— Yes. — Oryn replied.
He continued without haste, but with a weight that filled the room.
— The best-known was the Second Patriarch. And all the others died with him… in the Second Great War. But now isn't the time for stories and theories. I'm too lazy to repeat the same thing over and over.
Then Oryn turned to Tissor, and his posture changed—no more joking; it felt like someone else had stepped into him.
— Go to Outpost 09. I want your parents here. How many hours can you make it in?
— Alone? — Tissor calculated for a moment. — Four hours, if I go at full speed… and if nothing goes wrong.
— Then go. — Oryn didn't blink. — First, stop by the Security Division and send a Master to replace them temporarily. My order.
When he finished, Oryn reached into his pocket and tossed a golden medallion. It spun once and landed in Tissor's palm with a cold weight. Symbols in raised relief covered its surface, far too old to be mere decoration.
— Use this to requisition the Master… and to pull your parents out of there.
Oryn straightened. His voice turned formal—an authority that hadn't appeared until now.
— Go now, Dawn's Silence.
Tissor froze for half a second. He hadn't expected to hear his title spoken like that by his grandfather. This is more serious than I thought. Is there some urgency I don't know about? — he theorized.
— Yes, Marshal. — he answered, and left at once.
******
Riven returned to the sitting room, but his brother was no longer there.
"Grandpa must've sent him to go get our parents." — he thought.
And then he realized what bothered him most: before, he wouldn't have noticed those nuances at all. Just like earlier, when he'd caught Oryn's attempt to speak privately with Tissor—by sending him to fetch water.
"I've gotten more perceptive… but did my intelligence increase too?" — he thought.
A chill ran up from the base of Riven's spine.
Crack.
The sound came from his neck, unaccustomed to him moving so sharply—but it helped: at the edge of his vision he caught a blur, and in the next instant—
Fuu.
A light impact at the back of his head, and the world went dark.
*****
Tissor sighted Outpost Nine in the middle of dense forest. Luck—or speed—had kept the forest's teeth away from him: no monsters on the way.
Outpost 09 didn't look like a "base." It looked like a scar driven into the green.
Tall palisades of blackened wood, reinforced with metal plating, formed an uneven ring around a core of low structures. Watchtowers rose above the canopy like fingers pointing at the sky, with torches still burning despite the daylight—not for light, but out of wartime habit. Claw marks and old cuts scored the stakes; some sections had been patched with newer wood, still pale, like exposed bone.
Above, ropes and catwalks linked tower to tower. Camouflage nets hung between them like skin, breaking silhouettes. The air smelled of resin, sweat, and iron—and beneath that, alchemical powder and old blood, the kind that never truly leaves.
Tissor reached the gates.
Before he even touched them, the heavy doors opened with a controlled groan. The guards had already seen him—and more than that, they already knew who he was. No one asks the name of a familiar blade.
Two soldiers studied him for a beat, alert but not hostile.
— Where are my parents? — Tissor asked, with no breath left for formalities.
One of the guards answered immediately, tipping his chin toward the forest.
— Recon mission. They left fifteen minutes ago. Northwest.
— Understood. — Tissor said.
And in the guards' eyes, he stopped being a man.
A blur.
Then he saw it.
Up ahead, between thick trunks and exposed roots, his parents and a few others were fighting a group of earth-aspected panthers. Armored-hide panthers. Expected. This was their territory.
Tissor's father—Vallen—stood out in the chaos as if the forest itself had to make room. He was a colossus: two meters tall, shoulders broad as a mountain—so big he made anyone beside him look smaller than they truly were. His brown hair was cut short, and his whole body carried the density of someone born to forge things… or crush them.
He moved with precision—not like someone "throwing" mana, but like someone weaving it. His hands traced patterns in the air, and unseen streams poured from his fingertips, curling and aligning like obedient threads.
Then the mana took on color.
Bright red. Living. Hot just to look at.
— May the souls of the condemned burn on the soil of Eiralon, may the sacrilege of those destined to face me be collected—your sin is the fuel of my flame… go—Fire Gust! — Vallen shouted.
The streams ignited in an instant, becoming dense flame hurled like a spear into the pack. When the flare faded, where there had been movement there were only charred bodies, thick smoke, and the sharp, sour stink of burnt fur.
Luckily, the group wasn't made up of true high-tier abominations. Their strongest were only a few Adepts—Level 3 beings.
At the same time, Tissor's mother, Siara, turned sharply and locked eyes on him.
Siara was a woman with long black hair, braided and thrown back away from her face. She wore light armor that mixed mail and green-dyed leather, built not to bind the body or betray motion. In her hands, she held a pair of black daggers, matte blades like they'd been dipped in night.
— Tissor… what are you doing here?
At that question, the rest of the group finally noticed Tissor's presence—not because he'd been careless, but because he allowed them to. Until then, only Siara had seen him, exactly as he intended.
Tissor dropped from the canopy with a light step, as if the wind had set him down. There was no haste in his shoulders, but there was urgency in his voice.
— Marshal Oryn requests your presence in Venter City, Father. Mother. — he said, straight.
— Urgency level? — Vallen asked.
— White. — Tissor answered, making a point of showing everyone the medallion his grandfather had given him—especially his parents' companions.
Urgency levels were a quick way to understand a situation in the chain of command. White meant simple compliance—no immediate danger, no imminent threat.
— I'll remain temporarily as guardian of Outpost Nine, so it won't be left unprotected without a Master-level protector. — Tissor said. — As soon as the Security Department sends a temporary replacement, I'll return.
Tissor didn't mention Riven. He feared his parents would panic and, with their minds clouded, make a mistake on the way back.
— We return immediately to the command post. From there, you depart. — he finished.
****
Riven clenched the bedsheet hard, feeling anger rise alongside shame. He hated that feeling of being small—of being carried by someone else's will.
Oryn leaned forward slightly.
— First: I tested your limits to the maximum. — he said. — And your perception isn't limited to your eyes, like Tissor mentioned. What noticed me first were your ears.
Riven frowned.
— My ears…?
— Yes. — Oryn nodded. — And that led me to the second finding: when you perceive, you react too hard. You turned so sharply you nearly injured the muscles in your neck. Your body can't support your own perception. It doesn't keep up.
Riven fell silent. His throat tightened.
Then Oryn continued, more serious.
— Second: even unconscious, your head stayed hot. — he said carefully. — I don't know what you were "thinking" in there… but you only truly rested when I used one of Hanno's pills. It only heated up again about two minutes ago, and then you woke up. I think that was your direct transition from deep sleep into the waking phase. Curious, isn't it?
— Another thing… — Oryn said, linking it to the previous point as if tying off a knot. He leaned back, but his eyes stayed on Riven. — I reached a diagnosis.
Riven clenched the bedsheet again, bracing for the hit.
— But I think you've already suspected something, haven't you? — Oryn continued, almost curious. — In those thirty minutes when you were out… your mind kept working. Kept thinking. Didn't it?
Riven hesitated, as if admitting it gave shape to the fear.
— Yes. — he said. — I kept going. Even unconscious… I was half-aware. I couldn't feel anything. Couldn't hear, speak, or see… but I could think.
Oryn nodded slowly, as if that confirmed what he'd been tracking.
— And what did you conclude?
Riven drew a breath and spoke fast, eager to prove he wasn't weak.
— My first conclusion was about my power. Putting the pieces together, I understood. Soulweaver is a mystical power tied to the soul… so I figured mine was some kind of multitasking. Maybe I have a "cloned" soul, or something like that. A second me. An extra track.
Oryn made a low sound, almost a hum, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
— Good. — he said. — A strong analysis, given what you had to work with, Riven.
The approval was brief. Then his gaze hardened.
— But you're wrong. — Oryn said without cruelty, only firmness. — Wrong… and still close to the truth.
Riven's stomach turned.
— Close?
— Close enough that it'll hurt when I show you the rest. — Oryn took a slow breath. — Today, everything will be revealed. As soon as your parents arrive, you'll know… everything.
Riven started to ask why, but Oryn raised a hand for silence.
— But before that… — Oryn leaned forward. His voice lost its lecture tone. It became more intimate. More human. — My little grandson… may I ask you a question?
In that moment, Riven was sure Oryn's eyes had changed—not in color, but in weight, like he was looking through him.
— I need you to make a decision. — Oryn said, and the word decision hit the room like iron. — A very important one. A serious one. Too serious.
Riven swallowed.
— Before your parents get here.
Oryn fell silent for a beat, as if the next part was harder to say than to do.
— If you accept… you can become strong, my grandson. — His voice trembled slightly, and that was what scared Riven most. Oryn didn't tremble.
Riven tried to answer, but Oryn kept going.
— While I went to get Hanno's pill… — he said slowly, — one of my boxes… the one locked in the attic… started to shake.
Riven frowned.
— The box…?
— Yes. — Oryn nodded. — When I came back, I saw it: it was floating. Slowly. And… moving toward you. Like something inside had sensed you.
The air seemed to grow heavier.
— That's a resonance phenomenon — Oryn said — and I've never witnessed anything like it.
He rubbed his face, a rare sign of exhaustion.
— But there's a problem. That box isn't ordinary. It's a relic from the Previous Era. It's kept—always—by the strongest Estiel of each generation.
Oryn stared at the floor for a second, as if he could see a line running back through time.
— It belonged to the Second Patriarch. He handed it to his youngest son in a hurry, before his final battle. That son led the escape… the escape that brought us to this land. — Oryn lifted his eyes again. — That was two thousand years ago, Little Ri.
A chill ran up Riven's spine.
— And that "something," — Oryn continued, — wants you.
He said wants the way you say hunger.
— Maybe it's an artifact. A sword. A jewel. A seal. I don't know. But the Second Patriarch was a Soulweaver. — Oryn's voice dropped. — And… maybe that's it. Maybe that's why it resonated with you.
He took a slow breath, and for a moment the joking old man disappeared completely.
— Every time I look at that box covered in symbols… I feel fear.
Oryn met Riven's gaze, guilt in his eyes.
— Is it selfish to want you strong in this world?
Riven couldn't answer.
Oryn pressed his lips together, as if he hated saying it out loud.
— Your illness only gets worse. Even Hanno doesn't know how long you'll live. And if my theory is right… — he hesitated, and the hesitation hurt more than certainty — …I don't think you'll reach fifteen.
Riven felt his chest sink.
— Your parents wouldn't let me do this. — Oryn said, firm, almost condemning himself. — But I can see it in your eyes… I can see you feel powerless.
He tilted his head.
— So I'm going to ask you once. And you're going to answer me honestly: do you want to be strong?
*****
— The rabbit is roasted. — Professor Grik said.
— Fuck you. I don't want to hear about any rabbit. Continue the story.
— Education — Professor Grik said — isn't just because you got stronger that you can do whatever you want, young master. I also have the job of educating you, remember?
— I didn't stop because of the rabbit. I stopped just to correct one small thing.
— The box didn't resonate with the master because he was a Soulweaver. — Grik said with a smile. — If only it were that simple.
— Do you think that by the end of this story you'll manage to get it right, young master?
****
— I accept. — Riven said, his voice too steady for a body that fragile. — I want to be strong… even if it costs me my life. I'm going to die anyway, right?
Oryn went silent for a beat. The old smile didn't come. When he spoke, his voice carried more weight than it should have.
— Riven… you don't understand the weight of your choice. — he said, without judging him. — But I won't blame you. At your age, all I cared about was training and playing.
The old man stood.
— Come.
He tipped his chin, and the word came out like an order.
— The attic.
They climbed. The stairs creaked—narrow and steep, the steps worn smooth, dust packed into the corners. The air grew drier and colder with each step, carrying the smell of old wood, stored metal, and things that shouldn't stay sealed for so long. Up there, the attic ceiling hung low, heavy beams cutting the space into shadows, boxes stacked like walls. Symbols carved into certain planks caught the daylight that slipped through a crack, faintly glinting.
And then Riven saw it.
In the center of the attic, on a plain table, sat a dark wooden box covered in symbols—deep cuts, ancient, as if the wood had been marked by nails that weren't human. The box was shaking. Not a small tremor. It vibrated like something trapped inside was pounding, impatient… and pulling.
Pulling toward him.
Oryn approached it without haste, but with caution. When he set his hands on it, the shaking worsened for a heartbeat, like it recognized the wrong touch—then, with controlled effort, he lifted it.
The box felt heavier than wood had any right to be.
It kept trembling—wildly—and with every step Oryn took toward Riven, the shaking grew more "certain," as if the distance were a rope being drawn tight.
— Hold out your hand. — Oryn said quietly.
Riven swallowed and did.
Oryn lowered the box into his palm with care, as if handing over a newborn… or a blade.
The instant the wood touched Riven's skin, the trembling stopped.
Stopped dead.
And nothing happened.
Riven blinked.
Oryn stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the box, waiting for a sign. A glow. An opening. The world reacting.
Nothing.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Then five.
The box stayed silent, as if it had never shaken at all.
Riven's throat tightened.
— And…? — he started, not sure if it was fear or disappointment.
Oryn's brow furrowed. His mind was working fast, but his face didn't show panic—only calculation.
"Connection," Oryn thought. "Establish a connection."
He took a slow breath and looked at Riven like he'd decided to do something he didn't want to do.
— Riven… bite your finger. — he said. — With your canine.
Riven leaned back slightly, annoyed.
— Seriously…?
— Now. — Oryn didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Riven made a face and bit down on the tip of his finger with his canine. The pain was quick. The taste of iron came right after.
— There. — he muttered, the fingertip already burning.
— Now drip it. — Oryn said.
Riven tilted his hand.
One drop.
Just one.
The moment the blood touched the lid, the box answered.
Not with light—with sound.
A metallic snap, then another, like old locks being unlatched from the inside. It was the sound of mechanisms and throats, as if the wood had teeth.
Riven held his breath.
The lid began to move.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
As if it were opening against a will.
Oryn leaned in on instinct. His pulse quickened, and Riven felt his own heart hammer hard, disobedient.
The box opened.
And nothing like a weapon emerged.
No stone.
No metal.
Instead… a drop of blood.
A single drop, suspended in the air—red and alive, as if it had just been born.
It floated above the open box, trembling in place like the very space around it was learning how to hold it.
Oryn and Riven stood frozen, hearing only their own blood in their ears.
Then the drop moved. It didn't fall; it flew straight like a tiny arrow.
It crossed the space between them and shot directly toward Riven's forehead.
— Riven—! — Oryn tried to react.
Too late.
The drop touched his skin… and went in.
No wound.
No mark.
As if his forehead were water.
Riven felt cold explode inside him, followed by a fast, electric heat spreading behind his eyes.
And then the attic seemed to hold its breath.