Chapter 3
The Knight's Gambit
For two days, Kaelen was a ghost in his own body. The soul-deep weakness was a leaden cloak, making even lifting a water cup a monumental task. The phantom pain in his chest had faded, but the memory of the chitinous claws and Elian's final, bloody gasp was seared into his mind. He had died. He had felt his consciousness violently torn from a reality.
But he had returned. And as the crippling fatigue began to recede, it left something new in its wake. When he finally stood on the third day, his body felt… denser. The chronic slouch from hunching over data-slates was gone, his posture unconsciously straighter. The minor tremor in his hands had vanished. He was still far from the Federation's physical benchmarks for a 1st Order Enhancer, but he was no longer the same frail archivist. He had absorbed the essence of Elian's hard, resilient life.
This was the key. The Federation's path to Enhancement was locked behind gates of privilege, service, and sponsorship. The Aegis League showcased those who had already been granted power. But his path—the Soul-Walker's path—was one of theft across the multiverse. He wouldn't need a Patron's Charter; he needed a suitable host in a world where he could learn to be strong.
His plan solidified. He couldn't just wander into random, dangerous worlds. He needed a target. Elian's memories had given him a blueprint: the Knights of Valeria. If a full-fledged Knight was equivalent to a 1st Order Enhancer, then even a Squire in training would be on that path. He wouldn't start as a weak beggar again. He would aim for a body already being forged into a weapon.
The risk was terrifying. Another "Death Recall" might leave him bedridden until his draft date. He had to be smarter. He would guide his soul, not let instinct take over. He would seek out a world with a similar "feel" to Atheria, but find a stronger vessel.
Sitting on his bed, he closed his eyes, pushing aside the fear. He focused on the lingering echo of Atheria—the taste of its air, the texture of its magic. He reached for the Veil.
The cosmic expanse unfolded once more. The pain of the soul-split was a familiar, sharp sting now. He ignored the screaming realities of fire and logic, searching for that specific frequency of simple steel and primal power. He found a pulsing light that felt similar, but… sharper. More martial. He poured his intent toward it: Strength. Training. A warrior.
The connection snapped into place. His body on Aethelgard slumped into the familiar coma.
---
The world resolved into a cacophony of grunts, the clang of wood on wood, and the smell of sweat and leather. Kaelen blinked, his new eyes stinging from perspiration. He was standing in a sun-baked courtyard, surrounded by boys and young men in rough-spun tunics. In his hands was a heavy, practice arming sword.
A sharp crack on his shoulder made him stumble. "Daydreaming again, Renly?" a gruff voice barked. A grizzled man, the Drill-Sergeant, glared at him. "Your shield was down! A real Iron-Scale clansman would have taken your arm off!"
Memories flooded in. This body was Renly, a fifteen-year-old squire to Lord Corvan, a minor lord in a region of Valeria dominated by martial clans. Renly was unremarkable, from a family with no notable Bloodline, serving to earn a knighthood the hard way. His mind was simple: a mix of fear of the Drill-Sergeant, longing for glory, and aching muscles.
This was perfect.
Kaelen, as Renly, hefted the shield, his new muscles burning with a fresh, healthy pain Elian's body could never have managed. He fell back into the drill, mimicking the others. Thrust, parry, shield up. The training was brutal, but it was life. It was exactly what he needed.
Between drills, he listened. The boys gossiped about the Knights they served. He heard whispers of the "Iron-Scale" Bloodline—the ability to harden one's skin momentarily against blows. He learned of the "Swiftwind" clan's preternatural speed. These weren't just stories; they were the genetic enhancements of this world, the equivalent of the Federation's 1st Order physical boosts. They were what he needed to mimic.
For days, he threw himself into Renly's life. He scrubbed pots, polished mail, and trained until his hands blistered and his body screamed. But with each passing hour, he felt Renly's body growing tougher, his movements becoming more certain. He was not just observing; he was learning, and the muscle memory was being etched into his very soul.
As night fell on the third day in this new world, Kaelen lay on his straw pallet, feeling the satisfying ache of honest labor. He had done it. He had guided his soul to a perfect starting point. The path to power was now clear. He would live this life, train, and grow stronger. He would learn the ways of this world's strength from the inside.
He closed Renly's eyes, a plan forming. Tomorrow, he would try to get assigned to clean the armor of a real Knight, to observe the source of the power he coveted up close.
Back in Universe-Prime, only ten minutes had passed. Kaelen's physical body lay in a deep coma, but for the first time, the soul-fragment abroad was not in a dying vessel, but in one poised on the brink of growth. The gambit had begun.