The Night-Training Grounds were a desolate stretch of jagged obsidian and cold, grey stone, tucked into the northernmost shadow of the Imperial Academy. Here, the air was perpetually thin, stripped of its warmth by the massive "Mana-Null" barriers that hummed with a low, bone-deep vibration. It was a place for those who sought silence, or for those, like Alaric Aurel, who carried secrets that the light of the Solar Empire would find intolerable.
Above, the moon hung like a silver coin, bleeding its pale, anaemic mana onto the world below. Alaric stood in the center of the field, his boots crunching softly on the frost-dusted gravel. He was alone, or as alone as one could be when a metaphysical abyss screamed for sustenance beneath their ribs.
Filter. Refine. Consume.
The words were a mantra, a rhythm he had carved into his very soul since his encounter with Thorne. The muddy, discordant energy he had torn from the brute still clung to his core like a layer of oily silt. It was powerful, yes, but it was wrong—a jagged, unrefined mess that threatened to destabilize his own foundation if he didn't purge the impurities.
He closed his eyes, his internal vision diving into the swirling nebula of his mana-well. Following the "Star-Path" filtration technique Lyra Morningstar had reluctantly shared during their last research session, Alaric began the agonizing process of distillation.
It felt like dragging a sieve through thick, freezing sludge. The Authority didn't want to filter; it wanted to devour, to crush everything into a singular, undifferentiated mass of power. Alaric gritted his teeth, his sweat turning to ice on his brow as he forced the monstrous hunger into a precise, surgical shape.
He isolated a strand of Thorne's "Crushing Earth" mana—a dull, brown energy that felt like grit between his teeth. Slowly, using the Star-Path's celestial logic, he stripped away the ego, the malice, and the genetic markers of the Thorne lineage. What remained was a tiny, shimmering bead of pure, neutral essence.
Now.
The Authority surged, snapping the bead into the void.
The reaction was instantaneous. A wave of heat erupted from his core, radiating through his limbs like liquid gold. The last of the "mud" was vaporized, leaving his mana-well as clear and deep as a mountain lake at midnight.
The pressure built. His Step 8 foundation, already strained to its limit, finally buckled under the sheer density of his refined energy.
CRACK.
It wasn't a physical sound, but a conceptual one. The barriers between his realms dissolved. His mana-well expanded, its borders pushing outward until they touched the very edges of his soul-form. The grey, misty energy of a Mortal Step 8 darkened into a rich, abyssal violet.
Mortal Step 9. The Peak.
Alaric exhaled, a plume of silver mist escaping his lips. He felt… full. For the first time since his transmigration, the screaming void was quieted, replaced by a cold, heavy stability. He could feel the threads of the world—the mana in the air, the vibration of the stones, the distant pulse of the Academy's heart—with a clarity that was almost overwhelming.
But it wasn't just power that had changed.
As he reached the absolute zenith of the Mortal Path, a new conceptual shape began to form within the Authority. It was a byproduct of his refined "Hunger"—a way to turn the devouring inward, to consume the very evidence of his existence.
He willed the energy to shift. The abyssal violet mana didn't just stay in his core; it bled out through his pores, clinging to his skin like a layer of sentient shadow. It didn't reflect the moonlight; it drank it.
The Void-Shroud.
To any observer, Alaric Aurel would now look like a commoner—a boy with no mana, no foundation, and no threat. Even his heartbeat seemed to have a hollow, distant quality, as if he were standing miles away while being right in front of them.
"Young Master?"
The voice came from the edge of the training grounds. Alaric didn't flinch. He had sensed Elara's approach minutes ago, her steady, lavender-scented presence a stark contrast to the biting cold of the obsidian field.
He didn't drop the shroud. He simply stood there, a ghost in the moonlight.
Elara stepped onto the field, her amber eyes scanning the darkness. She was holding a heavy wool cloak, her face tightened with the familiar mix of devotion and worry. She walked toward the center of the grounds, her steps slowing as she reached the spot where Alaric stood.
She stopped two paces away, her head tilting in confusion. She looked directly at him, her eyes searching the empty air.
"Young Master Alaric? I know you are here. I brought your…"
She trailed off, her hand reaching out to touch the air where his shoulder should be. Her fingers passed through the very edge of the Void-Shroud, and she jumped back with a sharp gasp, her eyes widening in primal terror.
"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Alaric let the shroud dissipate. He didn't just stop the technique; he let it dissolve back into his skin like a retreating tide.
One moment, there was only the cold, empty moonlight. The next, Alaric was standing exactly where he had been, his silver hair shimmering and his presence returning with the weight of a falling mountain.
Elara gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "By the Solar Throne… You… I couldn't see you. I couldn't even feel you, Alaric. It was like you weren't even a person."
Alaric stepped forward, his eyes softening as he took the cloak from her trembling hands. "It is a new technique, Little Star. A way to remain… unnoticed."
He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, but his gaze remained fixed on her. He noticed the way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her apron, the way her eyes avoided his for a fraction of a second too long.
"You didn't just come to bring me a cloak, Elara. What is it?"
Elara hesitated, the silence of the training grounds suddenly feeling oppressive. She looked down at her boots, her voice barely a whisper. "I have been… summoned. By the Office of Protocol."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "For what?"
"The Festival of the Solar Bloom," she said, her voice gaining a forced, brittle steadiness. "I have been selected as a 'Silver Handmaid' for the opening ceremonies. They say it is an honor for the Aurel household. A sign of our… renewed relevance."
The word "honor" tasted like ash in Alaric's mouth.
He knew what a Silver Handmaid was. In the cruel theater of the Imperial Court, the Silver Handmaids were common-born girls chosen to serve the high-noble scions during the mana-sparring exhibitions. They were meant to stand in the "Safe Zone" of the arena, holding the refreshments and the spare mana-crystals.
But there was no such thing as a safe zone when the children of the Great Houses were showing off. The handmaids were often "accidentally" caught in the crossfire—their lack of cultivation making them perfect, expendable targets for nobles who wanted to demonstrate their "unbridled power" without the risk of a real duel. It was a tradition of blood and humiliation, disguised as ceremony.
And the Office of Protocol was currently overseen by a cousin of the Nightshade family.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't an honor. It was a message. Thorne's defeat hadn't gone unnoticed, and since they couldn't touch him directly without breaking Academy law, they were going after the only thing he had left to lose.
Alaric reached out, his hand gently taking Elara's. Her palm was cold, a faint tremor running through her fingers. She knew what this was. She was a maid of House Aurel; she had seen enough "accidents" to know the price of noble pride.
"You don't have to go," Alaric said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
"I have to, Alaric," she replied, looking up at him with those deep, sacrificial amber eyes. "If I refuse, it's a direct insult to the Imperial invitation. They'll use it as an excuse to seize the remaining Aurel estates. I… I won't let them take anything else from you."
Alaric looked at her—at this small, mortal girl who was willing to stand in a storm of mana for the sake of a dying house and a "master" who was becoming a monster.
The void within him didn't just hunger for power then. It hungered for vengeance.
He squeezed her hand, his grip firm and grounding. "Look at me, Elara."
She obeyed, her eyes searching his silver ones.
"The Festival of the Solar Bloom is a harvest," Alaric said, his words cold and precise. "The nobles think they are the reapers, and the rest of the world is the grain. They think they can reach out and pluck whatever they desire, whenever they desire."
He leaned in closer, his voice a ghost of a promise against her ear. "But they have forgotten one thing. There is something in the dark that is hungrier than they could ever imagine."
He let go of her hand, turning to look at his own shadow, which seemed to stretch and pull at the edges of the moonlight.
"Go to your duties, Little Star," Alaric whispered. "Let them dress you in their silver silks. Let them place you in their arena. But know this."
He turned back to her, and for a moment, the Void-Shroud flickered in the depths of his eyes—a glimpse of the bottomless abyss that lay beneath his noble mask.
"Anyone who touches what is mine will find that their power, their blood, and their very existence have already been spoken for."
He watched her walk away, her small form disappearing into the grey mist of the training grounds. Alaric Aurel stood alone in the dark, the peak of Mortal Step 9 hummed in his veins, and for the first time, he didn't just feel like a transmigrator surviving a story.
He was the Hunger of House Aurel. And the harvest was about to begin.