The Astoria Knight Academy was less a school and more a forge, an institution where the air tasted of iron and ambition. The training regimen was not merely difficult; it was brutal, designed with cold efficiency to strip away every shred of weakness and leave behind only tempered, flawless steel. For Aldomite, these trials were not just intense—they were existentially draining.
He was unnaturally fast. Too fast. Unbearably strong. Too strong. Every physical drill, every weighted, mud-caked run, every gauntlet was met with an impossible reserve of energy that defied his ten years and his documented history of malnourishment. This reserve, however, came at a terrifying cost. When he pushed past his natural limit, the edges of his vision would briefly narrow and darken. He wouldn't just feel tired; he'd feel a terrible, cold rage simmer beneath his skin, demanding a violent, chaotic release.
Aldomite was consistently the best performer, yet this success was a hollow victory. He would often collapse afterward, the sheer expenditure of raw, toxic energy leaving him drained, his muscles seizing up until he could barely lift his fork at the mess hall. He set impossible marks in the sunlight, only for the subsequent nights to be consumed by cold sweat, tremors, and fragmented nightmares—dark, chaotic visions he could never fully grasp upon waking.
And always, there was the scrutiny of Commander Graven.
Graven seemed to monitor Aldomite with a hawk-like intensity, his presence a chilling, ever-present reminder of the disastrous fire and Darian's defeat. The Commander clearly despised the boy's undisciplined, chaotic strength and designed drills specifically to exploit Aldomite's lack of discipline and tendency toward rage. Graven used petty, surgical insults, cruel jokes about "commoner blood," and impossibly shifting standards, working to provoke the spectacular, explosive failure he craved.
But Aldomite was not alone. Lipton was his shield. When Graven would corner Aldomite, his voice dripping with malice, Lipton would subtly intervene—not with defiance, but with a perfectly timed, disciplined, technical question about a footwork drill, or by simply stepping calmly into the line of fire. "It's the basics, partner," Lipton would murmur to Aldomite, his voice low and firm. "Discipline first. Don't give him what he wants."
Calvin, quiet and observant, acted as the unshakeable anchor. He ensured they were always paired as a trio in any free-sparring session, creating a protective, unspoken bubble against the Commander's malice. They were the three children who had lost everything to the flames, and they moved as one unit, bonded not by friendship, but by the shared, tempering fires of trauma
Aldomite initially dismissed the surge of dark energy and the accompanying thoughts as simple, lingering trauma from the fire—the panic and fear manifesting as anger. But as the months wore on, the internal presence became too distinct, too arrogant, to ignore. It was a cold, sneering consciousness—not an audible voice, but a clear, resonant thought that vibrated deep in his bones, speaking only when he was on the brink of collapse or consumed by rage.
During a particularly grueling endurance test designed by Graven—a relentless three-hour circuit—Aldomite found himself staggering, his lungs tearing with every breath.
The Voice (Cold, Scornful): Yield, little host. This human exercise is pointless. These weaklings will fail you, as they failed me. You require vengeance, not this impotent discipline.
Aldomite fought back silently, using the vivid, determined image of Lipton's face—set against the sweat and pain of the run—to push through the paralyzing fatigue. It's just the panic talking, he silently insisted. I am in control. I am Aldomite.
Yet the entity persisted, mocking his every move that prioritized teamwork and measured effort over raw, chaotic destruction.
The Voice: You share your strength with these weak insects? I am the power of pure malice, born of divine betrayal, and you use me to clean stalls and appease these simpletons? You waste my infinite potential!
The disdain felt absolute, ancient, and utterly inhuman. It couldn't have come from the mind of a ten-year-old boy. It was a consciousness separate from his own, an alien entity residing inside him, fueled by his hatred but not bound by it.
One moonlit night, racked by a nightmare where the great demon Arabatogon laughed on repeat as the world burned, Aldomite jolted awake, slick with cold sweat and desperate for answers. He couldn't go back to sleep; the shame and the fear demanded to know what the 'voice' was.
Creeping out of the barracks, Aldomite made his way to the Academy's restricted annex. It was a massive stone vault reserved for advanced research into the ancient history of the Great War, and its iron door looked impossibly heavy, secured by complex warding spells.
He knew he couldn't use strength alone. He had to use the Voice's power. Focusing, he felt that familiar, cold surge—toxic and sharp—rush through his veins, amplifying his speed and senses. He moved in a silent, blurred rush, slipping past the meager guard station like a phantom. The effort burned like acid in his lungs, and he sagged against a dusty shelf inside the vault, fighting the nauseating urge to vomit.
He didn't just casually browse; he was overwhelmed. Hundreds of brittle, leather-bound scrolls and cylinders detailing forgotten wars, ancient treaties, and half-remembered heroes covered the shelves. Yet, as he reached the third row, his hand was abruptly drawn to a single, charred text. It felt strangely warm, almost inviting, despite its damaged state.
His heart began to pound a frantic, erratic rhythm, mirroring the energy surging inside him. The text detailed the "Divine Betrayal" of the first Great War, speaking in veiled terms of Galaxoius, the Demon God, and the debilitating paranoia that consumed his supposed divine allies.
Then, he found the name he was looking for: Zechtron, the God of Hatred.
The brittle scroll described Zechtron's primordial madness, his raw, chaotic magic, and the fear that led the other Gods to willingly allow his death. It concluded by describing Zechtron's final, desperate act: the creation of a volatile, powerful remnant of malice—a Core Essence designed for eternal vengeance.
Aldomite gasped, his grip tightening on the parchment. It wasn't his grip that mattered; it was the raw power inside him. The scroll flared with a noxious, yellow light, and the ancient text momentarily swam before his eyes.
Zechtron (Resonating, Smug): You know my name now, little host.
The thought struck him not like a simple thought, but like a thunderclap that echoed in his skull, filled with a triumphant, terrifying satisfaction. Aldomite didn't just sink to his knees. His entire body locked up, rigid with a silent scream caught in his throat. He finally knew the truth, and the sheer terror of it threatened to shatter his consciousness.
"You are Zechtron," he thought, his own mind a trembling wreck. "The God of Hatred. And you are inside me."
Zechtron (Rejoicing, but Cold): I am the power that lets you stand against this treacherous world, foolish human. I am the fire that will burn your enemies to ash. And since you've read the history, you should understand the true consequence of our unwilling union.
Aldomite squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the tidal wave of Zechtron's presence. Consequence? What consequence?
I am the Core Essence. Arabatogon killed me to free the power needed to revive Galaxoius, the true Demon God of Darkness. The Gods trapped me in you—in your untouched, powerful soul—to contain the threat. But now, I am awake. You are not a knight, Aldomite. You are merely the key to freeing the greatest enemy this world has ever known. You are the weapon that will unleash the end.
The revelation struck Aldomite not just as words, but as a freezing, paralyzing dread that locked every muscle in his body. His will was overwhelmed. Your will is a delightful novelty, Zechtron murmured, amused. But meaningless. When a river is dammed, does the water choose its course? You were chosen for your purity, your strength of spirit—the perfect, untainted vessel for my emergence. Arabatogon knew that only the strongest cage could hold the darkest prisoner. The world around him—the dusty vault, the ancient scrolls—dissolved into a vortex of white noise. He was no longer fighting a monstrous presence; he was fighting his own very foundation, the reality of his own existence.
Chapter 3: TRIAL AT THE FORREST