Chapter Six — Echoes of Truth
Uncle Bran's stare pressed on him like a physical weight. He stood with his arms were crossed, and his eyes sparkling with unholy anticipation—as if he were watching a treasure chest about to burst open.
"So?" Bran prodded.
"Well?"
"What'd you get, kid?"
Azeroth tried to speak.
He really did.
But every time he opened his mouth, a cold ripple of dread crawled up his spine. It coiled around his heart, squeezing until the words withered before they could form.
The feeling was irrational,
It felt like something in his instincts, his very soul was warning him not to speak.
But he had to say something,
He swallowed, forcing his stiff tongue to move.
"…It's… weird," he managed.
Bran blinked. "Weird how? Kid, traits can't be weird. They're either useless or they turn you into a walking headache for everyone around you."
Azeroth forced a laugh — light, uneasy. "Yeah, mine is well… more on the 'headache' side."
The bearded man leaned in—closer, closer still—until Azeroth could feel his breath on his forehead.
"Kid. Don't dance. Spit it out."
Azeroth hesitated.
The panel still hovered in front of him—visible only to him—its letters glowing in quiet defiance:
TRAIT: ABSOLUTE
SUB-TRAIT: DEVOUR
Even looking at it made his skin prickle.
But while he was looking at the panel, something caught his focus, something caught his eyes causing it to brighten.
Azeroth steadied his breath.
"…It says my trait is something called 'Devour,'" he lied smoothly.
Bran frowned. "Devour…?"
A murmur rippled through the hall.
The big man scratched his beard. "Never heard of it. Probably unique."
Someone whispered behind him, "Maybe it means he can eat a lot?" his voice growing quieter towards the end.
The soldiers murmured from behind, some nodding—others clearly pretending they understood.
Azeroth felt his eyebrow twitch.
He ignored them.
"Me neither," he said quickly, shrugging.
Bran slapped his shoulder, practically vibrating with pride. "Well, whatever it means, you're still a freakishly talented brat. we'll figure it out."
Azeroth forced a smile.
"Yeah."
Inside, his chest tightened—as if he had just escaped a nightmare with bare seconds to spare.
"Well then, come on!" Bran boomed. "We go tell your parents, and then we CELEBRATE! It's not every day you see a seven-year-old Evolver!"
Cheers exploded around him. Soldiers clapped anticipating the celebration.
And yet… not a single person looked shocked. Not really.
Not the way one should when a child breaks a limit that grown warriors struggled decades to reach.
They were surprised, yes—but this reaction was strangely muted.
They had long grown used to Azeroth doing things that didn't make sense.
If anything, this outcome was… expected.
And perhaps that was for the best.
It's not that they weren't surprised its just better this way.
Azeroth rubbed his temples while looking down on his sweat covered torso. "Can I… shower first?."
"Tch! Fine," Bran grumbled. "Ten minutes! I'll be waiting right outside your door! If you take longer I'm kicking it down!"
Of course he would.
Azeroth chuckled and slipped away toward the estate.
⸻
Reaching his room, he walked straight into the bathing chamber. He stripped off his training clothes and collapsed into the steaming pool in the center of the room.
A long sigh escaped him as the warm water unwound the deep, bone-tired ache in his limbs.
As he laid there, his mind briefly drifted to the past seven years he has spent in this world, the things he has learned and the changes that has taken place.
He wasn't that fragile baby anymore.
He was a boy standing nearly 150 centimeters—tall for his age—with sharp features, dark intelligent eyes, and a body trained hard under Bran's merciless guidance.
His training had begun at exactly three years, and uncle Bran—vice commander of the Clinton' army—was the one assigned to him.
He was trained in multiple weapons, noble etiquettes, history, and general knowledge, strategies, and his personal favorite—essence.
And despite missing Earth's conveniences—technology, internet, even simple electricity—he had adapted to aristocratic life with surprising ease.
Among the things he learned was the fact that this world—Auredor, was anything but simple.
A planet so vast it held 38 continents, some large enough to dwarf Earth several times. And this was without including the numerous islands.
But this much was necessary, seeing as this world held numerous races some of which had populations in the tens of billions.
He also learned of a war that has been ongoing for millions of years, which is the entire span of the available history.
In which multiple races had fallen, their names lost to time.
In the wake of this war, five races has managed to rise up above the rest they were the human, vampire, beast folks, beasts, elves.
Five titans among countless species, of which the beast stood at the top, despite their relatively lower numbers,
And among the humans, seven kingdoms had risen under one great empire.
He lived in one of them:
The Kingdom of Indra.
A land of steel, honor, and relentlessness ambitions.
The Clinton family—his family—was one of its pillars. Guarding the northern borders.
He also learnt of the divines. Beings at the peak of evolution. Each of the major races had at least one of them. In fact they were the sole requirement to be called a major race.
And the beasts were the strongest simply because they alone had four divines in their ranks. And it doesn't matter that their population was lesser than the rest.
As he dried his hair with a towel, his thoughts backtracked to his trait,
Absolute.
What kind of trait was that?
Most people instinctively understood what their trait did the moment it awakened.
It was as natural as breathing.
But for him?
Nothing.
He had zero idea of what it did, but He still couldn't shake out the thought that it meant more than he could ever imagine.