Hero Of Broken History

The Church's deep archives weren't meant to be accessed by junior historians. They especially weren't meant to be accessed at three in the morning by junior historians who'd borrowed a senior archivist's seal and memorized guard rotation patterns over six weeks of careful observation.

Seren moved through the shadows with practiced ease. Brother Marcus would be in the kitchens for exactly eighteen minutes - she'd timed his snack breaks for weeks. The seal pressed against the ward stone with a soft click. Magic recognized magic, ancient protections yielding to authorized access.

The heavy door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing stairs that descended into darkness. She descended quickly, counting steps. Twenty down, turn left, fifteen paces. Her fingers found the hidden mechanism - a rose carved in relief. Press the thorns in sequence: pride, wrath, sorrow. Another door, another descent.

The second level smelled of preservation oils and old leather. Here she risked a small light - a candle spelled to burn dim and blue. Shelves materialized from the darkness, packed with volumes the Church had decided the world wasn't ready to read.

Her fingers traced leather spines with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for. There - "Field Reports: Northern Campaign, Final Year."

The leather was soft with age. She opened it carefully, blue light revealing words buried for five centuries.

Report 347: Commander D. has taken personal command of the eastern assault. Casualties minimal. Enemy forces in full retreat. Note: Commander continues to refuse noble title. Claims "the work matters more than the name."

Interesting. Commander D., not Demon King Dex. Her notebook appeared, and she began copying key passages with swift, precise strokes.

Report 348: Supply lines secured after Commander D. eliminated demonic infiltrators. Saved approximately 200 civilian lives. Refuses commendation. Quote: "Just doing what needs doing."

Page after page of military efficiency. A human commander who swore creatively, fought brutally, and somehow kept winning impossible battles. Nothing like the monster in the official histories. She copied dates, troop movements, direct quotes - building a timeline that made the official story impossible.

Footsteps echoed from above. She checked her timepiece - Brother Marcus returning early. Illness perhaps? No matter. She had twelve minutes before the next patrol.

She worked faster, focusing on the final entries. Different hands, hurried writing as the war reached its climax:

Report 451: Commander D. has entered the Demon King's fortress alone. Requests no reinforcements. "This is my fight," direct quote.

She flipped the page. Report 453. Her eyes narrowed. Where was 452?

Report 453: Lord Vaerin emerged from fortress claiming victory. Demon King destroyed. Commander D... complicated. Lord Vaerin insists on full military honors for the fallen. See attached for details.

No attachment. And "complicated" was doing significant work in that sentence. She made a final note: Missing Report 452 - likely contains truth of throne room encounter.

More footsteps. Multiple sets now. Early guard change? She killed the light, closed the book, and moved. Not panicked flight - smooth, practiced movement through routes she'd mapped weeks ago. Up the service stairs, through the meditation chambers, out the scholars' entrance.

She emerged into the night air looking like any junior historian pulling a late research session. The guards at the main gate didn't even glance up as she passed.

Three blocks away, she finally allowed herself a small smile. Six weeks of planning, executed flawlessly. And now she had proof that Commander D. and Demon King Dex were the same person - a war hero rewritten as a monster.

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Young Master Avian needs to know, she thought, tucking her notebook away. His interest in this period isn't academic curiosity. There's something more.

Tomorrow, she'd return to her normal routine. Continue her official research. But tonight's work would change everything - she just needed to figure out how to share it without revealing her source.

Miles away, in a chamber of black stone and darker purposes, the Council of Elders convened. Twelve ancient men and women sat around a table carved from a single piece of obsidian, discussing the future of their bloodline.

"The trials progress as expected," Elder Matthias intoned. "Young Thane shows adequate brutality. His arena performance was... instructive."

"Excessive," Elder Cordelia corrected. "Effective violence requires control. The heir must embody precision, not rage."

"Then Lady Clarissa remains our best option," suggested Elder Viktor. "Patient, calculating, no wasted movements."

"Competent," Elder Sophia acknowledged. "But hardly exceptional. She wins through avoiding mistakes rather than seizing victory."

The debate continued in familiar patterns. Each elder had their favorite, their vision of what the next generation should embody. None of them mentioned the forgotten third son who'd claimed first in the initial trial.

"You're wasting time."

Aedric's voice cut through their deliberations. The Patriarch had been silent until now, letting them chase their predetermined conclusions.

"My lord?"

"You discuss every candidate except the obvious winner." Aedric leaned forward slightly. "Avian will take it all. Not just the trials - everything that follows."

The council exchanged glances. Elder Cordelia cleared her throat. "Lord Aedric, while the boy showed unexpected capability, surely Thane's years of preparation—"

"Are irrelevant." Aedric's tone was matter-of-fact. "Avian has compressed five decades of cultivation into six months. He reached Grandmaster rank at twelve. His Mana Heart is structurally perfect - not excellent, not exceptional, perfect. The kind of foundation that appears perhaps once in a thousand years."

"Power alone doesn't make an heir," Elder Viktor protested. "Politics, governance, understanding of—"

"Politics?" Aedric's expression didn't change, but something in the air grew heavier. "I don't need an heir who plays politics. I need one who makes politics irrelevant through sheer capability."

He stood, a controlled movement that still made several elders shift uncomfortably.

"Watch the next trial carefully. Really watch. Not the power he shows, but the power he hides. Not the techniques he uses, but the ones he restrains himself from using." His gaze swept the council. "He fights like someone who learned through necessity, not instruction. Like someone who's seen more battles than his years should allow."

"You're suggesting—"

"I'm stating facts. Avian moves like violence itself decided to take human form. When he stops pretending to be weak - and he will stop - you'll understand why your favorites are competing for second place."

He moved toward the door with measured steps.

"One month until the third trial. Pay attention this time. You might learn something about what real power looks like."

The door closed with quiet finality.

The council sat in contemplative silence. Finally, Elder Matthias spoke. "He seems quite certain."

"Lord Aedric is rarely wrong about potential," Elder Cordelia admitted. "But the boy is still just twelve. Talented, yes, but—"

"Did you not hear?" Elder Sophia interrupted. "Grandmaster at twelve. Perfect Mana Heart. Gravity magic. These aren't talents - they're impossibilities."

They continued their discussions, but something had shifted. In one month, they would watch more carefully. They would look for what Aedric saw - not a boy reaching for power, but someone remembering how to use it.

In her small room near the Church district, Seren spread her notes across her desk. The stolen information painted a clear picture: Commander D. had been the war's greatest hero until the final day. Then history rewrote itself, making him the villain.

But why? What happened in that throne room that required erasing a hero?

She thought of Avian's sharp interest in the Demon War, the way he'd tensed when she'd mentioned contradictions in the timeline. His fighting style that reminded her of the military dispatches - brutal efficiency over formal technique.

Connected. He's connected to this somehow.

Tomorrow, she'd continue her research through official channels. But tonight, she had truth that had waited five centuries to surface.

And somehow, she knew Young Master Avian needed to hear it.