Chapter Six — Echoes of Truth
Uncle Bran's stare weighed on Azeroth like a physical force.
The man stood with his arms crossed, broad chest rising and falling slowly, eyes gleaming with an almost unholy anticipation—as though he were watching a treasure chest swell, ready to burst open.
"Well?" Bran prodded.
"So?"
"What'd you get, kid?"
Azeroth tried to answer.
He really did.
But the moment he opened his mouth, a cold ripple of dread crept up his spine. It coiled around his heart, tightening until the words shriveled and died before they could escape.
The feeling made no logical sense.
And yet—it was absolute.
As if something buried deep in his instincts, in the very core of his soul, was screaming at him to stay silent.
But silence wasn't an option, he had to say something. anything.
He swallowed, forcing his stiff tongue to move.
"…It's… weird," he said at last.
Bran blinked. "Weird how?" He snorted. "Kid, traits can't be weird. They're either useless, or they turn you into a walking headache for everyone around you. So which is it?"
Azeroth forced a laugh—light, uneasy.
"Yeah, mine is well... more on the 'headache' side."
Bran leaned in.
Closer.
Closer still.
Until Azeroth could feel the man's breath brushing his forehead.
"Kid. Don't dance," Bran growled. "Spit it out."
Azeroth hesitated.
The status panel still hovered before his eyes—visible to him alone—its letters glowing faintly, accusingly.
TRAIT: ABSOLUTE
SUB-TRAIT: DEVOUR
Even looking at it made his skin prickle.
But while he was looking at the panel, something caught his focus, something that caused his eyes to brighten.
Azeroth steadied his breathing.
"…It says my trait is called Devour," he said.
The lie slid out smoothly.
Too smoothly.
Bran frowned. "Devour…?"
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"Never heard of it," Bran muttered, scratching his beard. "Probably unique."
"Maybe it means he has enhanced digestion?" someone whispered uncertainly. Offering what they thought to be a sound suggestion.
A few soldiers nodded as if that explanation made perfect sense.
Others nodded because everyone else was nodding.
Azeroth felt his eyebrow twitch.
He ignored them.
"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "That's all it tells me."
Bran slapped his shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. "Bah! Whatever it is, you're still a freakishly talented brat. We'll figure it out."
Azeroth smiled.
It felt brittle.
Inside, his chest tightened—as though he had just escaped a nightmare by a heartbeat.
"Well then!" Bran boomed. "We tell your parents, and then we celebrate! Not every day you meet a seven-year-old Evolved!"
Cheers exploded around him. Soldiers clapped anticipating the celebration.
And yet... not a single person looked shocked. Not really.
At least not in the way one should when a child breaks a limit that grown warriors struggled years—maybe decades—to achieve.
They were surprised, yes—but this reaction was strangely muted.
They had long grown used to Azeroth doing things that didn't make sense.
If anything, this outcome was... expected.
And perhaps that was for the best.
Azeroth rubbed his temples while looking down on his sweat covered torso. "Can I... shower first?."
"Tch! Fine," Bran grumbled. "Ten minutes! I'll be waiting right outside your door! If you take longer I'm kicking it down!"
Of course he would.
Azeroth chuckled and slipped away toward the estate.
——————
Reaching his room, he walked straight into the bathing chamber. He stripped off his training clothes and collapsed into the steaming pool in the center of the room.
A long sigh escaped him as the warm water unwound the deep, bone-tired ache in his limbs.
As he laid there, his mind briefly drifted to the past seven years he had spent in this world, the things he has learned and the changes that has taken place.
First, he wasn't that fragile baby anymore.
He was now a boy standing nearly 150 centimeters tall—large for his age—with sharp features, dark intelligent eyes, and a body trained hard under Bran's merciless guidance.
His training had begun at exactly three years, and uncle Bran—vice commander of the Clinton' army—was the one assigned to him.
He was trained in multiple weapons, noble etiquettes, history, and general knowledge, strategies, and his personal favorite— evolution theories.
And despite missing Earth's conveniences—technology, internet, even simple electricity—he had adapted to aristocratic life with surprising ease.
His sisters had both left for the academy long ago—Alina when he was two and Sophia when he five.
His grandfather—Alfred, has been gone for a year now, he didn't know where, only that the mood was somber when he left and that he should be back soon.
And that was it about his life.
He had also learned a couple of things about this world…
Auredor… it was anything but simple.
A planet so vast it held thirty-eight continents, most large enough to dwarf Earth several times over—not counting the countless islands scattered across oceans that covered more than ninety percent of the surface.
But this much was necessary, seeing as this world held numerous races some of which had populations in the tens of billions.
There was also the war.
A war that had never ended.
A conflict stretching back millions of years—older than recorded history itself.
Entire races had vanished within it, their names erased so thoroughly that even myths no longer remembered them.
From that endless struggle, Thirteen Major Races had risen above the rest:
Humans
Elves
True Beasts
Null
Dwarves
Giants
Merfolk
Night Dwellers
Fae
Demons
Celestials
Spirits / Elementals
Abyssals
Thirteen titans among countless species.
Among them, the True Beasts stood the most exalted—not for their numbers, but because they alone possessed nine myths within their ranks.
Among humans, seven kingdoms stood united under one banner—the Acadian Empire.
Of which Azeroth—the Clinton family—were based in Indra.
—one of the seven.
A land of steel, honor, and relentless ambition.
The Clinton family—his family—stood as one of its pillars, guarding the kingdom's northern borders.
Then there were the myths.
Beings at the peak of evolution.
Each Major Race possessed at least one. Without them, a race had no right to call itself major.
As Azeroth dried his hair, his thoughts circled back to the same thing.
His trait, absolute.
What kind of trait was it?
Most people instinctively understood their trait the moment it awakened—like breathing, or moving a limb.
But for him?
Nothing.
Nothing—except that crushing certainty to never speak of it.
He didn't know what it meant or did.
But deep down, he felt it.
The feeling that whatever this absolute truly meant—
It was far larger than anything he could conceive or comprehend in that moment.
And until then… he could only imagine.