The evening air in the training pit was thick with the scent of turned earth and the metallic tang of sweat. Azrakar stood in the center, his posture deliberately slumped, his eyes cast toward his scuffed boots. He felt the weight of Captain Harl's gaze from the sidelines—a gaze that had become uncomfortably sharp since their last interaction.
"The wind doesn't care about shields." The words echoed in Azrakar's mind like a death knell. He had let his guard down. For a brief, arrogant moment, he had forgotten that he was inhabiting the skin of a ten-year-old boy. To him, that sentence was a fundamental truth of the higher realms of combat, a simple observation of fluid dynamics in energy warfare. To Harl, it was the chillingly precise insight of a veteran, coming from a child who shouldn't know the difference between a shield and a saucer.
He thought back to his meeting with the hermit, Malakor. He had spoken to the old man with the same cold, analytical weight, and Malakor had simply accepted it. The hermit had seen the "busy heart" of a monster and had bargained with it as an equal.
How incredibly lucky I was, Azrakar realized, a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the night air running down his spine. Malakor is a creature of the fringe, a man so consumed by his own failures and the madness of his research that he no longer cares for the "natural order." He didn't find it strange that a child spoke like a Sovereign because he was desperate for a sign—any sign—that his life's work wasn't a waste.
In his past life, Azrakar had moved through the world with absolute authority. His words were law. But here, in the dawn of the Golden Era, that authority was his greatest enemy. If a clan like the Vileths—or worse, the high-level investigators of the Kingdom—suspected he was a "Soul-Possessor" or a Reincarnator, they wouldn't bow to his wisdom. They would strap him to an altar and peel back his soul, layer by layer, to steal his secrets.
I am not a Sovereign here, he reminded himself, centering the Primal Spark in his chest. I am a disappointment. I am a Bronze-rank guard who should be more worried about a missed meal than the philosophy of the wind. I must bury the ghost of the Emperor deeper.
"Azrakar! Stop staring at the dirt and focus!" Harl's bark snapped through the silence.
Three Iron-rank scouts stepped into the pit. These were men who had survived skirmishes on the borders; their Aura was steady, seasoned, and aggressive. They tied black cloths over their eyes, their lips curled in varying degrees of annoyance.
"The exercise is Aura-Sensing," Harl commanded. "You three are to find the boy. Azrakar, you are to stay 'hidden.' If they touch you with their training daggers, you're back on double-watch in the Archives."
The scouts didn't wait. They spread out, their internal energies humming. In the "inner eye" of an Aura-user, the world became a map of heat and vibration. A living being was a bright, pulsing light against the cold background of the stone.
Azrakar didn't immediately suppress his energy. That would be another mistake. A total "void" in the middle of a training pit was just as suspicious as a bright light. Instead, he manipulated the Trinity Circuit to perform a feat of "Energetic Camouflage."
He allowed a small, jagged amount of his Aura to leak out—mimicking the unrefined, "cloudy" energy of a true Bronze-rank. He made it flicker, as if he were struggling to maintain his focus. He made himself "smell" like the surrounding hay and the damp stone walls.
The scouts began to move.
"He's... over by the weapon rack," one scout muttered, lunging with his wooden dagger. The blade whistled through empty air, inches from where Azrakar had been standing a second ago.
Azrakar didn't use a high-level dodge. He shuffled. He moved with the awkward, slightly uncoordinated rhythm of a child who was more lucky than skilled. He deliberately let his breathing become heavy and ragged.
Malakor didn't care that I was weird, Azrakar thought, watching the blindfolded scouts stumble around him. But Harl is a man of the system. To him, 'weird' means 'threat.' I must be more than just mediocre; I must be pitiable.
One of the scouts, a man named Jax, was getting closer. He had a sharper sense than the others. He stopped, his head tilting like a hound catching a scent. He began to zero in on Azrakar's fake "flickering" Aura.
Azrakar saw the man's feet pivot. He knew exactly where Jax would strike.
Instead of moving away, Azrakar "tripped."
He allowed his foot to catch on a loose stone. He didn't just fall; he flailed. He let out a sharp, high-pitched gasp of genuine-sounding panic.
"I've got him!" Jax yelled, spinning and thrusting his wooden dagger forward.
Azrakar let the blunt wood strike him squarely in the ribs. He didn't use his energy-absorption technique—not fully. He allowed the impact to hurt just enough to make him let out a realistic wheeze. He tumbled into the dirt, rolling through the grime until he hit the wooden post of the pit.
"Dammit," Azrakar groaned, his voice cracking. He stayed down for a moment, rubbing his side and looking up at the scouts with a face of pure, childish frustration. "You're too fast. It's not fair."
Harl walked into the pit, looking down at the dirt-covered boy. He looked at the way Azrakar was clutching his side, at the tears of "irritation" welling in the corners of his eyes.
The Captain's expression softened. The suspicion that had been brewing since the "wind" comment began to dissipate. A hidden master didn't trip over a pebble. A Sovereign didn't whine about things being "unfair."
"Fairness is for the dead, Azrakar," Harl said, his voice returning to its usual gruff, fatherly disappointment. "You're slow, and your energy control is a mess. But at least you stayed hidden for three minutes. That's more than I expected from a librarian."
"It hurts," Azrakar mumbled, wiping mud across his cheek to further obscure his features.
"Of course it hurts. It's a training pit, not a nursery," Harl grunted, turning to the scouts. "Again! And you three, if a Bronze-rank brat can stay hidden for three minutes, you're not trying hard enough!"
As the scouts reset, Azrakar slowly climbed to his feet. His mind was as calm as a frozen lake, even as he played the part of the wounded pup.
The hermit Malakor was a gift I cannot expect to receive twice, he mused, resetting his fake, flickering Aura. He was the exception. The rest of the world is the rule. I will play the child, I will play the failure, and I will play the fool. I will speak only of petty things and childish fears.
He looked at Jax, who was reset and ready to strike.
And while they watch the fool trip in the dirt, Azrakar thought, the Emperor will continue to build his throne in the dark.
"I'm ready," Azrakar said, his voice small and hesitant. "Please... don't hit me so hard this time."
Harl chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. Azrakar took it as a compliment. It was the sound of a man who had stopped looking for secrets where he thought there were none.