Yellow Jacket

They stood over the corpse like it might still speak.

Vaeliyan Verdance, the self-proclaimed savior of the Green, lay broken in the center of the chamber. No tricks. Just a body.

Grix stepped forward. Her face twisted with disgust, and she hawked, preparing to spit.

"Wait," Isol said sharply.

She paused, blinked. "What?"

"This is perfect," he murmured, stepping closer. His eyes didn't leave the corpse. "He's the perfect one. Warren, this is the Skill you need to take as your Veil."

Warren, still catching breath, wiped blood from his lip. "Why the fuck would I take this piece of shit as my Veil?"

Isol didn't flinch. He looked Warren in the eye. "Tarric... I mean, Vaeliyan, said it himself. He's from the House of Verdance. A bastard, sure. But that name still matters. With my signet and that lineage? You'd be almost guaranteed entry. They'd be chomping at the bit to get you to join. He practically made himself the perfect Veil."

Nanuk crossed his arms. "Could even draw Ohra's killer out."

Cassian raised a brow. "You think he was the one who tried to warn the Green about us?"

"I'd bet on it," Nanuk said. "Though nothing really came of it. Just Jurpat catching a case of throat-slitting."

Jurpat coughed and rubbed his neck. "Yeah, haven't really been able to look Zal-Raan in the eye since then. Still…" He glanced at the corpse. "Might get us some closure. Even if I hate the idea of Warren walking around wearing that body. It's the right call."

"Yes," Isol agreed. "And his Skill, while nowhere near yours, was effective. If it weren't for those glorious cats, and Car, we'd all be dead."

"Stylls helps," she chirped, standing tall. "Why ishole no thanks Stylls?"

Isol smiled. "I did. You count as one of the cats, my dear Styll."

She seemed satisfied. "Okays. Stylls be cats."

Batu exhaled through his nose. "That Skill seemed… situational. I was watching him. He just stood there for a long while before anything happened."

"First-stage maybe second-stage Skill," Isol replied. "Probably. But imagine what it could become. My Skill started as simple indexing ability. By the time I left the Citadel, I was considered one of the true powers of my generation."

"Skills evolve," he added. "They grow with the user. With Warren? It'll reshape itself. Become something tailored to his soul."

Batu grunted. "Honestly, that's terrifying to think about."

"It is," Wren said quietly. Her voice carried the kind of clarity that silenced the room. "But if you're going to the Citadel, you need more than strength. You need legitimacy. And if this bastard's name buys that... then use it. Just don't forget who you are underneath."

Calra shifted her weight, arms crossed. "It's about weaponizing what they left behind. Let the nobles eat their own. We'll just ride the name until you get what we need."

"And what about when the name becomes the mask?" Deana said sharply. "How long before pretending to be Vaeliyan becomes easier than being yourself?"

Florence's voice was firm. "Then he anchors himself in us. In Mara. In who he's always been. That's how you wear a mask without letting it wear you."

"He shouldn't have to wear one at all," Grix snapped. "We've earned our names. Why bow to theirs?"

"Because we're not playing our game anymore," Isol replied. "We're on their board now. And this is how you flip it."

"You want him to become Verdance?" Deana asked. "That bloodline is poison. For the gods' sake, they're the ones who make bug bars."

Everyone shuddered at that.

Cassian stepped back, face pale. "That's pure evil. You want him to become evil incarnate?"

"Not become," Isol said. "Infiltrate. Undermine. Burn it from the inside."

Car nodded. "He thought legacy would make him untouchable. He thought he'd be a hero. And he was, just not to the people he thought he was saving. Let his name walk the halls of the Citadel, under your feet."

Wren stepped forward. "We'll remind you who you are every day if we have to. But if this gets you inside? We take it."

"And what if it breaks him?" Jurpat asked. "What if the system sees him instead of the Veil?"

"Then we deal with it," Florence said. "Together. Like we always have."

Cassian exhaled. "It's risky. But so is everything else we've done. At least this time, we have a name they won't ignore."

Nanuk growled low. "I don't like it. But I respect the advantage."

"It's not about liking it," Isol said. "It's about surviving it."

Styll crawled up onto Warren's shoulder, tail flicking. "Stylls say takes name. crunches more Greens later."

A few people chuckled, even through the tension.

Calra looked to Warren. "Your call. We'll follow you. But don't do this because we say so. Do it because you believe it's the right move."

Warren hadn't said a word since the suggestion. He stood with his fists clenched, jaw tight.

"He tried to kill all of you," he finally said. "Tried to kill Wren. Our child. And you want me to wear his face?"

Silence.

"I'll do it," he said. "Not for him. Not for the Green. For all of you. So we can walk into the Citadel and burn the rot out from its marrow."

Florence nodded once. "Then we prepare. Just so we're clear, this puts Warren inside the Citadel. Isol, definitely. Maybe Jurpat, if the old networks still recognize his clearance. But the rest of us? We won't be getting through the gates.""

That sobered the group.

Cassian rubbed his neck. "So we're just watching from the outside while he walks into a viper pit?"

"That's what infiltration looks like," Isol said. "Controlled sacrifice. If it works, we crack the shell from inside."

Grix didn't look convinced. "Or we lose him for good."

Wren's hand found Warren's. "Then we make sure he knows who he's walking in for."

Nanuk grunted. "I'll start sketching fallback points. Doesn't matter if we're not inside, we'll be close. Ready."

Car nodded. "I'll see about setting up relay support. The Citadel has blind spots. We'll find them."

The decision had been made.

But this wasn't just infiltration.

Warren looked at the body one last time, then up at the map interface where the Citadel's perimeter blinked in low resolution.

"This isn't just about sneaking in," he said. His voice was low, but it carried. "It's about bleeding them out from the inside. Getting everything we can, intel, clearance, leverage, before I claim the whole damn structure for us."

Jurpat blinked. "You're not just playing at their game, are you?"

Warren shook his head. "No. I'm going to end it. Repar Malcus wanted to make his own great House before we ended him. Use the Glass Ocean to make himself rich enough that they'd have to give him a seat at the table. Then fine. We are just going to be the ones sitting in it.

Florence's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something knowing. "Now that sounds like Mara."

Grix straightened, eyes narrowed. "You're going to make a House? Like... actually declare it?"

"Not declare it," Warren said. "Make it undeniable."

Calra let out a low whistle. "Well shit. Better make sure you don't like the color green."

Car crossed his arms. "He won't wear green. The House of Verdance will. And they'll call it loyalty, not realizing who's pulling the strings."

Wren tilted her head. "You're not just going in to burn it all, are you?"

Warren glanced at her. "No. I'm going in to take it."

And the room finally let itself breathe.

There was no ritual. No spectacle. No chant or ceremony. Just Warren staring at the body of the man they had once called Tarric.

Vaeliyan Verdance.

That would be his new name.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Would you like to consume this lingering soul?
Yes / No

Warren answered with a thought.

Yes.

That was it.

The corpse vanished, no light, no fire, no scream. Just gone. Like it had never been there. But Warren felt it. The faint pull. The ripple that followed something divine. The lingering touch of the Twin. A chill down his spine that wasn't quite pain, but wasn't comfort either. He guessed he was never supposed to see the process.

Everyone was staring.

"Is that... is it?" someone asked.

Warren nodded. "It's done."

Grix tilted her head. "Well? Show us already."

So he did.

It wasn't dramatic. He didn't mutate or warp or reassemble like some monster out of the Red. One moment, he was Warren Smith. The next, he was Vaeliyan Verdance.

Or mostly.

The enforcer mask was gone. In its place was a noble face, handsome to the point of arrogance. The kind of smile that looked like it could melt hearts and sign execution orders with the same breath. But it sat wrong. Warren's stillness, his still face, underlay it all.

His eyes were green now. Vivid. Almost jade. His skin had a sun-kissed glow that didn't belong in the Yellow. His hair was golden, curling in elegant waves that framed his face too perfectly.

Warren hated it immediately.

He stood taller than before, maybe six-foot-three, maybe more, but his posture, his presence, was still Warren. Still forged in the mud and ruin.

Florence blinked. "That's... unsettling."

"You look like someone who's never had to fight for a damn thing," Deana muttered.

Warren, no, Vaeliyan, cracked his knuckles. "Then let them think that. Just long enough for me to take everything they own and make them thank me for it."

The face may have changed.

But the eyes were still his.

He exhaled once, quiet and even. Then, without a word, he pulled open the interface.

Vaeliyan Verdance — Level 15

Second threshold requirements met

Class: Blade Dancer

Alignment: Green Zone Citizen

Unallocated Stat Points: 0

Strength: 19
Perception: 21
Intelligence: 32
Dexterity: 26
Endurance: 19
Resolve: 29

Skills

Power Strike (Active): A single, focused melee blow delivered with full-body commitment. Designed to break guards, knock targets off balance, or end a fight with clean force. Most effective when delivered from a grounded stance with intent. Requires no charge, no windup, only opportunity.

Pocket Sand (Active): A burst of particulate grit thrown directly at a target's face or optics. Causes immediate disorientation, temporary blindness, and target disruption. Non-lethal. Opens space, ruins focus, and invites mistakes. Taught to those who weren't born faster, just meaner.

Optimized Metabolism (Passive): The body operates with refined internal efficiency. Post-exertion recovery is faster. Heat regulation is cleaner. Breath control holds longer. This isn't regeneration. It's output discipline. The body doesn't burn harder. It just burns better.

Anchored Stance (Passive): Trained for balance and weight control under impact. Reduces stagger, slippage, and recoil disruption. Movement becomes deliberate. Posture resists being broken. This is not strength, it's structure that refuses to fold.

Vaeliyan's Soul skill – All Around You

Stage Two

Core Effect – Pressure Field

The field builds over time. The longer the user remains still, the faster the pressure intensifies. What begins as a subtle shift becomes a persistent weight. The space tightens. Air feels heavier. Focus degrades. The presence grows without sound or warning.

Passive – Suffocation Drift

The field spreads outward from the user, thinning focus and sharpening discomfort. Oxygen levels remain unchanged, but breathing feels strained. Thought slows. Tension builds. The effect is passive, progressive, and persistent.

Execution Effect – Compression Spike

The user can condense the field instantly, applying a sudden spike of directional pressure. The effect is silent, invisible, and immediate. At close range, it can stagger limbs, break rhythm, or knock weapons off-course. Applied precisely, it can mimic the force of a physical strike.

Known Limitations:

The field strengthens the longer the user remains still. Movement reduces intensity and disrupts edge stability.

Pressure loses coherence with distance from the user.

The Skill does not directly immobilize targets.

Effects are less noticeable to individuals with suppressed emotional response, advanced conditioning, or enhanced respiratory systems.

Stage Two Upgrades

Spatial Sensory Link:
Detects motion and presence through subtle shifts in pressure. Provides 360° awareness independent of sight or sound.

Directional Focus:
The user can shape the field's effects toward specific targets or soften its reach. Pressure follows intent, not command.

Passive Signal Disguise:
Sensors register the Skill as background fluctuation, vent lag, circulation faults, or minor atmospheric drift. No alert is triggered unless manually investigated.

As Warren closed the status screen, the Ark fell away.

No sounds. No light shift. Just… heat. He stood inside a space that wasn't a room. It was a forge turned cathedral. The walls breathed with flowing alloys, molten veins running through the metal like lifeblood. Bladed fountains rose in graceful arcs, each one humming with impossible edge. Not chaotic. Not hellish. Beautiful. Purposeful.

And at the center of it all stood the Silvered Maiden.

She had been watching him since the day Mara first carried him into the Cult of Iron, half-dead, silent, starving. And in that moment, she had known. He was not what the others were chasing. He was not a man who might one day become a monster. He was a monster who had taught himself to walk as a man. And that was the only kind of creature she had ever wanted.

Steel.

The god of Adaptation smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Her smile sparked, each tooth flashing with gilded heat. When she spoke, her voice rang like hammered glass and temple chimes, cold and clear and unignorable.

"Vaeliyan Verdance. I have waited long enough."
"I claim you as my contender."
"Do you accept what I offer?"

He bowed his head. "Yes, my god."

He moved to kneel, but Steel stepped forward and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I told you once, in a former life, you will never kneel to me."

Her smile flared like tempered silver catching breath.

"You're probably wondering what it means to be mine."

He nodded, silent.

Steel's expression flattened into purpose.

"It means you will fight for the throne of heaven."
"And you must win."

"The throne of heaven?" he asked.

"You will walk two paths," she said, stepping around him now, her motion fluid mercury run through channels of heat.
"One I cannot touch. One that is mine."
"You will walk the path to godhood, as those of us before you once did."

"Does that mean I'll have to fight the other gods' contenders? Kill them?"

His voice hardened. "I won't. If that's the cost. I won't kill Grix."

Steel didn't laugh. She shined.

"No, my contender. Not all godlings make war the same way."
"But some will try. And many must fall.
That is not the task. The task is this..."

She stepped close again, so close the heat became silence.

"You must discover what it means to be a god of this world."

"You'll help me with that?"

"I will set tasks."
"And grant boons, as you deserve them."
Her voice sharpened, not loud, but final.
"First boon. Your passive Skills will function in both forms."

He blinked. "I noticed something. My stats didn't change."

Steel's smile dipped low, like embers beneath a blade.

"Of course they didn't."
"The nanites that rebuild you carry both of your truths. They don't change. They reshape."

She turned then, looking out toward some horizon Warren couldn't see.

"Iron. It's nearly time for you to return."

"But before you go, I give you your first task."

"In the Red, not far from where you stand now, there is a daemon. You've seen it. It did not attack."

"Go to it. Speak its name. Tell it: You are remembered."

"Then wait."

"It will open its chest and bare its heart. You will drive your blade, the one your mother gave you, into that heart."

"Take the fragment inside, not the one from its chip, but the one buried in its heart." "Grant it to the Last Kindness."

"She will need it. And you will need her to have it."

Steel turned her eyes back to him, and for a breathless moment, all the world fell still around her.

"Now…"

"Go back to them."

Vaeliyan blinked, and the world around him was back to the way it was before the fire and Steel.

Isol was the first to speak. "So, how does it feel to be a new man, Warren?"

"I think there's a lot to talk about," Vaeliyan said. "First, Steel just spoke to me. She made me her contender. And gave me a task."

Everyone froze. Even the air felt heavier, except for Grix, who didn't flinch.

She just tilted her head. "What's the task, boss man?"

Vaeliyan looked to Wren. "You remember that data daemon we encountered down here?"

"How could I forget? That was the second creepiest moment of my life."

He raised an eyebrow. "Second?"

"This," she said flatly. "Right now. My husband talking to me with the voice and face of the man who tried, and almost succeeded, in killing us all."

Vaeliyan nodded. "Makes sense."

Calra snorted. "You even talk like Warren. It's uncanny."

"I am Warren."

Isol stepped in gently. "No. You're Vaeliyan now. Or maybe even Tarric, depending on the company. But while you're like this, you need to learn to respond to your name. Vaeliyan. Not Warren."

"Honestly, I have no idea how hard that's going to be. I was never a spy."

"They do it all the time in the holos," Jurpat offered.

"Well, shit. This is going to be hard," Vaeliyan muttered.

The cats, all five of them, chose that exact moment to clamber onto him, stacking themselves like a furry, twitching tower. One on his shoulder. One on his head. Two around his arms. And Bastard sat on him like a crown.

Styll perched last, proud and blinking. "Stylls warn. Stylls good."

"If anyone ever doubted it, that's Warren," Grix said, laughing as the totem swayed.

Vaeliyan, barely moving, said in a quiet, pained voice: "Help."

Everyone burst into laughter.

The laughter faded slowly, like steam rising off cooling metal. Isol wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and sighed.

"So, my young friends, Jurpat, Vaeliyan, the three of us have a few things to handle before you can even think about testing into the Citadel."

"Can we talk while we walk?" Vaeliyan asked. "Steel gave me a task. One I think she expects me to start immediately."

"Will it be a long arduous quest? Slay an evil overlord or an angry god?" Isol asked, feigning excitement.

Vaeliyan shrugged. "I think I already did all of those. Without being asked."

Isol laughed again, a short, knowing sound. "You know what? I think you're right, my boy. I was only joking but you are right. You did say something about a data daemon?"

"Yeah. I've got to go help it die."

Jurpat raised a hand in mock salute. "Off to kill a demon. See you all later."

"Didn't say kill," Vaeliyan replied. "Seems more like a mercy than a murder."

As they made their way out, Vaeliyan turned to Isol. "So, what are these tasks we need to complete?"

"Well, Jurpat," Isol said, raising an eyebrow. "What are the requirements to test for the Legion? You must know them by heart at this point."

"First and foremost, you must have a combat Skill."

"Second," Isol added, "you need a sponsor, or fight in the entrance tournament and place in the top five."

"The best candidates do win the tournament," Isol said. "That's what we're aiming for. Even if somehow you fail in the tournament, the sponsor gives you a fallback."

Jurpat nodded. "Third, you need to be no lower than level 20 and no higher than level 25."

"Not sure why that one exists," he admitted.

"It's because they want to train uncut gems," Isol said. "That's when people have a grasp on their Skill, but they're still malleable."

"Okay, so those are the requirements," Isol said. "Now, what's the rule about terms in the Citadel?"

Jurpat flinched and gave Vaeliyan a squirmy smile. "You have to do all four years inside the walls of the Citadel. In one go."

Vaeliyan froze. "What did you just say? Four years? FOUR YEARS?!" He turned to Isol, voice rising. "You want me to spend four years inside a place without Wren? You know she and I haven't even been together for one! You want me to leave her for four years? What about our kid? I won't be there for the birth of our child!"

"No, no, no," Isol said quickly, holding up his hands. "You get a winter break each year. The highbloods changed that rule. Too many noble brats and their ever-so-important parents kept calling the Citadel a jailhouse."

Vaeliyan exhaled. "So that's one thing I can thank the nobles for."

Isol muttered, "Back in my day, it was six years. And by the time we were out, our family was the Legion."

Vaeliyan and Jurpat looked at him with matching expressions of horror.

With that grim image fresh in their minds, the three set off, bootfalls echoing down the corridor. Ahead of them, in the deep stillness of the Red, a daemon waited, silent and watching, remembering the promise of a death it hadn't yet earned. Steel had given her orders. Now it was Vaeliyan's turn to see them through.