan stammered, visibly shaken. "I—I saw it with my own eyes. The child—he created rock from nothing. I thought it was legend, that only the Ancestor Kronans could shape the land with their breath… but he did it."
The ancient Kronan chief stood with a sudden quake, his massive frame casting a long shadow down the hall. He raised a jagged finger and growled, "Then why didn't you bring him? With the Warner Gods entangled in war against the trolls and frost giants, now is our moment to rise! If that child truly embodies the ancient blood, he is our key!"
He stepped down from his throne, his voice rising like thunder. "The Kronan people of Warnerheim, even those still on Rhea—all would unite behind the Ancestor's rebirth!"
The fat Kronan winced, lowering his head. "We tried, Lord Chief. But he's… not normal. Though he appears no older than a human child, his strength—it's terrifying. Mog was destroyed with a single strike. I barely made it out alive."
Chief Kronan froze. "How old did you say he looked?"
"Barely up to my waist," the fat one answered. "But he shattered Mog like sandstone. It must be him—it has to be one of the Ancestors reborn."
A silence settled. The chief began to pace, gravel grinding beneath his feet. Finally, he muttered, "We must capture this child. Where is he now?"
"Luo Lei Mountain, about eight days from here."
"Then we move now. Prepare the war band!"
—
Eight days later
"Crack… crunch…"
Shilute, or Koishi Root as the young stone child had come to be known, gnawed contentedly on a chunk of granite. His arm—the one destroyed in the previous fight—had since regrown, though the new stone was a slightly different hue, marbled and darker. He sat cross-legged outside his stone house near the mountain slope, his gaze peaceful—until it wasn't.
A shift in the wind caught his attention. His head turned slowly, and his gem-like eyes narrowed at the sight approaching along the winding mountain trail.
An elderly Kronan was ascending the path. Unlike the others Shilute had seen before, this one was thin, stooped, and wore a carved stone pendant of peace. His rocky face smiled with practiced warmth, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps, arms open in what he clearly hoped appeared non-threatening.
But Shilute remembered. He remembered the others—the fat one, the screaming, the fight. He stood quickly, tension rising in his young body, watching the elder Kronan with a wary glare.
The old one stopped several paces away, still smiling. "Child," he said gently, "what is your name? Why do you live alone here?"
Shilute said nothing. His silence wasn't only from suspicion—he simply didn't understand. The Kronan tongue was foreign to him, as alien as fire to ice.
Seeing the lack of response, the old Kronan pulled out several bright-colored candies and held them out. "Do you like sweets?"
But Shilute tilted his head, confused. Unlike normal Kronan, who had adapted to humanoid diets, Shilute's biology was unique. Born from stone and sustained by stone, he had no interest in sugar or processed food. To him, the candy was meaningless.
After a few more failed attempts, Shilute's patience frayed. His voice, deep and raw for one so small, boomed: "Buzz!"
The old Kronan stumbled back, startled, and retreated quickly down the mountain trail, his attempt at diplomacy having utterly failed.
—
At the foot of the slope, a dozen Kronans waited, warriors and leaders alike, including Chief Kronan.
"How did it go?" the chief asked.
The elder shook his head. "He doesn't speak. Doesn't understand. No reaction to language, food, or gifts."
"Did you inspect the stone house?"
"Couldn't get close. He became aggressive any time I approached. I think… we'll need force."
The chief's eyes narrowed. "Let's move."
Moments later, over a dozen Kronans advanced up the trail. Their approach sent tremors through the mountain. As they came into view, Shilute rose to his full height—still barely half theirs—but his presence was fierce.
He leapt back as the group advanced, moving defensively toward his stone home.
"Seize him!" Chief Kronan commanded. "Alive!"
The warriors roared and charged.
"Buzz!" Shilute bellowed.
A flood of mud and stone surged from his mouth, sweeping across the slope and crashing into the attackers. Several were immediately buried, others staggered and slipped.
Then he struck.
A rocky fist formed at his side and launched like a cannonball into a Kronan's chest. The blow didn't kill, but the impact cratered the warrior's torso and left him groaning on the ground.
Panic broke among the remaining Kronans. They clawed free of the rock and rushed again, some recklessly, others in tight formation.
Shilute repeated his defense: spitting rock walls, hurling chunks of stone. Though primitive, the tactics were brutally effective. One by one, Kronans fell—injured, pinned, or unconscious.
On the sidelines, the elder Kronan murmured, "He's terrifying. Had I upset him earlier, I wouldn't have survived."
Chief Kronan grimaced. "But his strength has limits. His body—see his arms—they're eroding."
Indeed, Shilute's arms were smaller now, the stone chipped and fractured. His flying stones were made from his own body—a fact that separated him from mindless golems.
Finally, with a strained roar, Shilute hurled the last rock from his right arm—and missed. His right limb fell to the ground, severed at the shoulder. His left had already been lost in the fight.
Now, he stood defenseless.
"Get him!" shouted a warrior, abandoning the order to keep him alive. "He's finished!"
Shilute panicked and spat a final mudslide, retreating frantically toward the stone house. His balance wavered without arms, and he nearly stumbled.
Boom—boom—BOOM!
The door behind him shuddered. Kronans were trying to smash their way in.
Desperate, Shilute opened his mouth and released a torrent of stone. He filled the front half of his home with layers upon layers of rock, building up barricades and reinforcing every crack.
This was his sanctuary. Backed against the mountain itself, the stone house now resembled a fortified turtle shell, impervious and immovable.
And Shilute—though battered and limbless—was not finished. Not yet.
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