The snow no longer melted at midday.
Winter had settled over Blackstone Keep, turning the world into a monochrome of grey stone and white drifts.
Three months had passed.
In the secluded training grounds of Sector 4, Kael stood bare-chested in the freezing wind. His breathing was steady, his posture relaxed, skin still holding the warmth of recent exertion.
His breath drifted out in pale smoke. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his shoulders and chest, cooling slowly in the wind.
The body that had once been dry and undersized now carried visible muscle. His frame had filled out completely—shoulders broadened, arms thick with trained mass—until his build matched that of Valen's personal guard, compact and powerful, shaped for sustained violence.
All of it had taken place within a span of three months.
The transformation came from abundance.
Valen's resources had been constant and excessive: endless meat, crates of salted jerky, marrow broth thick as oil, dried liver, concentrated nutrient paste, restorative tonics, and a steady supply of aether sufficient to sustain continuous physical adaptation.
Aether moved through his body with every breath, carried through muscle and bone by blood still running hot from training. Soreness faded faster than he expected. Strain dispersed within hours, leaving only residual heat and weight. Day after day, the effect accumulated—longer sessions, same-day recovery, and no loss of output.
In ninety days, he had grown nearly a hand and a half taller.
The cost of that speed was written across his entire body. Deep purple stretch marks spread along his back, across his thighs and shoulders, branching over muscle that had grown faster than the skin could accommodate.
They traced the lines of rapid expansion—bone lengthening, muscle thickening, structure changing all at once. His joints carried a constant, grinding ache. At night, pain burned through his shins, spine, and shoulders as muscle and bone continued to push against their limits.
The result was undeniable.
The loose, folded leather armor that had hung off him three months ago now fit like a second skin. Straps pulled tight to their last notch. Muscle—dense, corded, and precise—filled every gap.
He wasn't built like Kogan. His body held tension instead of bulk, drawn tight like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
"Captain."
A messenger stood at the edge of the training ground, looking nervous.
"The Commander wants you."
[Captain Valen's Office]
The fire in the hearth was roaring, but Valen didn't look warm. He stood by the window, watching the snow fall.
When Kael entered, Valen turned. His gaze moved over him once, then lingered. The difference from three months ago was complete. The boy who had stood here then no longer existed.
Kael's presence had changed. His movements carried weight and control, his bearing composed, the kind that reshaped first impressions.
"You look almost like a noble now," Valen said, voice even. "Hard to believe what you were when you arrived."
He studied Kael for another moment.
"I'd rather not imagine what you'd be like if someone with your talent had been cultivated from childhood," Valen added. "You'd be something else entirely."
"The resources you provided made it possible," Kael replied, his voice deeper than before.
Valen walked to his desk and picked up a letter sealed with red wax. He tossed it onto the wood.
"A problem has surfaced. It's yours to handle."
Kael looked at the letter. The seal was unfamiliar, one he had never seen in Blackstone.
Valen barely glanced at the letter as he spoke, fingers idly turning the seal as if it were routine correspondence.
"Sir Janson's family. They're displeased. They demand the head of the man who killed their son."
Kael didn't flinch. "I thought he was listed as 'killed in action'."
"He was," Valen gave a short, dismissive tilt of the head. "But nobles don't accept 'bad luck'. They need a villain. They are pressuring the Keep for an investigation."
Valen tapped the letter with a finger.
"I told them it was the work of Myriad."
Kael knew the name. Myriad. An assassination network threaded through the entire Empire, its operatives hidden in plain sight—clerks, servants, mercenaries, priests. No uniforms. No territory. Only reach.
Their most infamous success had shaken the continent decades ago. A reigning emperor, guarded by an entire capital and layers of oath-bound protection, had died inside his own palace. No siege. No uprising. One blade, one moment, and an empire woke leaderless.
Since then, Myriad had become the explanation whispered whenever someone powerful died too cleanly. They were proof that rank, walls, and titles meant little once a name appeared on the wrong list.
"The family demands justice," Valen continued, a cynical smile touching his lips. "They want the killer found, arrested, and executed."
He looked at Kael directly.
"You were there. You know best what the killer looks like. "
"I was," Kael agreed evenly.
"Good. Then you are the best man to lead the investigation."
Valen pushed the letter toward him.
"Take your squad. Bring me a head that fits the crime. I don't care whose it is, as long as it closes this case."
"Understood."
Kael reached for the letter, but Valen held up a hand.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin, battered book. The black leather cover was rubbed smooth, the corners rounded, the spine softened from being bent open countless times.
Title words had been deeply scratched out with a knife, leaving gouges in the leather. Only Breathing Technique — Foundation remained legible. The word before Breathing had once been Knight.
Valen slid the book across the desk.
"Stop using the standard army breathing method," Valen said. "It was never meant for anything beyond fodder."
Kael took the book.
Valen's gaze lingered on him, measuring.
"You've grown. Your bones are strong enough now. Keep using an infantry technique, and this is where you stop."
Kael looked at the scratched-out title. He had questions.
He looked up at Valen. "Sir, about the next stage... the Transcendent state..."
"No," Valen cut him off sharply.
"When you reach the level of the centurion brutes you've faced on the battlefield, then I'll tell you."
Valen waved a hand, dismissing him.
"Now go. Janson's family is impatient."
Kael brought his fist to his chest in a perfect, sharp salute.
"As you command."
[The Training Grounds - Sector 4]
Kael walked into the squad room. The air was thick with the smell of oil and leather.
Griggs was polishing his shield. Kogan was oiling his massive hammer. Silas was sharpening a dagger, and Jarek was restringing his bow. Bren sat apart from the others, fully absorbed in a book, eyes fixed on the page, unaware of anything beyond it.
They stopped when Kael entered. They saw the letter in his hand. They saw the book tucked into his belt—everyone except Bren.
"Gear up," Kael said, his voice cutting through the room. "We have a target."
Chairs scraped against the floor. Weapons were sheathed. Packs were shouldered.
Five minutes later, the squad walked out of the barracks and toward the northern gate, leaving the safety of the Keep behind.
Beyond the gate was the ground he knew best—his hunting ground.
The hunt was on.