The ruins were a week behind them, but the weight of their discovery settled on Asterion and Elian like a physical shroud, heavier than their armor. The two massive, dark-limbed books were wrapped in oilcloth and buried deep in Asterion's saddlebags, a secret that felt like it was actively radiating a cold, dark energy.
They rode in silence for the first few days, the seven-month journey back to the port of Ostia stretching before them. The "vacation" that Kalean had granted them, the time to "explore," now felt charged with a grim, new purpose.
It was Elian who finally broke the silence as they camped by a river, the night quiet save for the crackle of their fire.
"We have a problem," Elian said, not looking up from sharpening his stiletto. His voice was the cold, flat, "adult" tone he reserved for strategy.
Asterion, who was cross-referencing a map of Rhaga with Kalean's hand-drawn chart of Aether Nexuses, merely nodded. "We have several. We have two artifacts of unknown, but clearly Tainted, origin. We have no way to read them. And we are 15-year-old boys seven months from our only-known point of safety."
"Exactly," Elian said. He slid the stiletto back into its sheath with a soft shhk. "We can't just ride for Ostia. That's a seven-month sprint, living off the land, avoiding attention. It's a waste. And it's suspicious. We are two Holy Knights, famous for being 'Kaelen's Monsters.' A quiet, fast retreat looks like we're running from something."
Asterion saw the logic instantly. "So we do the opposite."
Elian's cold smile was visible in the firelight. "We do the opposite. We don't hide. We advertise. We are two prodigies on a grand tour, sanctioned by Kalean himself. We ride into every major city between here and Ostia, and we challenge them."
The "Genius Tour," as Elian dubbed it, was a masterstroke of social strategy. It served three purposes. First, it built their reputation, turning them from Grieving-Coast bogeymen into celebrated, tangible figures. Second, it was the perfect cover for their true mission. And third, as Elian put it, "Why should we pay for food and lodging when the local churches will do it for the honor of hosting us?"
Their first stop was the fortified trade city of Tiber. They rode in, two grim, grey-armored figures, and immediately sought out the local chapter-house of the Hephaestus Knights.
Elian, as always, was the ambassador. He presented their credentials—the seal of Kalean and their rank as Holy Knights—to the grizzled Knight-Captain.
"Sir," Elian said, his voice a perfect blend of youthful respect and hard-won confidence. "My brother-in-arms and I have spent our lives on the Grieving Coast. We are told the warriors of Rhaga are the most skilled duelists in the world. We are on a tour to broaden our experience and would be honored to learn from your chapter's finest."
The Knight-Captain, a man with a beard like iron filings, looked at the two 15-year-old "monsters" and then at his own squires, who were snickering in the back. He grinned. "Learn, is it? Very well. Lyonel! You're up. Teach our guests from the Coast some of your 'Riptide' manners."
Lyonel, a 19-year-old noble's son with a cocky smile, swaggered into the practice yard, wielding a lightweight, curved dueling saber. He was a local "genius," a practitioner of the Poseidon-school of Faith.
Asterion stepped up. This was a data-gathering exercise.
The duel was over in thirty seconds.
Lyonel was fast. He was a blur of sea-green Faith, his "Riptide" technique allowing him to flow and strike like a whip. He unleashed a flurry of a dozen blindingly fast, Aether-wreathed strikes.
Asterion, in his heavy Grieving-Coast plate, didn't move. He just stood there.
His "Inner Crucible" foundation, his sheer, passive weight, made him an immovable object. The "clean" Rhagian strikes, designed to score points or find gaps in light armor, skidded off his dense, Faith-hardened plating with a series of high-pitched pings.
Lyonel stopped, his flurry exhausted, his face a mask of confusion.
Asterion's 33-year-old mind saw the opening. He didn't use a Singularity. He didn't need to. He simply took one heavy, measured step forward and executed a basic, brutal, Grieving-Coast shoulder-check.
It was a test of doctrines. Lyonel's fluid, Aether-based Faith was a breeze. Asterion's dense, liquid "Inner Crucible" Faith was a mountain. The mountain won.
The impact sent the Rhagian prodigy flying ten feet, his saber clattering on the stones as he landed in a heap, the wind knocked out of him.
The yard was silent.
Asterion walked over, offered a gauntleted hand, and pulled the dazed noble to his feet. "Your technique is fast," Asterion stated, his voice a flat, analytical monotone. "But it lacks weight. You should consider reinforcing your stance."
That night, they were not just given a room; they were the guests of honor at the Knight-Captain's table.
They continued. In the city of Aetia, Elian faced a duelist renowned for her "perfect defense." Elian, the void, the master of pragmatism, didn't try to break her guard. He simply moved, his speed a blur, and feinted, pulling her perfect guard out of position for a fraction of a second. It was all he needed. He didn't strike her; he simply tapped his stiletto against her exposed throat. The "duel" was over.
Their reputation as "Kaelen's Monsters" grew. They were no longer whispers; they were a terrifying, tangible fact.
But they did, as planned, lose.
In the great port city of Veridia, they had grown confident, perhaps arrogant. Elian, on a streak of twelve straight victories, challenged the Knight-Captain of the city guard, a 150-year-old veteran of the Poseidon bloodline, a man with laugh lines and the quiet, calm eyes of the deep ocean.
The old knight accepted with a quiet smile.
Elian, with his void-like calm and Grieving-Coast speed, was a storm. He was a blur of feints, lunges, and pragmatic, vicious strikes.
The old knight didn't try to match it. He just... endured. He was the ocean.
His practice sword seemed to move slowly, almost lazily, but it was always, always in the perfect position. He didn't try to overpower Elian or match his speed; he used decades of experience to out-think him. He weathered Elian's initial storm, his stance fluid, his body shifting like water, absorbing and redirecting every blow.
Then, with a simple, almost lazy-looking twist of his blade, he trapped Elian in an inescapable bind. Elian's stiletto was locked, his body over-extended. The old knight's practice sword rested gently against his throat.
"You're fast, boy," the old knight said, his voice a kind rumble as he released the bind. "But you're a storm. Storms always pass. Learn to be the ocean. It has weight, and it endures. Your foundation is heavy, but you use it like a club. Learn to be heavy and fluid."
It was a profound lesson in humility. Asterion sparred him next and lost in ten seconds, his analytical, heavy-step style completely dismantled by the old man's fluid, experienced footwork. They learned that night that their Grieving-Coast foundation was strong, but experience was a different kind of power.
Their journey settled into a perfect rhythm.
By day, they traveled or fought, their reputation as "Kaelen's Monsters" granting them instant access. Their social dynamic was flawless.
Elian was the ambassador. He was the charismatic face of their duo, his charm and genuine curiosity winning over stern Hephaestus priests and grizzled Knight-Captains. He handled all their logistics, securing them clean rooms, the best food, and new supplies. He would spend hours in the common rooms, not talking, but listening, his high social awareness absorbing local rumors, political tensions, and trade gossip.
Asterion, meanwhile, was their "intellect." While Elian networked, Asterion went straight to the libraries. The churches of Hephaestus had libraries, but they were grim, practical archives—mostly tactics, metallurgy, and doctrine.
It was the churches of Apollo—the god of prosperity, art, and knowledge—that became his true haven. The Apollo priests, who were scholars first and warriors second, were fascinated by him. They saw a 15-year-old boy in grim armor who spoke with the vocabulary of a tenured professor. Elian's charm got them in the door, and Asterion's intellect kept it open.
His 33-year-old researcher's mind was in paradise. He was not just a warrior; he was a scholar. He devoured texts on local history, Aether-theory, attribute-awakening, and, most urgently, ancient linguistics. He was hunting, obsessively, for any mention of the ancient, alien script from their dark books. He found fragments, dead-end references to a "pre-Imperial" language, but no key. Not yet.
And at night, in the absolute privacy of their sealed, blessed church rooms, they studied their secret.
The two massive, dark-limbed books lay open on the floor. The torchlight in the room seemed to dim in their presence, the air growing colder.
"It's not just Malice," Asterion murmured one night, tracing the flowing, impossible script with a gloved finger. He was cross-referencing a symbol with a fragment of pre-Imperial text he'd found in the Apollo library. "Malice is chaos. It's raw, screaming, entropic. This..." He pointed to a complex, repeating sigil. "This is structured. It's information. It's a language. It's tinged with a faint, dark power, just like Tainted Malice. But it's not just that. It's a language that feels like it's made from the same source as the Tainted."
Elian, who was sitting cross-legged, his "void" state a silent shield against the book's aura, nodded. "It's a weapon. Or a trap. Or both. It's the Tainted's knowledge. Either way, it's the most important thing we have." He looked up, his eyes cold and hard. "And it's a secret that would get us burned as heretics by the very priests who are feeding us."
Asterion nodded, his own mind cold. "Then the secret stays with us. Absolutely. We don't trust anyone. Not the Hephaestus priests, not the Apollo priests, not even Cassian. No one."
The "Genius Tour" was more than just training; it was a cover. They were two knights building a reputation, but they were also two scholars hiding a truth that could shatter their world.
Finally, after seven months, they rode into Ostia. The salty, familiar air of the port city washed over them. They looked out at the churning, grey northern sea that led back to Aethelgard. They were no longer just "Kaelen's Monsters." They were famous, they were seasoned, they were stronger... and they were the keepers of a terrifying,
world-ending secret.