Hero Of Broken History

"Again."

Avian pushed himself off the training room floor for the eighth time in as many minutes. Blood ran from his nose, his left eye was swelling shut, and something in his chest made grinding noises when he breathed.

"That was pathetic," Lysander continued, not even breathing hard. "My grandmother could dodge better, and she's been dead for thirty years."

"Your grandmother probably wasn't fighting you," Avian managed, spitting blood.

"Fair point. She was scarier." Lysander cracked her knuckles. "Now, again. This time actually try to hit me."

Day three of training with a Transcendent who considered broken bones a teaching aid. The first day had been about discovering exactly how many ways a human body could bend before breaking. The second had involved dodging increasingly deadly projectiles while Lysander critiqued his footwork.

Today was apparently "learn to take a beating properly" day.

Avian centered himself, wrapping aura around his body like armor. The technique should have been basic - condense energy into a protective shell. Every noble warrior learned it by their third year of training.

But something about it felt... inefficient. Like using a sledgehammer to swat a fly.

"Wrong," Lysander said, and proved it by putting her fist through his aura like it was made of wishes and tissue paper.

He hit the wall hard enough to crack stone. Definitely something broken in his chest now. Maybe several somethings.

"Your aura's too spread out," she explained, examining her unmarked knuckles. "You're trying to cover everything equally. Waste of energy. Watch."

She held up her hand, and aura condensed around it. Not like a glove - like a second skin, so dense it warped the light around it.

"Concentration. Put everything where you need it, when you need it. The rest of your body can take the hit if it means your vital points survive."

"It would be easier if I just overpowered them with the amount of aura I have," Avian scowled, frustration bleeding through his usual control. "These condensing techniques feel like trying to thread a needle during an earthquake."

Lysander's grin turned sharp. "Oh? You think having more aura is the answer to everything? How adorably naive." She stalked closer. "Let me guess - you've been relying on that god-touched Mana Heart to bulldoze through problems. Bet it worked great in training. Against other children."

"I've managed so far."

"Against what? Training dummies? Other students?" She laughed. "You're about to enter a tournament where people will try to actually kill you. You think they care about your aura reserves? They'll find the gaps in your technique and exploit them. Because while you're busy throwing power around like a drunk noble at a brothel, they'll put a knife exactly where you're not protecting."

She had a point, much as it galled him to admit. In his past life as Dex, he'd relied on overwhelming force because he'd had overwhelming force to spare. But this body, even with its perfect Mana Heart, wasn't there yet.

"Fine. Show me properly."

The rest of day three was an exercise in humiliation. Every technique Lysander demonstrated was something noble children learned young - how to concentrate force, how to layer defenses, how to read energy patterns. Things that felt unnecessarily complex when you could just... hit harder.

"Stop thinking like a berserker," Lysander critiqued as he failed another attempt at creating pinpoint shields. "You're trying to force it. Aura responds to will, not violence."

By evening, he could create condensed aura points that actually deflected her casual strikes. They felt unnatural, like writing with his off hand, but they worked.

"Better," she admitted. "Tomorrow we work on your magic. Try not to cry when you realize you've been doing that wrong too."

Day four started with magical theory.

"Show me your fire magic," Lysander commanded.

Avian drew on his mana, channeling through paths that had taken months to redevelop. Fire came easily - it always had. A ball of flame danced above his palm, hot enough to melt steel.

"Now throw it."

He did. The fireball flew straight, hit the target dummy, and exploded with satisfying force.

"Wasteful," Lysander critiqued. "You just threw raw mana converted to fire. No control, no efficiency. Watch."

She created her own fireball - smaller, dimmer, seemingly weaker. But when she threw it, the flame compressed mid-flight, becoming a needle of white-hot force that punched through the dummy's chest and kept going through the wall behind it.

"Same amount of mana. Ten times the penetration." She turned to him. "Try again. This time, maintain control after release."

The attempts were frustrating. His fire wanted to expand, to consume. Controlling it after release felt fundamentally wrong, like trying to convince water to flow uphill.

"You're fighting it," Lysander observed after his twentieth failure. "And your channels... they're resisting the element itself. Try wind."

Wind was worse. The magic came when called but scattered the moment he tried to direct it. Earth barely responded. Water condensed then immediately evaporated. Light flickered once and went out. Even darkness, usually the most cooperative element, dispersed like smoke.

"Interesting," Lysander murmured after watching him fail with every standard element. "Your mana doesn't want to hold standard forms. You might be deviant-aligned. Try something else. Something that feels natural."

"Nothing about magic feels natural," Avian lied. In his past life, it had all felt natural. But explaining that would raise questions he couldn't answer.

"Then reach deeper. Past the standard channels. Sometimes the core knows what the mind doesn't."

Avian closed his eyes, searching. There, beneath the standard elemental paths, something else resonated. A pull that felt like falling, like weight, like the inevitable draw of the earth.

He opened his eyes and raised his hand. The training dummy across the room suddenly groaned, wood splintering as it collapsed under its own weight.

"Gravity," Lysander breathed. "Oh, you beautiful destructive puppy. You're a gravity mage."

"That's not possible. The tests showed standard affinities—"

"The tests show what people expect to find. Deviant magic is rare enough that most examiners miss it." She was actually bouncing with excitement. "Gravity, time, space, void - the weird shit that makes reality nervous. Maybe one in ten thousand mages can touch it. One in a million can use it properly."

She tossed him a practice sword. "Make it heavier."

The applications came intuitively once he understood. The sword's weight doubled, tripled at will. Then lighter, until it moved like wind.

"Combat application," Lysander ordered. "Light when you swing, heavy when you hit."

This was harder. Timing was everything. But after an hour of practice, he found the rhythm. The practice sword whistled through the air like paper, then hit with the force of a war hammer.

"Perfect! Now we're getting somewhere!"

Days five through seven blended together in a haze of integration training. Condensed aura points combined with gravity shifts. Pinpoint defenses while altering his own weight for mobility. Techniques that felt overly complex but undeniably effective.

"You're still thinking too much," Lysander critiqued on day six. "These need to be instinct, not calculation."

She demonstrated, becoming effectively untouchable. Gravity made her too light to hit solidly while condensed aura deflected what did connect. When she attacked, mass shifted mid-strike for devastating impact.

By day seven, the techniques felt less foreign. Not natural yet - that would take months of practice - but functional. He could layer condensed aura while shifting gravity, maintain magical control after release, read energy patterns he'd previously bulldozed through.

"Final test," Lysander announced. "Everything together. Show me a warrior-mage who's learned that finesse beats force."

They sparred for six straight hours. She pushed him past exhaustion, past the point where old instincts wanted him to just pour more power into attacks. Every time he tried to brute force through, she punished it. Every time he relied on just one system, she exploited the gap.

But when he used everything together - condensed aura for defense, gravity for advantage, swordwork for killing intent - he could almost keep up. Almost.

"Well?" he asked when they finally stopped, swaying on his feet.

"You'll do," she said simply. "You're not elegant. You're not refined. But you've learned enough to not die from predictability. The rest comes with practice."

After she left, Avian collapsed on the floor. Everything hurt, but it was the ache of growth rather than damage. These techniques felt unnecessarily complex, but he couldn't deny their effectiveness.

Tomorrow's tournament would be the real test.

The arena sprawled before him like a monument to organized violence. Three hundred feet of spelled sand, surrounded by stands that could hold thousands. Today they held hundreds - family members, branch representatives, and honored guests come to watch the second trial unfold.

Morning sun painted everything in shades of gold and shadow. Thirty survivors of the first trial gathered in the preparation area, some stretching, others meditating, a few just staring at the sand with expressions of dawning regret.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Aedric's voice rolled across the arena. He stood in the patriarch's box, radiating authority. "Welcome to the second trial. Of the sixty who began, thirty remain. Today, that number drops to eight."

Beside him sat figures of obvious importance. Knight Commanders in ceremonial armor. Branch family heads displaying wealth like peacocks. And in a box just below the patriarch's—

Princess Celeste, dressed in white and silver that made her stand out like a swan among crows. Her sharp eyes swept the assembled fighters with curious intensity.

"The rules are simple," Aedric continued. "Single combat, tournament style. Victory through submission, incapacitation, or death. Life stones remain available. Natural selection will determine who carries our blood forward."

The bracket board revealed the mathematics of violence. Thirty fighters, with two receiving byes to the second round. Avian found his name quickly - first round against Roderick Veritas, secondary branch. A straightforward bruiser, if memory served.

"FIRST MATCHES BEGIN IN TEN MINUTES!"

"Nervous?" Kai appeared beside him, already in combat gear.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you spent a week training with someone who considers grievous bodily harm a teaching method." Kai studied the brackets. "I'm third match. You're opening the show."

"No pressure then."

"Oh, enormous pressure. The crowd loves blood in the morning." Kai's expression grew serious. "Thane's been spreading rumors about you. Says you're all flash, no substance."

"Creative."

"He drew Marcus Wesson first round. Poor bastard's already shaking."

Avian glanced where Kai indicated. A tertiary branch fighter sat alone, staring at the brackets like they might spontaneously change. Across the area, Thane held court among supporters, radiating confidence.

The ten minutes evaporated. Gates opened. Sand beckoned.

"FIRST MATCH! RODERICK OF HOUSE VERITAS, SECONDARY BRANCH, VERSUS AVIAN OF HOUSE VERITAS, RECOGNIZED SON!"

The arena felt larger from the inside. Avian's boots crunched on sand as he entered, aware of hundreds of eyes tracking his movement. Across the killing floor, Roderick emerged - six and a half feet of muscle wrapped in leather and misplaced confidence. His war hammer looked like it could demolish buildings.

To anyone else. To Avian, with his Sixth Tier core and Grandmaster aura, Roderick moved like he was underwater. Slow. Predictable. Boring.

They met in the center, referee standing ready.

"Recognized son," Roderick rumbled. "Fancy title won't save you from physics."

"We'll see."

"Ready?" The referee raised his hand. Both fighters nodded. "BEGIN!"

Roderick charged like an avalanche given purpose. The hammer came around in a swing meant to separate torso from legs. Direct. Powerful. And so slow Avian could have written a letter while dodging.

The real challenge was making it look difficult.

Avian moved just fast enough to seem pressed, condensing a fraction of his aura at the impact point. To observers, it looked like skillful deflection. In reality, he could have caught the hammer bare-handed and barely felt it.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Roderick stumbled past, pulled off-balance by his own momentum. Avian struck precisely - palm to kidney with maybe five percent of his strength. Just enough to hurt, not enough to rupture organs.

Roderick grunted, spinning with what he probably thought was surprising speed. His backhand would have been devastating to someone at his level. Avian shifted position lazily, making it look like a close dodge.

"Stop dancing!" Roderick snarled.

The crowd was growing restless. They wanted blood, not this tactical display. Avian sighed internally. Time to end it before people got suspicious.

When Roderick charged again, Avian made a subtle gesture. The hammer's weight tripled mid-swing - child's play with his magical reserves.

Physics became Roderick's enemy. Mass plus momentum plus gravity equals an intimate meeting with sand. He hit face-first, hammer torn from his grip by unexpected weight.

Avian's foot found his neck before he could rise - gentle as a feather to him, probably felt like a mountain to Roderick.

"Yield?"

"...yield!"

"VICTOR: AVIAN!"

Mixed reactions from the crowd - some appreciated technique, others wanted more blood. Avian helped Roderick up, carefully controlling his strength to seem normal.

"How?" The big man seemed genuinely confused. "That hammer... it felt..."

"Maybe you're tired," Avian suggested mildly. "The trial takes its toll."

He left Roderick to puzzle it out. One victory down, but the real challenges would come as the field narrowed.

Back in the preparation area, other matches had begun. Through the gates, Avian watched Thane's fight - if it could be called that. His brother didn't just defeat Marcus Wesson; he destroyed him methodically, drawing out the suffering until the referee nearly intervened. When Wesson finally activated his life stone, he was missing teeth and possibly some ribs.

"Making a statement," Kai observed, appearing with water.

"Being a sadist."

"That too."

The first round continued with varying degrees of violence. Selia Draven turned her opponent into an anatomy lesson on joint manipulation. Marcus Thornfield simply overpowered his through mass and determination. Princess Clarissa won through patience, letting her opponent exhaust himself before striking once, precisely.

Then came surprises. A few secondary branch fighters showed unexpected skill. Some tertiary branches proved that desperation could overcome breeding. And one fighter in particular caught attention.

"Who is that?" Avian asked, watching a young woman dismantle her opponent with brutal efficiency.

"Lucia Varn," Kai supplied. "Tertiary branch, came from nowhere. Look at her footwork - it's all wrong by Veritas standards, but it works."

It did work. She fought like survival mattered more than form, like someone who'd learned through necessity rather than instruction. It reminded him uncomfortably of his own style in his past life.

When the first round ended, sixteen fighters remained. The redraw put Avian against Vera, a secondary branch fighter who'd won through speed and knife work.

"Second round in twenty minutes!"

Avian found a quiet corner to center himself. The gravity magic had been subtle enough in the first fight, disguised as superior timing. But as opponents grew more skilled, hiding would become harder.

"Lord Avian?"

A servant in royal livery had appeared. "Princess Celeste requests a moment of your time, if convenient."

Interesting. What does she want?

He followed the servant to a private box beneath the royal seating. Celeste waited inside, having traded ceremonial white for practical gray that allowed movement.

"Lord Avian. Thank you for coming."

"Your Highness." He bowed appropriately. "How may I serve?"

"By dropping the formality, firstly. I hate it." She gestured to a chair. "Sit. We have fifteen minutes."

He sat carefully, cataloging exits and guard positions from habit.

"You fight interestingly," she said without preamble. "Efficient. Practical. Unlike typical Veritas showing off."

"I aim to win, not entertain."

"Exactly." She leaned forward. "I'm looking for someone. A fighter who saved my life recently. They used techniques that shouldn't exist anymore - brutal, efficient, wrong by every standard text."

Avian kept his expression neutral. "Many fighters develop individual styles."

"True. But this was different. Historical. Like something from before the Empire codified proper forms." She studied him intently. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about pre-Empire combat techniques?"

"I'm afraid my education focused on current methods, Your Highness."

"Pity." But her eyes said she wasn't entirely convinced. "Still, I find your approach refreshing. Most nobles fight like they're performing a dance. You fight like winning matters."

"In my experience, second place is just first loser."

She actually laughed. "I like that. Very well, I won't keep you. But Lord Avian? My grandfather has expressed interest in meeting promising fighters. After you win today - and you will win - I may extend an invitation."

"You seem confident in my victory."

"I'm excellent at recognizing potential." She stood, smoothing her clothes. "Your next opponent, Vera, goes for eyes first, throat second. She hides needles in her bracers. Don't let her grapple."

"That's very specific information."

"I make it my business to know things." She moved toward the door. "Good luck, Lord Avian. Try not to die before potentially meeting my grandfather."

She left him to process that interaction. The princess was hunting for her mysterious savior, and she'd identified him as interesting but not conclusively connected. Good enough for now.

He returned to find the break nearly over. Vera waited in the arena, spinning knives between her fingers with practiced ease. The crowd had swelled during the break, drawn by blood and spectacle.

"BEGIN!"

Vera moved exactly as Celeste had warned - low, fast, knives flashing toward his eyes. But forewarned was forearmed. Avian's condensed aura deflected the strikes while he shifted inside her reach.

She tried to grapple, going for hidden needles. His elbow found her solar plexus first - a love tap by his standards that still lifted her off her feet. She hit sand gasping but rolled away professionally.

The fight became a dance of distance. Vera needed close range for her knives. Avian denied it, using gravity to subtly make her weapons feel off-balance. Nothing obvious - just enough to frustrate. When she finally overextended, irritated by her mysteriously clumsy blades, he ended it with a strike to her knee that looked harder than it was.

"Yield," he offered as she dropped.

"Fuck you," she snarled, then raised her hand. "Yield."

"VICTOR: AVIAN!"

Two wins. Both laughably easy. The challenge wasn't winning - it was making it look believable.

The second round played out with increasing brutality. Fighters who'd held back revealed true skills. Blood painted abstract patterns on sand. Some used life stones. One didn't activate fast enough.

The redraw for final eight placement matched him against Marcus Thornfield.

"The walking mountain," Kai said, studying the bracket. "This should hurt."

"For someone."

Marcus waited in the arena like a fortress given human form. Chain mail that weighed more than some people, sword that was less weapon than sharpened club. He'd learned from watching Avian's earlier fights - stance careful, guard high, patience evident.

Good. At least this one's thinking. Might last a whole minute.

"BEGIN!"

No wild charging this time. Marcus advanced with measured steps, each one deliberate. Avian circled, throwing lazy probes that Marcus deflected with growing confidence. To the crowd, it looked like even exchanges. In reality, Avian was operating at maybe ten percent capacity.

"Lysander taught you patience," Marcus noted, deflecting another test. "Smart. Won't matter."

They exchanged testing blows for two full minutes, Avian carefully calibrating each strike to seem threatening without being devastating. The crowd grew restless, wanting blood.

Time to give them a show.

Marcus came in with a horizontal sweep - a committed attack finally. Avian let it get closer than necessary before dodging, then deliberately moved into the path of Marcus's rising knee. The impact was... annoying. Like being hit by an enthusiastic child. But Avian threw himself backward dramatically, hitting the sand with a grunt that was mostly theater.

He rolled away from Marcus's follow-up, making it look desperate rather than casual. Sand exploded where the sword landed, Marcus putting everything into the strike.

"Size matters," Marcus said conversationally, clearly thinking he had the upper hand.

Avian spat blood - biting his tongue for effect - and climbed to his feet with apparent effort. The crowd loved it. The underdog struggling against the mountain.

If only they knew I could turn him into paste without breaking a sweat.

He changed tactics, using gravity to make the sand beneath Marcus's feet subtly unstable. Not obvious sinkholes - just enough to make footing uncertain, to build fatigue faster than it should. Marcus's armor grew imperceptibly heavier with each passing moment.

"Clever," Marcus admitted as sweat began beading on his forehead. "But I can do this all day."

No, you really can't.

Within minutes, Marcus was breathing hard, confused by his seemingly endless exhaustion. When he finally overextended - a wild swing born of frustration - Avian decided to end it. He created a small gravity well beneath Marcus's forward foot, just enough to break his balance.

Marcus stumbled, guard dropping. Avian's knee found his temple - once, with maybe fifteen percent force. Enough to ring his bell without crushing his skull. Marcus wavered, and Avian added a second tap for show. The third "strike" was barely a touch, but Marcus was already going down.

"Yield?"

"...yield," came the groggy response.

"VICTOR: AVIAN!"

The crowd roared approval - blood and victory, everything they wanted. Healers rushed to tend Marcus while Avian quietly held his ribs and winced for appearance's sake.

Three fights. Three victories. Each one requiring more acting than actual combat skill.

This is almost insulting. At least Lysander actually tries to kill me.

Eight remained. Thane had brutalized his way through. Selia Draven had demonstrated why joints weren't meant to bend certain ways. Clarissa had won through tactical perfection. Two secondary branch fighters had surprised everyone. And Lucia Varn had carved through opponents like death given purpose.

"FINAL EIGHT DETERMINED!" the announcer boomed. "THE THIRD TRIAL BEGINS IN ONE MONTH! PREPARE WELL!"

One month. Time to refine these new techniques, to prepare for whatever fresh hell awaited. But for now, he'd proven himself. Earned his place through skill rather than raw power.

Progress.

As the crowd began dispersing, Kai found him in the preparation area. His friend looked oddly satisfied for someone sporting a black eye and split lip.

"Congratulations on making the eight," Kai said, though his smile held too much knowing.

"Commiserations on your loss," Avian replied carefully. "That spinning kick in the second round—you had him."

"Did I?" Kai's smile widened. "Must have misjudged the distance. Terrible mistake. The kind that gets you eliminated but keeps you breathing."

They looked at each other, understanding passing between them. Avian had seen the moment—Kai's opponent overextended, guard dropping, perfect opening for a counter that would have ended the match. Instead, Kai had hesitated just a fraction too long, letting his opponent recover and land the finishing blow.

"Seventh son of a minor branch," Kai said quietly. "Making the final eight would have been... memorable. The kind of memorable that gets you accidents in dark hallways."

"Whereas backing the right horse early..."

"Means I live to see the payoff." Kai clapped him on the shoulder. "Besides, someone needs to watch your back while you're busy being remarkable. Hard to do that from a medical bed or shallow grave."

"You could have won."

"I could have painted a target on my back in colors visible from orbit." Kai shrugged. "I've got younger siblings. They need me breathing more than the family needs another almost-heir. This way I'm useful without being threatening."

It was ruthlessly practical. Also probably wise. The final eight would be under scrutiny that made today look casual. Every move watched, every weakness catalogued, every opportunity for 'accidents' evaluated.

"Smart play," Avian admitted.

"I have my moments. Try not to get killed in the next month. I've invested too much in your success to watch you die now."

"Your concern is touching."

"It's practical. Dead allies are useless allies." But Kai's grin took the edge off the words. "Go get cleaned up. You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder."

"I'll try to bleed more attractively next time."

"See that you do. Standards must be maintained."

Kai disappeared into the crowd, moving with the easy anonymity of someone who'd chosen survival over glory. Smart. In a family like the Veritas, sometimes the real victory was still breathing at the end.

In her box, Princess Celeste watched with calculating eyes. Still hunting her savior, unaware he stood right there in the arena, blood on his clothes and gravity in his bones.

Some secrets were worth keeping. At least for now.

Seren's Journal - 14th Day of the Crimson Moon

The public archives continue to yield contradictions that make my head spin. I've spent twelve hours today cross-referencing accounts of the Demon War, and the more I read, the less sense any of it makes.

Point One: The timeline is impossible. According to official records, Dex (the supposed Demon King) appeared at the war's start as a fully-formed villain leading demon armies. But military dispatches I found in the restricted stacks mention a "Commander Dex" fighting FOR humanity as late as three months before the war's end. How does one go from human commander to Demon King in three months?

Point Two: The battle accounts don't match. Saint Vaerin's hagiography describes the final battle as a glorious single combat in the throne room. But I found three separate field reports mentioning "allied forces retreating while Commander D. engaged the entity alone." Entity. Not Demon King Dex. Entity.

Point Three: The physical descriptions are wrong. Every source describes the Demon King as a towering figure wreathed in shadow and flame. But casualty reports list several soldiers saved by "the small commander with the demon blade." Small. Not towering.

Point Four: The Four Heavenly Kings. Official history says Saint Vaerin defeated them all. But there's a inventory report from the quartermaster noting "trophies claimed by Commander D. from the bodies of fallen Heavenly Kings - to be catalogued." Why would a human commander be collecting demon general trophies?

It's as if two different stories were crudely stitched together. One about a human hero who fought demons, another about a Demon King who was defeated. The seams are visible if you look closely enough.

And then there's young master Avian.

I can't explain it rationally, but watching him fight today... the efficiency, the brutality disguised as technique, the way he moves like killing is mathematics rather than art. It reminds me of those military dispatches. "Commander D. turned the eastern flank through applied violence." That's how one report phrased it. Applied violence.

He's connected to this somehow. I know it in my bones. But a twelve-year-old boy and events from five centuries ago? The logical part of my mind says it's impossible. The rest of me says logic fled this investigation weeks ago.

Tomorrow I'm requesting access to the deep archives. The Church won't like it, but knowledge hidden is knowledge wasted.

The truth is there. I just need to dig deeper.

Princess Celeste's Private Correspondence - Evening of the Second Trial

Dearest Diary (how I hate that traditional opening, but grandfather insists on proper forms even in private writing),

Today's tournament was illuminating, though not in the way I'd hoped. I'm no closer to finding my mysterious savior from the alley, but I may have found something equally intriguing.

Avian Veritas. Recognized son of the Patriarch, formerly forgotten in the tertiary branch. On paper, he's simply another noble boy clawing for position. In person? He's a contradiction wrapped in polite smiles.

He fights like someone who learned through necessity rather than instruction. Every movement calculated for survival, not points. When that brute Roderick swung his hammer, Avian moved like he'd already seen the outcome and found it boring. When Vera tried her knife work, he countered with the exhausted efficiency of someone who's faced blades too often to find them interesting.

But it's not just his fighting. It's the way he thinks. "Second place is just first loser." Who says that? What twelve-year-old noble has that kind of pragmatic cynicism?

Grandfather noticed him too. Pulled me aside after the second match and said, "That one moves like an echo." When I asked what he meant, he just smiled that knowing smile that means he's remembering things from before my time. "Some souls are too stubborn to stay properly buried," he said. "They find new vessels and old patterns."

The thing about grandfather is that he's old. Not just elderly - OLD. The kind of old that makes historians nervous when they try to verify dates. He claims to be merely a century and a half, but I've seen documents with his seal from three hundred years ago. The court mages whisper that his cultivation extends beyond Transcendent, into realms that trade mortality for power.

Sometimes I wonder if he's old enough to have been there. At the Demon War. It would explain his strange obsession with that period, the way he collects artifacts and testimonies like puzzle pieces. The way he looks at certain sword techniques with recognition rather than academic interest.

I think grandfather knows something about my alley savior. I think he suspects Avian might be connected. But he's waiting, watching, gathering evidence before he acts. It's his way. Five centuries of life (if my suspicions are correct) have taught him patience.

The invitation has been extended. If Avian accepts, if he comes to the palace... I have a feeling answers will follow. Though whether they'll be the answers I want or the kind that reshape everything I thought I knew remains to be seen.

He's beautiful though, in that sharp-edged way of someone who's been carved by hardship rather than born to beauty. When he helped that mountain Marcus to his feet after thoroughly destroying him, there was genuine kindness in it. Power used with restraint.

I find myself hoping he is my savior. And if he's not? Well, he's fascinating enough on his own merits.

The game deepens. I do so love when that happens.

C.