Esme's residence was located on the same peak as Sora's mansion, though separate from it, a modest estate overlooking the lower terraces. She did have a home in the city below, but walking all the way down the mountain range would take nearly half a day. It was far easier for her to stay close to her young master.
She was a beautiful young woman, always composed and professional. Her long brown hair was neatly tied into a bun, and her round spectacles gave her a sharp, intelligent look.
The white coat she wore over her blouse and skirt marked her status as Sora's research assistant. Beneath it, she wore simple leggings and polished boots, elegant yet practical.
At five foot three, she was notably petite, especially next to Sora, who, at fourteen, almost fifteen, already stood at five foot seven. Yet despite her smaller frame, she carried herself with quiet confidence.
As she finished cleaning and gathered her things, Sora turned back toward the incubation sphere. The egg pulsed softly, golden light washing through the chamber.
"Soon," he murmured. "Very soon."
Esme glanced at him briefly, her eyes lingering on the strange excitement in his tone, before she bowed once more and slipped out into the corridor.
Sora remained where he stood, eyes fixed on the egg. The egg once again entering its quiet, slumbering state.
He leaned back into a chair, his eyes distant as the faint hum of the incubator filled the quiet laboratory. His thoughts, unbidden, drifted to the war of succession, a subject that most in the empire could not afford to ignore.
He was Emperor Aziel's thirteenth child, the last born among twelve siblings. Seven, including himself, were sons; the rest, daughters. In the Human Empire's long-standing patriarchal tradition, only the sons were eligible to inherit the throne. Yet succession wasn't determined by birth-right.
Not anymore.
Decades ago, Aziel had abolished the old tradition, instituting instead a trial, a pseudo-war, as the people called it. A grand contest of might, wit, and leadership among his heirs. It was not a true war, for each prince would enter a vast hidden realm, leading armies of their choosing.
After the succession war ended, the winner would become the crown prince, but the rest of them would be given duke status, and help govern the Empire, so each of them was valuable.
The realm made it so that death suffered inside the realm would not be final, merely a simulated one. A safeguard against bloodshed, yet still intense enough to reveal who among them possessed the makings of an emperor.
Most of his brothers had spent the last few decades, or centuries, in some cases, gathering strength, influence, and loyal factions among the noble houses. The empire was practically alive with the building of alliances, of old families swearing fealty to one prince or another.
And then there was Sora. The youngest. The quiet one. The one who, to the public eye, had already forfeited his claim.
It made sense, to most. What chance did a fourteen-year-old boy have against veterans who had walked the earth for hundreds of years? None of the noble houses would ever risk their fortunes on him. They saw no emperor in the boy who spent his days buried in experiments and artefacts.
But those who truly knew him, his siblings, his father, understood the irony. Sora wasn't uninterested because he was weak. He was uninterested because power bored him. Ruling men was a trivial pursuit compared to deciphering the mysteries of creation itself. His fascination with the laws that governed life, mana, and existence far outweighed any desire for a throne.
Still, even he could not completely avoid the games of politics. His inventions had become legend within the empire, wondrous, terrifying things that could shift the balance of any war. His brothers knew it too. And so, each had come to him at one point or another, bearing lavish gifts and promises of favour, pleading for his help.
And each time, Sora had declined, smiling faintly as he watched their expressions twist from hope to frustration. He did say he would consider it if they brought something that would interest him. And of course, they had all asked, 'what could interest him'.
Sora's answer had been simple. Bring something that is as valuable as that Qilin egg, and six times, he had seen faces twist in despair. He might as well tell them all to give up. Sure, they each had great treasures, but none were was valuable and ancient as the egg of a Qilin.
When they asked him, at the very least, not to aid any of the others, he gave them only a vague reply: "I'll do as I please."
Now, they were all waiting in silence, watching each other warily, uncertain of where his loyalties lay. It amused him.
To think that the princes of the most powerful empire in the world were walking on eggshells, not because of the emperor's decree, not because of the war, but because of him.
He chuckled softly to himself. "Honestly," he murmured, gazing at the faintly glowing Qilin egg, "people are far too predictable."
Afterwards, Sora found himself doing what he always did when night came, wandering through the endless corridors of his curiosity.
Stacks of books and journals floated around him in slow orbit, each flipping its own pages with faint ripples of mana. He read through a tome on mana theory, eyes narrowing every now and then when he found an error. "No, no," he muttered under his breath, waving a finger dismissively, "you can't just treat Mana saturation as a linear function. Ridiculous…" The book snapped shut with a soft thud as another drifted into his hand.
Sora didn't need sleep. Not anymore. Beings at the Transcendent realm rarely did. Their bodies had long surpassed mortal constraints, neither fatigue nor hunger held the same meaning.
Still, it wasn't the absence of need that kept him awake, but his own restless nature. Even before reaching transcendence, he had always despised sleep, seeing it as an unproductive interruption.
It wasn't rare for him to go days, sometimes weeks, without a wink of sleep, his eyes shadowed, his hair a mess, and his hands still ink-stained from late-night research.
Now, at least, the burden of exhaustion was gone. A blessing, truly.
Hours slipped away as he flipped through old theories and ancient diagrams, occasionally jotting down corrections or laughing softly at misconceptions long since disproven. The night deepened, the quiet hum of his laboratory filling the space like a steady heartbeat.
At one point, he leaned back in mid-air, his chair gently rotating as he gazed out through the glass wall of his peak. The world outside glowed faintly under the eternal night.
"Maybe I should actually start practicing that meditation technique," he murmured.