Cassian's villa was a monument to a world Asterion had only known in the agonizingly perfect, cursed memories of his first life.
Where the Aegis Sanctum and Fortitude's End were fortresses of grim, functional stone, built to repel darkness, this was a place of open-air courtyards, vibrant mosaics, and the constant, pleasant sound of running water from marble fountains. The air was warm, scented with sea-salt and the blooming night-jasmine that climbed the white-stuccoed walls. It was a place of art, philosophy, and academic learning, not just spartan survival.
For the first week, Asterion was almost constantly on edge. His 33-year-old mind, forged in the trauma of his death and the brutal functionality of the Grieving Coast, found the softness of this world to be a new kind of trigger. The servants weren't hardened militia; they were polite, smiling civilians. The walls weren't built to stop Tainted; they were built to catch the afternoon sun. He felt exposed, his Grieving-Coast armor a grim, heavy shell in a world of silk and sunlight.
Elian, by contrast, adapted with the terrifying, seamless grace of a predator. He shed his Grieving-Coast "void" like a cloak, adopting a version of Cassian's own easy charisma. He was polite to the servants, engaging with Cassian's tutors, and absorbing the culture of Cyrene with a social genius that Asterion could only observe with detached admiration.
But their days, at their core, were still defined by the forge. The month they spent in Cyrene was one of intense, cross-cultural training.
"You're doing it wrong," Cassian said, his patience already fraying. They were in his private, sand-filled courtyard, the morning sun already hot. Asterion had just attempted to mimic Cassian's fluid, Faith-based footwork and had nearly tripped over his own feet, his movements too heavy, too deliberate.
"Stop trying to force it," Cassian said, circling him. "Go with the flow, don't overcomplicate it. Your 'Inner Crucible' makes you heavy, but you're fighting against your own momentum. You're an anvil trying to be a river."
This was the core of the Poseidon-school Faith. Where the Hephaestus-school "Inner Crucible" was about slowly, painfully compressing Faith into a dense, static liquid, the Poseidon "Way of the Riptide" was about kinetic flow.
As Cassian explained, his school of Faith was designed for high-speed condensing, usage, and replacement. A Hephaestus knight was an anvil. A Poseidon knight was a whip.
"We achieve our condensed state differently," Cassian demonstrated, standing in his courtyard. "We don't seek the 'absolute zero' stillness you've described. That's... insane." He closed his eyes. The Faith around him didn't compress; it began to spin. "We stir our Faith, from our limbs to our core, creating a vortex. The pressure in the center becomes so great that the Faith is forced to condense."
A small, swirling vortex of bright, sea-green Faith appeared in his palm. It was powerful, but Asterion's analytical mind saw it was far less dense than his own liquid Faith.
"It's weaker," Asterion observed, his voice flat.
"In absolute density? Yes, by a lot," Cassian admitted freely. "Your 'Inner Crucible' is terrifying. It's why you two hit like falling mountains. A single one of your strikes is probably three times as 'powerful' as mine. But mine is versatile."
With a flick of his wrist, the condensed vortex in his palm de-compressed, flowing back into his body in a visible rush. Cassian, who had been breathing hard from their spar, suddenly looked refreshed. "We can decompress our condensed Faith back into a gaseous state to rapidly restore our stamina. We can't hold a wall like you, but we can fight, and flow, for days. Your method is about the immovable object; mine is about the unstoppable tide. It's also far safer. Your 'Singularity' state... Kalean's journal sounds like he's describing a man trying to hold a star in his stomach. Our method just needs focus."
In turn, Asterion and Elian taught him the core, non-secret principles of the "Inner Crucible." Cassian, a master of his own Faith, was appalled by their method.
"You what?" he'd asked, his face pale with horror, after Elian described the process of using mental trauma as a hammer to forge the Faith. "You use stillness and pressure? You intentionally seek a state of absolute zero? That's... brutal. That's not Faith; that's self-flagellation. You're treating your own soul like an enemy forge."
"It's effective," Asterion stated, his point proven as Cassian's "Riptide" blade-edge slid harmlessly off his Faith-hardened forearm. "It's heavy."
"It's insane," Cassian muttered, nursing a bruised wrist. "But, by the gods, it works. No wonder you two are the way you are."
It was during their evening meals, sitting on a balcony overlooking the glittering lights of Cyrene, that Asterion's real education began. His researcher's mind was starved for geopolitical data, and Cassian, as the son of a high-ranking Rhagian diplomat, was a willing lecturer.
"Why is Cyrene so wealthy?" Asterion asked one night, his analytical mind trying to bridge the gap between this paradise and the hell of the Grieving Coast. "Our fortresses at home are purely defensive. This city... it's an empire's capital."
"That's because it is," Cassian said, swirling his wine. "Your understanding of the world is... focused," he said politely, searching for the right word. "You see fortresses and Tainted. You're missing the empires. The Tainted are a plague, yes, but the empires are the players. The real war, the one that matters, is between us."
He laid out the true geopolitical state of their world. The three great continents were not just territories; they were three strict, ancient, monarchical empires, each ruled by a bloodline that claimed descent from the gods.
"First, your home," he said, pointing northeast on a map he'd unrolled. "The Aethelgard Empire. Your continent, Aethel. Ruled by Emperor Magnus Aetnos, a descendant of the Hephaestus Bloodline. You know them—masters of the forge, of Faith, of building fortresses. Their military is the most disciplined, their Faith the most potent. They are the shield of the world."
He then gestured to the city around them. "This is The Rhagian Empire, on the continent of Rhaga. We are ruled by Emperor Orion Riptide, of the Poseidon Bloodline. We are the sea. We are masters of trade, naval power, and our own 'Riptide' school of Faith. We are the world's wallet and its navy."
Finally, he pointed south, across the great sea. "And they are The Wyrm-Spine Empire, on the Wyrm-Spine Isles. Ruled by Emperor Valerius Lionheart, of the Zeus Bloodline. A reclusive, mountainous, and fiercely honor-bound warrior culture. Masters of elementalism, storms, and the sky. They are the world's spear."
Asterion's mind processed the data instantly. It wasn't just three continents. It was a three-way cold war, a perfect, tense balance of power. Shield, Spear, and Wealth.
"The Emperors are not just rulers," Cassian continued, his voice dropping. "They are, all three of them, at the level of a Holy Sword. Their bloodlines are the source of the most powerful attributes in existence. Emperor Lionheart can supposedly summon storms with a thought. Emperor Riptide can command the tides. And your Emperor Aetnos... they say he can command the fire of the earth itself."
"A balance of power," Asterion murmured.
"A balance that is about to break," Cassian said grimly.
Elian, who had been listening quietly, his chin resting on his hand, looked up. "Break how?"
"It's an open secret here in the capital," Cassian said, leaning in. "My father is a diplomat; this is all he speaks of. The Rhagian Empire—my home—and the Wyrm-Spine Empire are on a collision course. Decades of posturing, of proxy-wars and trade disputes, are coming to an end. We expect a full, continent-spanning war to break out within twenty to thirty years."
He looked at them grimly, his gaze lingering on their grey armor. "And when it does, your Aethelgard Empire, the great shield, will be forced to pick a side... or be crushed between the other two."
"What's driving it?" Asterion asked, his mind racing through the strategic implications. "Resources? Territory?"
"Geniuses," Cassian said simply. "Like us. Like you. There has been an... astronomical increase in awakened individuals over the past century. More power, more prodigies, more masters of Faith. The old balance is destabilizing. The empires are getting nervous, their war preparations accelerating. They're all afraid the other side will produce a 'genius' who breaks the mold, someone who can't be countered. It's an arms race, Asterion, and we are the weapons."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. The revelation re-contextualized everything. Their training, their power, Kalean's brutal methods—it wasn't just about fighting monsters. It was about preparing them for a war against men. A war against other masters of Faith.
A few days later, they were packing their saddlebags, preparing to part ways. Their detour was over; it was time to head back to Aethelgard. The month of friendship had been genuine; Cassian had proven to be as honorable as he was skilled, and he, in turn, seemed to find their grim, Grieving-Coast pragmatism a refreshing, if terrifying, change of pace.
"It's a shame you have to leave," Cassian said, clapping them both on the shoulder. "I was just getting used to being beaten up by children."
"We'll be back," Elian said with a disarming smile. "Try to find a new sword by then."
"Oh, by the way," Cassian said, as if just remembering. "If you're looking for more... experience... on your way back to Ostia, there's a local legend about some ancient ruins a week's ride east from here. Supposedly hold a 'book of great knowledge' or some such nonsense. My father sent a garrison to clear it once."
Asterion's interest piqued. "A garrison?"
"Oh, yes. The area is known for a low-level Tainted Nest. Some sort of rapidly reproducing green-skin creature. The locals call them 'Scrappers.' The garrison cleared them, and the priests swept the ruins a dozen times. They never found a thing," Cassian said with a shrug. "Just a pretty, empty old city. But the creatures always come back. Could be a good place to test your Singularity strikes without me crying about it."
Asterion and Elian glanced at each other. A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent, perfect communication honed over eight years of shared survival.
A Tainted Nest (easy). A hidden object (hard). And a place the Church had swept and declared "empty" (irresistible).
To their Grieving-Coast instincts, that combination was a siren's call. The Church priests, with their holy senses, would be looking for something radiating Faith or Malice. If a "book of great knowledge" was hidden using some other means, they would have missed it completely.
"We might just look into that, Cassian," Elian said, his voice perfectly casual. "Thank you for the tip."
After a final, genuine farewell to their new friend, the two Holy Knights rode east out of Cyrene, their armor grim and grey against the bright, Rhagian dawn. Their "official" journey was back to Ostia, but they had one last, secret detour to make.