Astra followed him without asking any questions. The two left Arthur’s house and headed toward another corner of the village. Arthur maintained a calm, unhurried pace, as if he wanted to give her time to observe and absorb the place.

  After a few minutes, a large building rose before them, constructed from aged but well-maintained stone. The massive wooden doors were carved with symbols Astra couldn’t recognize.

  As they stepped inside, a soft murmur greeted them, followed by the rhythmic sound of wood clashing against metal. Astra let her eyes wander across the vast hall, widening in quiet awe. In front of her, dozens of children and teenagers were training in various combat arts, each wielding a different weapon. Swords, bows and arrows, heavy maces, and hand-to-hand combat everything seemed like a perfect dance between discipline and instinct.

  A small girl with her hair in two braids tensed her frail arms and released an arrow, striking the center of a distant target. On the opposite side of the hall, two boys practiced with wooden swords, their movements mimicking a real duel. Instructors walked among them, correcting stances, giving guidance and encouragement.

  Astra felt a shiver of admiration. These children weren’t just learning to fight; they were learning to be real warriors how to control their breath, their strength, and their minds. But not in a brutal, punishing way... not like how she had been trained.

  — This is incredible…, she murmured.

  Arthur watched the scene with a peaceful, proud air.

  — I’m simply continuing my master’s will.

  He ran his hand across a training rack, the weight of memories settling on his shoulders.

  — He gave me this mission before he died.

  Astra studied his face for a moment. Behind the calculated, cool expression, she could sense a burden he carried silently. In his eyes, she saw both respect for the man who taught him and a promise made long ago.

  — I’m sure he’d be proud of you, Astra said sincerely.

  Arthur turned toward her, slightly surprised by her words. He tilted his head back and sighed, not confirming nor denying, then continued walking and Astra followed.

  They passed through rooms where kids were crafting their own arrows, where teens trained to shoot while maintaining balance, and where an elderly man instructed soldiers in defensive and offensive tactics. The place pulsed with life, but also with discipline.

  Astra suddenly stopped, her eyes drawn to a secure display case near the temple’s exit. A soft light bathed the statuettes inside stone sculptures that seemed to hold untold stories.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  — What are these? she asked, stepping closer.

  Arthur stopped beside her, his expression turning contemplative.

  — These were carved by an old sculptor, a long time ago. He wanted to protect his village from invading colonists.

  Astra pressed her fingers against the cold glass, examining the details of each figure. They were warriors, each posed differently one with a spear raised to the sky, another holding a shield, and a third with hands joined as if casting a curse. All were frozen in time, yet their sculpted eyes carried a haunting determination.

  Arthur continued, his voice growing darker in tone.

  — Legend says the god Balor appeared to the sculptor and offered him a choice… to sell his soul in exchange for power. Balor promised to help him defeat the colonist army, and the old man accepted without hesitation.

  Astra looked at him, intrigued.

  — And what happened?

  Arthur folded his arms.

  — The spirits summoned by Balor entered the sculptor’s body, granting him the ability to wield any weapon as if he’d been born with it. In just three days, the old man defeated an army of one hundred thousand soldiers each one armed to the teeth.

  — One hundred thousand?! Astra exclaimed. That’s insane… He really did all that alone?

  — He was possessed by powers far beyond any ordinary human… Arthur murmured. But every power comes at a price.

  As he spoke, a dark wall behind them revealed itself, covered in minimalist drawings that looked like they’d been scratched onto ancient paper. The illustrated scenes depicted the sculptor fighting endlessly each image a new phase of battle. In one, he raised a massive mace, shattering a full column of soldiers. In another, swords around him floated mid-air, controlled by an invisible force.

  But at the end of the sequence, the sculptor’s image began to change.

  Astra bit her lower lip, watching as the old man’s body began to twist and deform. The very weapons he had wielded so masterfully were now piercing his flesh, as if no longer obeying him.

  — Balor returned after the battle ended, Arthur continued, his eyes fixed on the final image. He reminded the sculptor of their agreement. But the old man, blinded by victory, tried to keep his soul. He raised a sword against the god. But… it wasn’t him who controlled the blade.

  Astra felt her stomach twist.

  — It turned against him? she whispered.

  Arthur nodded.

  — All the weapons he’d used during those three days turned on him. In a single moment, his body was pierced by his own creations and his soul was ripped from his chest.

  Astra turned her gaze back to the statuettes. Suddenly, they looked far more menacing.

  — Or at least… that’s what the legend says, Arthur added with a faint smile, noticing the unease in Astra's eyes.

  — What happened to the village? she asked.

  Arthur placed his hands in his pockets.

  — The village was saved. But no one remembered the sculptor’s sacrifice. Instead of being honored as a hero, he became a cautionary tale about greed and betrayal.

  Astra traced her fingers along the display glass, lost in thought about the man who believed he could outwit a god. Her eyes drifted again to the two remaining statuettes. A thought struck her suddenly, and she tilted her head slightly to one side.

  — But… there are only two here.