Tissor didn't wait for Riven to insist again. His eyes had already decided.
— We're going to see Grandpa Oryn. Now. — Tissor said, short and clipped.
— And Dad? And Mom…? Is there no way to call them? I wanted them here too, right now. — Riven asked quietly.
— Outpost 09. — Tissor replied, flat. — The farthest one. They're already… competing with the Monsters.
The word competing sounded wrong. This wasn't sport. This wasn't glory. It was survival dressed up with a nicer name, Riven thought.
— Three days through dense forest. — Tissor continued, practical. — We can't call them. We can't wait for an answer.
So that was it. If something had happened to him, they were starting with Oryn. Not with medicine—with truth, Riven thought.
Their grandfather's house sat north of Belly City, near the main gate—the big one of dark wood and ironwork, guarded like a wound that was always about to split open. Two armed sentries stood there like statues; the wind carried sap, dust, and metal, and the distant sound of the forest felt like something breathing.
One of the reasons Oryn lived there was simple: he could move fast if the beasts ever invaded. If the gate so much as trembled, he'd be outside before anyone finished their first prayer.
The house, unlike the others, had the silence of something that didn't need to prove itself. Thick timber. Blade marks in the beams. A low porch with worn steps. Not pretty—prepared.
Tissor knocked.
For a moment, nothing.
— COME IN! — Oryn shouted from inside.
Tissor pushed the door open, and Riven followed.
Oryn was… upside down.
Not figuratively. The old man was inverted, doing push-ups on a single finger—his index finger planted like a pillar—and, as if that weren't enough, he balanced a long "log" on the soles of his feet, something that looked like wood until the eye caught the cold sheen.
Iron.
An iron "log," scarred with hammer marks and darkened like something that had known too much fire.
Oryn looked like Tissor—just older, and more shameless. Thick brown hair threaded with gray strands that snaked through the darker ones like dry roots in living soil. The same hard structure to his face, only carved deeper by time: heavier lines, an easier grin, eyes that always seemed to find the joke before they found the danger.
— Three thousand, three hundred and twenty-four! — Oryn announced, still upside down, proud.
Then he let the iron drop.
The impact thundered through the house. The floor groaned. Dust jumped in a puff. Riven felt the vibration climb his shins.
Oryn rolled out of the pose with boneless ease and stood in a blink. He was sweating, but smiling as if gravity itself were a punchline.
— Before I had your father, I didn't even sweat before four thousand. — Oryn said, wiping his brow theatrically. — Old age is truly my nemesis.
He looked them both over, assessing.
— Luckily, I've still got plenty of "vigor," and I can court a few young ladies. — Oryn continued, scandalously pleased. — Ah, yes… those old Council pricks forbade it. "Oh, we don't know what, young people must stick with young people and you shouldn't interfere," they said. But tell me—how is it my fault they want me? I thought that after twenty or twenty-five, women would know what's best for them: the great Me. Tell me, Riven—do you think you'd be able to control yourself?
Riven didn't even understand what he was talking about. He was only seven, and nowhere near anything resembling hormones.
Beside him, Tissor let out a hard breath. This is why I don't come here, he thought.
— You filthy old degenerate! — Riven shouted. — The youngest woman who hit on you this year had wrinkles like a canyon crack!
Pain snapped across his ear—a precise flick.
Riven turned, stinging, and found Tissor wearing the same look as always.
— TRAITOR! — Riven yelled. The words fell on deaf ears.
— No swearing, Riven. — Tissor said in a warning tone. — We've talked about this. Next time, you're reciting the dictionary—sitting down, facing the wall.
Oryn laughed, privately proud of Little Ri's answer. Fools who think he can't defend himself, he thought.
— Facing the wall is good. Humiliating and educational. — Oryn said, amused. — Perfect for a foul-mouthed brat like Little Ri.
Riven scowled, but the truth was simple: his mouth was Oryn's fault. Too much time around Grandpa did that to anyone. It wasn't rare for Oryn to take care of Riven—after all, the old man was only assigned special missions, and special missions were… rare.
This last year, Oryn had been gone. And because of that—along with Riven's thousands of pleas for a little autonomy—Riven had spent a handful of nights alone, counted on one hand.
The last time, he'd fainted.
Damn it, Riven thought. So much for freedom.
Tissor was looking at him again with that expression—like nothing was going to happen on his watch anymore.
Tissor was fighting beasts at my age… under supervision, Riven thought.
But Oryn had already stopped joking.
His gaze dropped to the bandages, lifted to Riven's eyes, and stayed there—still—as if the whole house had stopped breathing. He knew Tissor wasn't his biggest fan, and the microtension in his shoulder—combined with Riven being here—meant this involved the boy somehow. It wouldn't be proper to talk military matters with him within earshot. Having reached that conclusion, Oryn said:
— Alright. Tell me properly what happened.
After that, Tissor summarized everything in a few sentences: the unbearable pain the night before, the blackout, and Riven waking up with his mind running "in parallel." He said he'd run a simple test, and Riven read the attack like a report—he even named the number of fingers Tissor had shown—despite there being no trace of refined mana in him.
Oryn broke into a wide grin. Not mockery—genuine happiness, rare in a man who'd seen too much.
— Come here, Little Ri. — he said, animated. — I know you like understanding the world—mostly through books. Let's play a game: I want you to guess what I'm thinking.
Oryn stepped closer, as if the secret were hanging in the air.
— Tell me—how many races exist in this world?
— Seven, Grandpa. — Riven answered automatically.
— And which are they?
— From the so-called Rational Core: humans, dwarves, elves, giants, werewolves… and us, the Estiels. From the Irrational Core: the beasts.
— Right. — Oryn nodded, still smiling. — And what's the difference between us, elves, and humans?
That flipped Riven's encyclopedic switch.
— Aesthetically, we're called the Trinity of Likeness, because we're practically identical. Elves have longer, sharper ears. But the difference between our race and humans is internal: we have two hearts and stronger mana veins from birth… and that restriction no other race has.
Oryn raised an eyebrow, pleased.
Riven drew a breath and kept going.
— In terms of birthrates, humans reproduce the most among the rational races… only losing to beasts in general, since some beasts have one offspring and others have thousands, like ants.
Riven looked at Oryn as if presenting a lesson.
— As for raw talent, almost every Estiel can naturally reach Level 2, Adept. Elves come right after, with an easier time producing powerful children. Humans, generally, depend on a strong bloodline. Outside of that, the chance of someone being born magical is extremely low… and even lower for someone to be born with high potential.
Oryn nodded again, tilting his chin slightly as if fitting the last piece into place.
— And that's where the power system comes in, Little Ri. — he said. — Among sentient races, the ladder follows levels. But the path… you choose.
He raised one finger.
— You can become a mage, externalizing mana into spells.
He raised another.
— Or you can become a warrior, internalizing mana and reinforcing the body through your element until flesh itself can erase mountains.
His smile returned—small, dangerous.
— And finally… there's what our race will never be. The rarest and most volatile power. The kind of thing that shows up far more often among humans than it should.
Oryn looked at Riven, serious.
— Soulweaver…
— Soulweaver. — Tissor said, cutting him off. His tone wasn't defiance—it was precision. — Strong, depending on the perspective, Grandpa. Each one manifests a different, unique power. Our records mention a human Soulweaver who could detect lies. And since a Soulweaver can still follow one of the traditional paths, he became a warrior who unified people thanks to that ability. Powerful, no doubt… but I don't think that makes us, as a race, weaker.
Oryn tilted his head, as if accepting half and rejecting the rest.
— You're right, Tissor. Detecting lies… among so many other recorded mystical powers. — He didn't smile; his gaze hardened. — But a Soulweaver is terrifying in human hands, because they have an advantage you didn't mention. Or rather… one you haven't explored yet.
He took a slow step, as if the floor were a game board.
— Human bloodlines carry the strength of the progenitor. If the mother or father is magical, it's almost certain the child will be. If both are… the odds become close to certainty.
Oryn paused, letting it sink in.
— Now tell me, Tissor: while every other race—except ours—relies on randomness, humans have predictability. A Soulweaver father… will most likely have a child just like him.
Tissor and Riven fell silent, stunned by the realization.
Snap. Riven's chest started pounding fast, like his body understood before his mind did. And then his mind caught up—running calculations, fitting pieces together, replaying every detail from last night like flipping through a book for the thousandth time.
Damn it… I'm an idiot. How did I not think of this?
The air turned thin. The world seemed to "lag" again—only now he was the one ahead of it.
Riven's eyes went wide.
"I'm a Soulweaver."
And the laugh burst out—too loud, too jagged—relief and panic crammed into the same throat.
— I'M A SOULWEAVER… HAHAHAHAHAHAH!
When Tissor understood what Riven was saying, he glanced at Oryn. The old man's smile wasn't surprise—it was confirmation. A slight nod was enough.
— Yes, Little Ri. — Oryn said calmly. — By all indications… yes.
Riven swallowed. The euphoria was still shaking inside him, but now it had weight.
— Then what's my power? — he asked, too fast.
Oryn's smile faded a little.
— I don't know.
The word landed plain, without cruelty—and still, it hurt.
— Or rather… we don't know enough yet. — He crossed his arms, turning serious. — Not what it will become, not how it evolves, not how it can be… forced to evolve.
Riven went still, waiting, like the next sentence might save something.
— Every Soulweaver has a unique power. — Oryn continued. — And a unique path. That means you'll have to find out for yourself.
He exhaled, and the sadness showed only at the corners of his eyes—quick as a shadow.
— And I'll tell you this now: it won't be anything physical. — Oryn glanced at Riven's bandages. — I… don't think this will ease your illness.
But Oryn lifted a hand, cutting off any new outburst from Riven before it could become more than laughter.
— But, Little Riven… stay here today. — he said, far too lightly for the weight of it. — We'll run a few "fun" tests to understand your power better.
He pointed toward the kitchen with the lazy authority of a man who didn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
— We'll start now. Go get this old man a cup of water. I need to test whether your cup-filling skills improved. Be polite, my superpowered grandson. — Oryn said with a corner smile.
Riven made a face.
"Tsk."
Annoyed, he went anyway. He was used to giving in to his grandfather's whims.
When the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, the air in the room changed.
Tissor's gaze turned cold. Icy.
— That restriction story is real, Grandpa? — he asked quietly, without detours. — If it is… then how?
Oryn didn't answer right away. He only watched the direction Riven had gone, as if measuring how much this conversation could hurt.
Tissor tightened his jaw.
— The last Soulweaver among us was in the Great War… two thousand years ago, wasn't he?