Hero Of Broken History

[Seren - Veritas Compound]

The candle had burned down to a stub, wax pooling on her desk like congealed secrets. The wick sputtered, fighting for life in its diminishing fuel, casting shadows that danced across her stolen knowledge. Seren rubbed her eyes, feeling the grit of too many sleepless nights grinding against her eyelids.

The reports lay spread before her, each word a weight on her conscience. Theft from the Church carried penalties that started with excommunication and got creative from there. But the truth... the truth was worth any risk.

Report 451: Commander D. enters alone. Report 453: Vaerin emerges claiming victory.

She'd read these lines so many times the ink seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Between those two reports lay a gap that had swallowed history itself. Report 452 - missing, destroyed, or hidden so deep even she couldn't find it. What had happened in those crucial moments? What truth was so dangerous it needed to be erased entirely?

Her small room felt suffocating tonight. The walls pressed closer with each passing hour, filled with the weight of knowledge she couldn't share. Outside her window, the compound slept peacefully, unaware that everything they believed about their precious Saint Vaerin might be a lie.

The irony tasted bitter as day-old tea. Young Master Avian had left for the capital four days ago - some training excursion with that calculating seventh son, Kai. Of all the timing... She'd finally found proof that might crack open his careful facade, evidence that aligned with every suspicious instinct she'd developed watching him, and he was gone.

But perhaps that was for the best. It gave her time to think, to plan, to figure out how to present the impossible without sounding insane.

She pulled out her observation journal, fingers tracing notes made over months of careful watching. The way Avian moved when he thought no one was looking - economical, brutal, nothing like the flowery Veritas forms. The way his expression went carefully blank whenever anyone mentioned the Demon War. The intensity of his interest that went beyond academic curiosity into something personal.

The military dispatches had described Commander D.'s fighting style in loving detail. "Applied violence," one captain had written. "Watching him fight is like watching a butcher at work - no wasted movement, every cut purposeful, beauty be damned." Another had noted: "The Commander fights like he's personally offended by his enemies' continued existence."

The exact opposite of everything the Veritas style represented.

The exact way Avian fought when the mask slipped.

"Impossible," she whispered for what must have been the thousandth time. The word had become a mantra, a ward against the madness of her own conclusions.

But the evidence kept mounting like snow in a blizzard, each flake insignificant alone but collectively burying all other explanations. His interest in the war. His reaction to contradictions. Fighting techniques that had supposedly died with their creator. Knowledge that flickered behind those young eyes like embers of a fire that should have been ash five centuries ago.

And now these reports proving the official history was fabricated. Commander D. hadn't been a demon who was defeated - he'd been a hero who was betrayed.

Her hands trembled as she reached for her tea, long cold but she drank it anyway. The bitter taste grounded her, pulled her from the edge of the impossible back to the merely improbable.

When he returned, she'd need to be careful. So very careful. Test her theory without revealing her theft. Perhaps frame it as academic speculation, philosophical musings about the nature of souls and memory. See how he reacted to hypotheticals before presenting facts.

Because if her impossible theory was right... if souls could return... if Commander D. had somehow found a way back...

A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty window. Everything the Empire built itself on was a lie. Every prayer to Saint Vaerin was blasphemy. Every noble family that traced their authority to the "sacred victory" was founded on murder.

And a twelve-year-old boy might be the key to unraveling it all.

She closed her eyes, seeing again that moment in the library when she'd mentioned timeline inconsistencies. The way his entire body had gone still, like a predator suddenly aware it was being hunted. The careful, measured way he'd asked his follow-up questions. Not the curiosity of youth but the probing of someone confirming what they already knew.

"Who are you really, Avian Veritas?" she whispered to the dying candle. "Who were you?"

The flame finally guttered out, leaving her in darkness with questions that burned brighter than any fire.

[Thane - Veritas Compound, Private Training Chamber]

The training dummy exploded under his strike, wood splintering into a thousand accusations of weakness. Fragments scattered across the stone floor, joining the debris of a dozen others he'd destroyed tonight. Not enough. Still not fucking enough.

Thane dropped to his knees, stomach heaving with violence that had become familiar as breathing. The convulsions wracked his body, muscles seizing as they tried to expel contents that didn't exist. Nothing left to throw up - he'd emptied his stomach an hour ago, two hours ago, time had become meaningless in this hell of his own making.

"Pathetic," he gasped between dry heaves, tasting bile and blood where he'd bitten his tongue. "Fucking pathetic."

The private training chamber reeked of his degradation. Sweat soaked into stone that had absorbed years of practice, but never like this. Never mixed with vomit and the copper stench of blood from palms torn open by relentless gripping. The air was thick, humid with exertion and desperation, coating his throat with each ragged breath.

He'd been here since midnight. No, longer. The servants had stopped checking on him after the third day. Even they could recognize the difference between training and self-destruction, and they wanted no part of whatever he was becoming down here in the dark.

His aura flickered around him like a dying candle, unstable from overuse. Fourth Star trying to compress to Fifth, channels screaming as he forced more power through pathways already raw from abuse. But his body kept rejecting the advancement, some fundamental limit refusing to break no matter how hard he pushed.

Sixth Tier, Father's voice echoed in his memory, casual as discussing the weather. Grandmaster rank. Dual-path. At twelve.

The words drove him to his feet on legs that shook like a newborn colt's. Muscles cramped immediately, overworked fibers protesting movement. He ignored them. Pain was just weakness leaving the body. He'd make it all leave. Every drop.

He selected another dummy from the dwindling supply, dragging it into position with arms that felt like they were filled with water instead of bone. The wood was solid oak, reinforced with iron bands. Built to last years of normal training.

He'd make it last minutes.

Raising his sword required both hands now, his grip so weak that the blade trembled. Seven years of perfect form, and he could barely hold stance. His body was betraying him, just like everything else. Just like Father's pride. Just like the future that was supposed to be his.

God-touched.

The strike was pathetic. A child's blow. The dummy barely shuddered, mocking him with its stability. His careful Veritas form, seven years of perfect training, meant nothing. Less than nothing. His little brother had made it all worthless in six months.

"Again," he snarled at himself, voice raw from screaming his frustration at stone walls that didn't care.

But his body had finally reached its limit. The sword slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering on stone with a sound like breaking dreams. He followed it down, knees hitting hard enough to add new bruises to the collection. The impact jarred his spine, sent fresh waves of nausea through his empty stomach.

Seven years. Seven years of being the perfect heir. Every morning, rising before dawn to practice forms until they flowed like water. Every afternoon, studying governance and history and all the worthless knowledge an heir needed. Every evening, representing the family with perfect noble bearing.

He'd done everything right. Everything they asked. Sacrificed his childhood on the altar of expectation. Bled for approval that came in measured doses, always with the promise that more would follow if he just tried harder.

And for what?

To watch a forgotten third son claim first position like it was inevitable. Like the universe had always intended it and everyone else was just keeping the seat warm.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

To see Father's eyes light up with the kind of pride Thane had never earned, would never earn, because he'd been born merely excellent instead of impossible.

To know, with crushing certainty that sat in his chest like a stone, that he would never be enough. Not if he trained for a thousand years. Not if he broke every bone in his body trying.

"Not fair," he whispered to the empty chamber, and hated himself for how young he sounded. How weak. "Not fucking fair."

But fair was a child's complaint, and he couldn't afford to be a child anymore.

His connections in the darker parts of the compound had been whispering lately. Careful words in careful places about acceleration methods. Techniques that weren't taught because they consumed as much as they gave. Supplements that could push a body past its natural limits - for a price.

Forbidden things. Dangerous things. Things that could kill you if done wrong, and sometimes even if done right.

He'd dismissed them before. The heir to the Veritas name didn't need shortcuts. Excellence was in his blood, or so he'd believed.

But excellence wasn't enough anymore. Not when competing with divinity wrapped in a child's flesh.

His hand found his sword again, fingers wrapping around the hilt with the last of his strength. The metal was warm from his grip, familiar as his own heartbeat. This blade had been a gift on his tenth birthday, when being heir had felt like destiny instead of a joke the universe played.

"I'll find a way," he promised the sword, the chamber, himself. "Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs."

Even if it meant breaking himself completely in the process.

Even if it meant becoming something Father would never recognize, would never approve of.

Even if it meant making deals with devils who smiled while they poisoned you.

Power was power. The source didn't matter if it got results.

And Thane was so very tired of not getting results.

[Avian - Capital City, Pre-Dawn, Adventurer's Guild Training Grounds]

Four in the morning was the perfect time to train. The world belonged to ghosts and insomniacs at this hour, and Avian had been both for longer than this body had been alive.

He stood in the empty training ground, feeling the pre-dawn chill bite through his thin shirt. The cold was good - it kept him sharp, kept his mind from drifting to memories that belonged to dust and stories. Dew clung to the practice equipment, making everything glisten like it had been dipped in diamonds. The air tasted clean, carrying hints of rain that would come later and wash the city's sins down gutters that had seen worse.

Fargrim sang as he drew it, the sound like a lover's sigh after too long apart. The blade had been patient these past months, accepting inferior whetstones and half-hearted maintenance while he played with practice swords. But now, finally, it could stretch properly.

The weight was perfect. Not just balanced - perfect in that way where weapon became extension of will. The grip knew his hand, remembered every callus from a life that had ended in betrayal. Even dormant for centuries, even recently awakened, Fargrim was home in a way nowhere else could be.

"Alright," he murmured to the sword, voice barely disturbing the morning silence. "Let's see if we remember how to dance."

The first form came like breathing - if breathing could kill. Not Veritas style with its flourishes and ceremonial precision, but older patterns carved by necessity. Each movement had been paid for in blood, refined in battles where beauty meant death and efficiency meant maybe seeing tomorrow.

Fargrim sang as it carved through air, leaving trails of darkness that lingered like regrets. The blade moved in patterns that predated the Empire, that came from when humans were prey more often than predators. No wasted motion. No consideration for how it looked. Just the brutal mathematics of survival.

His body flowed through the forms, muscle memory transcending death itself. But it wasn't the same. Couldn't be the same. This body was still too small, reach too short, leverage all wrong. Where Dex would have bisected an enemy, Avian could only wound. Where the Hero could have pressed an attack, the child had to give ground.

Adapt or die. Same as always.

So he adapted. Found new angles that worked with his current limitations rather than fighting them. Turned the shorter reach into tighter movements that would be harder to counter. Used the smaller frame to present less target, to move in ways a full-grown warrior couldn't.

It was like relearning how to walk, if walking involved lethal amounts of sharpened steel.

"Lux," he called softly, not wanting to disturb the morning's church-like quiet. "Want to practice?"

The ring on his finger sparked with eager energy. Lightning crackled, expanded, shaped itself into fur and fangs and barely contained divine mischief. Lux materialized beside him, tail already wagging hard enough to create small thunderclaps.

She barked once, electricity crackling between teeth that could bite through reality if she put effort into it. The sound echoed across the empty grounds, probably waking every dog in a three-block radius.

"Subtle as always," he said dryly. "Right. Combat coordination. Try to match my movements. And please, try not to electrocute me this time."

She tilted her head, giving him a look of exaggerated innocence that would have been more convincing if her fur wasn't literally sparking with anticipation.

He began again, slower this time, movements deliberate and clear. Lux bounded alongside, all puppy enthusiasm wrapped in divine lightning. The idea was sound - lightning and steel working in harmony, covering each other's weaknesses, multiplying their strengths.

The execution was... less sound.

When he swept low, she jumped high - directly into his rising backswing. Only a desperate twist kept him from braining the Lightning Spirit King's daughter with the flat of his blade. When he lunged forward, she decided that was the perfect moment to dart between his legs, nearly sending them both sprawling.

"Lux, you're supposed to—"

She rolled on her back in the dirt, tongue lolling out, tail wagging furiously. Lightning crackled along her belly fur as she wiggled, the picture of innocent canine joy. Her eyes were bright with mischief, daring him to stay annoyed.

Cute act would work better if I didn't know you're older than some civilizations. Fully conscious, fully aware, choosing to act like an overgrown puppy because you think it's funny.

As if reading his thoughts - and she probably was, the bond went both ways - Lux rolled to her feet and play-bit his finger. Not hard enough to break skin, just enough for electricity to make it tingle. Her teeth were warm against his skin, careful despite their divine sharpness.

"Yeah, yeah. You're adorable. The most adorable instrument of divine wrath ever created." He pulled his hand back, flexing the tingling fingers. "Now can we try again? With less attempted maiming and more actual coordination?"

She barked agreement, prancing in place with the kind of energy that suggested she could do this all day and twice on holy days.

They tried again. And again. Each attempt got marginally better. She started to understand his rhythm, began to anticipate his movements instead of just reacting. When he swept low, she went high, lightning crackling overhead to catch aerial threats. When he pressed forward, she flanked, covering the angles his blade couldn't reach.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even good by his old standards. But it was progress.

"Better," he admitted after a particularly smooth sequence where they'd moved like actual partners instead of comedian and straight man. "We might actually manage not to kill each other in real combat."

Lux preened at the praise, chest puffing out with pride. Then immediately ruined the dignified moment by chasing her own tail in a circle of crackling electricity, yipping at the lightning that followed her in an endless loop.

"Very dignified for a divine spirit. I'm sure your father would be so proud to see his daughter, terror of the spirit realm, reduced to... this."

She stopped mid-spin to give him a look that clearly said 'dignity is overrated when you could be having fun.' Then went back to chasing her tail with renewed vigor.

Despite himself, Avian smiled. It was hard to maintain proper brooding in the face of such determined joy. Even if that joy came wrapped in enough lightning to level city blocks.

He sheathed Fargrim and sat on a training post, the wood rough and real against his palms. The sky was starting to lighten in the east, painting clouds in shades of rose and gold. Soon, other adventurers would arrive, and he'd have to go back to playing the talented youth instead of the ancient warrior.

His mind turned to practical matters as it always did when his body rested. The death mancer was out there somewhere, probably already planning their next encounter. The man had seemed genuinely delighted by the concept of reincarnation, like a researcher finding proof of a pet theory. That made him dangerous in ways that went beyond normal necromancy.

The third trial loomed in less than a month. He'd have to show more power then, risk more exposure. The careful balance of appearing gifted but not impossible would be harder to maintain.

And then there was his cultivation, still capped at Sixth Tier by whatever force had slammed down during his advancement. Like a ceiling made of spiritual steel, letting him press against it but never through. Someone or something was limiting his growth, and he had a growing suspicion it wasn't natural.

"Need to push harder," he muttered, watching Lux now investigating a training dummy with scientific thoroughness. "Need to break through whatever's holding me back."

But it wasn't just raw power he needed. The gravity magic he'd discovered was still largely unexplored. Making things heavier or lighter was just the beginning, the crudest application of a force that could reshape reality if properly understood. True gravity manipulation could warp space itself, create crushing fields that ignored physical defenses, maybe even affect time if the theoretical texts were right.

He'd been a brute force fighter in his past life. All power, no finesse, solving problems by having more strength than whatever opposed him. It had worked until it hadn't. Until an arrow found the gap that trust had left unguarded.

This time needed to be different. Power, yes, but tempered with understanding. Strength, but applied with precision instead of just overwhelming force.

Lux padded over, apparently done with her dummy investigation. She rested her massive head on his knee, warm and solid despite being made of lightning. Comfort radiated through their bond, tinged with contentment from their morning exercise.

"Yeah, I know. One problem at a time." He scratched behind her ears, feeling lightning dance between his fingers like friendly static. "First, we get strong enough that the trial doesn't require showing everything. Then we figure out who's playing games with my cultivation. Then we deal with the death mancer. Then..."

Then what? Expose the truth about the war? Tear down Saint Vaerin's legacy? Claim his place as the real hero?

The questions felt heavier than Fargrim. More dangerous too.

The sun finally crested the horizon properly, painting the empty training ground in shades of gold and shadow. Early risers would start arriving soon - the dedicated ones who believed the morning held some special magic for improvement. Time to go.

"Ring form," he said softly.

Lux huffed, sending a small lightning bolt into the ground in protest. But she complied, form condensing and compressing until she was just a band of silver-blue energy wrapped around his finger. Her contentment still hummed through their connection - she'd had fun despite their coordination failures, and there was always tomorrow to try again.

As he headed back to the Silver Swan, Avian's thoughts turned to darker matters. The death mancer had mentioned immortality through iteration. Reincarnation as a form of eternal life. He'd seemed to think Avian was proof that death could be cheated not through undeath but through return.

If he was right - if that was actually possible - then were there others like Avian? Other souls wearing new faces, carrying old memories?

And if so, how many of them remembered who they really were?

The questions followed him through streets just beginning to wake. Merchants setting up stalls, calling to each other in the casual camaraderie of shared early mornings. Bakers' shops already spreading the smell of fresh bread like a benediction. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that a dead hero walked among them wearing a child's face.