The black stone quay of Fortitude's End was a familiar, cold comfort. The fortress, still breathing a collective sigh of relief after the 19-hour siege, felt quiet, its usual martial hustle subdued by exhaustion and the memory of the Wave. The sky held its usual, bruised, greenish-grey tint, and the oily black sea lapped at the pilings with a sound like a tired sigh. The Iron Gull was already being loaded, its sailors—grizzled, scarred veterans of the Grieving Coast, men who had seen far too many winters—gave the black-armored knights on the dock a wide, respectful berth.
Asterion and Elian stood before Kalean. They were fifteen years old, but their new, unadorned, soot-grey plate armor, identical to the legion's, marked them as what they were: Holy Knights. They were no longer squires. They were survivors.
Kalean, a mountain of dark steel, looked them over. The lines on his 173-year-old face seemed to have been carved deeper by the recent battle, but his eyes were as sharp as forged iron.
"You have your rank," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that Asterion felt in his chest. "But your true training is just beginning. The battle you fought, the Wave you survived… that was a test. Your life until now has been the forge. Now, you must learn to be the smith."
He handed them two items. The first was a heavy, rolled vellum map, its edges sealed in thick, black wax bearing Kalean's personal sigil—an anvil.
"The Church gives its knights maps of cities, fortresses, and Tainted Nests. This is not that." Kalean's gauntleted finger tapped the roll. "This is my personal copy, annotated over the last century. It marks the 'thin' places of the world. Places the priests ignore. It marks 'Aether Nexuses.'"
Asterion's 33-year-old mind seized on the term. Aether. The power of the world, not of humanity's Faith. The alternative path.
"Aether Nexuses," Kalean continued, "are places where the world's breath is strong. Mountains where the wind never ceases, ancient groves where the rot is a thousand years deep, volcanic vents that breathe the world's inner fire. The Church teaches you to drink from the well of human Faith. This map shows you where to find the rivers of the world itself. Do not rely on one well when the world offers many. A true warrior uses every weapon available to him."
He then presented the second item. It was a thick, heavy, leather-bound book. Its cover was scarred, bearing the slash-marks of Tainted claws and dark, long-dried stains. Its clasp was not metal, but the polished, sharpened bone of what must have been a Rank 3 Conscious Tainted. It was Kalean's personal journal.
"The Aegis Sanctum will give you your 'Holy Bath.' It is a ritual. A formality," Kalean said, his voice dropping low, meant only for them. "It will align your Faith with the Church's, and it will strengthen your vessel. But it will not teach you. They will give you doctrine. This," he tapped the heavy book, "is my experience. It is my life's work, my mistakes, and my victories, all earned in blood."
His gaze was heavy, seeming to weigh their very souls. "It details my own decades-long struggle to condense my Faith from liquid to solid. My failed experiments. The paths that led to ruin. The mental 'tricks' I used to find the 'absolute zero' state. It is the road map I built in the dark, piece by painful piece."
He looked them in the eyes, his scarred face an unreadable mask of iron. "I am giving this to you because you both have touched the next state. You, Asterion, by the shock of battle. You, Elian, by your own terrible nature. But you are unrefined. You are raw power without the wisdom to control it. This journal is that wisdom. Read it. Understand it. And then, surpass me. Your true path is not in their chapels, but in the world."
Asterion accepted the items. His 33-year-old mind was reeling, not with emotion, but with the sheer, staggering value of the gift. This was not a present. This was data. Primary-source, qualitative data from a Great Knight, a master of the Singularity. This was the key he had been missing, the manual to his own spiritual attribute. He felt a cold, intellectual hunger to open it.
Elian stepped forward, his expression open and clear. He met his master's gaze and clasped his own forearm in the formal warrior's salute of the Grieving Coast. "You honor us with your legacy, Captain," he said, his voice ringing with a sincerity that cut through the gloom of the quay. "We will not fail your trust. We will prove worthy of it."
Kalean's grim expression softened by a fraction. He nodded once, a sharp, heavy gesture. "See that you do. Now go. The Gull waits for no man."
They turned, their new grey-steel armor a stark, grim statement, and boarded the ship. It was a silent, profound farewell between a master and his two, monstrously gifted, apprentices.
The journey was long. Per their orders, they were not heading directly back to the Aegis Sanctum. Kalean's "extra time" was a multi-month detour to the wealthiest and most "secular" of the other continents—Rhaga.
Asterion became a hermit in their small, damp cabin. The moment the quay of Fortitude's End vanished into the oily black mist, he had unrolled the journal. He devoured it. His 33-year-old mind, aided by his Perfect Memory, didn't just read; it consumed, cross-referenced, and synthesized.
He relived the battle, the moment his Inhuman Insight had triggered. He remembered the feeling of perfect, cold, analytical clarity. And now, Kalean's words gave it context.
> The Singularity is not achieved by heat. Rage is a hammer, it can forge liquid, but it cannot create the final, perfect density. The hammer only shatters what it seeks to create. The Singularity is born of cold. An absolute zero of the mind. A perfect, unmoving stillness. In that void, and only in that void, can Faith be compressed beyond liquid.
Asterion spent hours in meditation, the rocking of the ship a constant, unsteady metronome. He was no longer just "finding the cold"; he was, for the first time, practicing it. He let the storm of his Curse rage, the high-fidelity memories of the farmhouse, of Mishel's screams, of his parents' blood, playing in his mind. But now, he did not use the rage as fuel. He used the memories as an anchor, a fixed point of horror, and he practiced being the stillness at the center of his own inferno. He used Kalean's journal as a manual, a step-by-step guide to making his "Singularity" state a reliable, summonable tool.
Elian did the opposite.
He, too, read the journal, often in a single, focused night, his mind absorbing it with terrifying speed. But his practice was external. He was a social genius, and the crew of the Iron Gull was his new proving ground.
He learned the names of all forty sailors. He'd spend hours with the first mate, a man named Hrolf, listening to stories of sea-Tainted and ghost ships, his engagement genuine. He'd help the one-legged cook in the galley, laughing at their bawdy jokes and learning to peel tubers with a sailor's deftness. The grizzled, hardened sailors, who normally gave knights a wide berth, found themselves opening up to him.
One evening, Asterion saw him sitting with Hrolf, who was quietly weeping into a mug of grog, speaking of the son he had lost on the Grieving Coast. Elian wasn't offering platitudes or comfort; he was just listening, his presence a solid, calm anchor that allowed the old sailor to unburden himself. He was, Asterion realized, practicing his own form of Faith—not the cold of the void, but the weight of absolute, unmoving presence. He was a fortress, not just for himself, but for others.
One night, a vicious squall hit, born from the edge of a Lament-storm. The ship didn't just rock; it dropped from the crest of a wave, sending a crash through the hull. A young sailor, new to the sea, was thrown against the rigging. A sharp crack of bone and a raw scream cut through the howl of the wind. As the ship heaved, the sailor began to weep, his cries of pain turning into a raw, panicked wail.
Asterion, deep in meditation, felt his concentration broken by the sound. It was a raw, human distress that cut through his focus. He was filtering it out, re-centering his mind to find the "cold," when the cabin door slammed open. It was Elian, his dark cloak soaked, his hair plastered to his face.
"I need your help," Elian said, his voice calm but urgent, a perfect signal in the noise of the storm. "It's Jon. His leg is shattered, open fracture. You've read the medical texts. I need your hands. I'll handle him."
Asterion nodded, his mind instantly shifting from meditation to analysis. He grabbed a clean cloth and a small flask of distilled spirits from their gear. He followed Elian onto the drenched, chaos-filled deck.
Elian was already kneeling by the weeping sailor, his own body braced against the lurching of the ship. He had taken the man's hand, his voice a low, reassuring anchor. "Breathe with me, Jon. You're safe. We've got you. The pain is just a signal. Listen to my voice instead." The sailor's panic subsided, his breathing hitching as he focused, mesmerized, on Elian.
"Do it now, Asterion," Elian said, never taking his eyes off the sailor.
Asterion moved with clinical, detached efficiency. "This will hurt," he stated, not as a warning, but as a fact. He cleaned the wound, set the bone with a brutal, efficient shove and twist. The sailor screamed, a raw, terrible sound, but Elian never let go, his calm voice a lifeline. "That's it. It's done. You're all right. The worst is over. You're a veteran of the Coast now, Jon."
Later, back in the cabin, Elian handed Asterion a piece of hardtack. "Good work," he said, his voice carrying a genuine warmth. "Thank you."
Asterion nodded, accepting the ration. His hands were perfectly steady. "You kept him from going into shock. His pulse was stable, despite the trauma. Your method was effective."
Elian just smiled, a brief flash of his true, cold self. "Different kinds of battle, Asterion. That's all."
The Port of Cyrene, the glittering capital of Rhaga, was an assault. It was the absolute antithesis of the Grieving Coast.
The sun was a brilliant, almost violent, gold that felt like an insult after fifteen years of bruised, grey skies. The water was a vibrant, clear blue, not oily and black. The city itself was a riot of white marble, gold-leaf domes, and colorful silk banners that snapped in a clean, warm breeze.
The smell was not rot and ichor, but a complex, overwhelming wave of new spices—saffron, cardamom, and a dozen others Asterion couldn't name. It was mixed with floral perfumes from women in bright silks, the rich scent of roasting meats, and the sharp, clean brine of a healthy sea. The sounds were not screams and groans, but music from stringed instruments, the chime of a thousand market bells, and the boisterous, emotional chatter of people haggling, laughing, and arguing over nothing.
Asterion, in his grim, functional, soot-grey armor, was an anomaly. He was a 15-year-old boy with the eyes of a 173-year-old man, and he radiated a cold, lethal stillness. The crowd parted around him as if he were a leper, a walking piece of the grave.
His 33-year-old mind was in a state of profound culture shock. This was the "normal" world he had died to protect, and he found he no longer belonged to it. These people were soft, loud, and alive, their concerns so trivial it felt like a different dimension.
Elian, however, was a different story. He wore a new, dark woolen cloak over his armor, his hood down, moving with the crowd, not against it. He was the buffer.
A city guardsman, his helmet plumed with purple feathers and his breastplate polished to a mirror shine, stepped in front of Asterion, his hand on his pommel. "Halt! State your business. We don't allow Grieving Coast mercenaries in the city proper. Your armor is... unnerving."
Before Asterion could even process the man's words, Elian was moving. He stepped in front of Asterion, placing himself between the guard and his friend, his smile disarming and polite.
"Apologies, sir," Elian said, his voice light and respectful. "We're not mercenaries. We are Holy Knights of the Aegis Sanctum, on official Church business, en route to the capital." He produced the travel papers Kalean had given them, already in his hand. "My friend and I have just completed a long posting on the Grieving Coast. We are... still adjusting to the light."
The guard, who had been ready for a fight with a grim-faced killer, was completely disarmed by the polite, well-spoken, and charismatic 15-year-old in front of him. He glanced at Asterion's cold, ruby-eyed stare, then back at Elian's easy grace.
"Hmph. Very well," the guard said, stamping their papers. "Move along. And... try not to frighten the locals. We're a city of trade, not a fortress."
"We'll be as quiet as shadows, sir," Elian said with a small, respectful bow. "Thank you for your diligence."
As they walked away, Asterion gave Elian a sideways glance. "You handled that well."
"He was just a man doing his job," Elian murmured. "He's not a Tainted. He's just... 'clean.' You have to speak their language."
They had a month and a line of credit. Asterion didn't "shop"; he "procured." He went to a mapmaker and bought high-quality vellum maps of Rhaga, his mind already analyzing trade routes and political borders. He visited an alchemist and purchased rare, local reagents to analyze, his 33-year-old scientist's mind curious about this world's non-Aetherial chemistry.
Elian, meanwhile, shopped. He bartered good-naturedly with a weaponsmith over the balance of several blades before purchasing a perfectly weighted, unadorned stiletto, earning a nod of respect from the smith for his eye.
It was Elian who stopped at a food stall, drawn by a complex smell of roasting meat, sweet fruit, and a sharp, unknown spice.
"We should try the local provisions, Asterion," Elian said, flashing a disarming smile at the stall owner. "Good for morale. Two of your best, please."
The owner, charmed, quickly served them two skewers of "Rhagian Fire-fruit & Spiced Boar."
Asterion took a clinical, hesitant bite. The flavor... exploded. It was sweet, then spicy, then savory, with a smoky aftertaste. It was... incredible. His Perfect Memory searched for analogues and found none. He was genuinely, profoundly surprised.
"...It's good," he admitted, taking another, more deliberate bite. His 33-year-old mind began deconstructing the flavor profile, isolating the individual spices.
Elian grinned, taking a large bite. "It's delicious, Asterion. See? Fuel doesn't have to be punishment." He bought a second skewer.
They spent most of their time in the city's massive, open-air training courtyards. As Kalean's notes advised: "Know the local fighting styles. Every master of Faith or Aether has a different method."
The largest courtyard belonged to the Temple of Phobos, the god of prosperity. A huge crowd was gathered, cheering, placing bets, and throwing flowers.
Asterion and Elian, standing in the shadows of an archway, listened. Everyone was talking about "Cassian the God-Sworn."
He was twenty years old. He had a unique, dual-pathed education, squired under both a Great Knight and a High Priest. He was, they said, "unbeatable" in pure swordsmanship. He had awakened his own spiritual attribute: "Kinetic Echo."
As they watched, they understood. Cassian was in the center ring, sparring with three local Holy Knights at once. He was golden-haired, handsome, charismatic, and smiling, playing to the crowd with every effortless parry. He was a river, a blur, his sword a flash of light.
Asterion's 33-year-old mind went cold, analyzing. Kinetic Echo. It's not precognition. He's not seeing the future; he's feeling the immediate present. He's sending out a low-level, constant 'ping' of his own Faith, and it's 'echoing' off the opponent's kinetic intent, the very moment their muscles fire. It's a reactive attribute, not predictive. Its weakness? An opponent with no intent, or an opponent whose physical speed is faster than the echo's return time. Or... an opponent who can mask their own intent entirely.
Elian's analysis was different. He's arrogant. He's playing. He's never been in a real fight. He's never had his Faith tested against true Malice. He's a flawless swordsman... and a complete child.
Cassian flowed around their telegraphed attacks, his blade a silver blur, disarming all three with a humiliating, contemptuous ease that made the crowd roar with laughter.
He was their opposite: light, celebrated, and "clean."
Cassian, his chest barely heaving, laughed and raised his blunted sword to the cheering crowd. "Is there no one in Cyrene who can offer a true challenge? A real spar? Or has the Grieving Coast claimed all our warriors?"
The crowd laughed.
A voice—not cold or dead, but clear, confident, and carrying a sharp, amused edge—cut through the air from the shadows.
"A real challenge, you say? We might be able to help with that."
The crowd parted. Elian stepped forward from the archway, his new stiletto at his belt. A polite, almost roguish smile was on his face, but it didn't touch his eyes.
Cassian, the charismatic prodigy, looked down, his smile faltering into confusion. He saw two 15-year-old boys who looked like they had walked out of a tomb. Their grey, unadorned armor was a stark insult to the bright colors of the temple.
"...'We'?" Cassian said, his voice laced with patronizing humor. "I'm sorry, children, this is a warrior's ring."
Elian's smile didn't waver. In fact, it widened, but it was sharp. "We're just... children. You're right." He then turned, not to Cassian, but to the crowd, his voice projecting with that effortless, social grace.
"But we are also Holy Knights of the Aegis Sanctum, just returned from the Grieving Coast."
A murmur went through the crowd. The Grieving Coast. The name was a dark legend here, a place of monsters and lost souls.
"We heard this is where the best fighters in Rhaga come to test their steel," Elian continued, his tone one of perfect, humble respect. "We've come a long way. We'd be honored if Cyrene's finest prodigy would deign to teach two 'children' a lesson."
He had boxed Cassian in. It was a masterstroke of social warfare. If Cassian refused, he was a coward, afraid of two boys. If he accepted and went easy, he was patronizing and insulting. If he accepted and fought hard... he was a bully, beating on two "children" from the GKey. Elian had already won.
Asterion stepped up beside Elian. He said nothing. He simply pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his pale face and cold, unblinking, analytical ruby eyes. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. He was not looking at Cassian as a man. He was looking at him as a problem, a set of data to be analyzed and, if necessary, dismantled. He was the silent, lethal anchor to Elian's confident, disarming voice.
The smile vanished completely from Cassian's face. He looked at the disarming, smiling boy who had just trapped him, and at the silent, dead-eyed boy who looked like he was calculating the precise angle to sever his spine.
He looked at the two 15-year-old "monsters" in front of him and realized, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that they were not joking.