Antarctica
"Hm. Looking better..." Mask muttered as he wiped the dust from his desk—a task clearly long overdue. His coat was layered in grime, and the stagnant air still carried the weight of neglect. With a simple wave of his hand, the dust dispersed into nothing. A flick of the wrist lit the surrounding candles, casting a low glow across the room.
"I should probably get the rest of this place in order. Though, naturally, it's only my office that ever looks like this. Typical. So... what's next?"
Just then, the door creaked open. Sir Lionel stepped in, the door closing itself behind him with a soft click.
"Well, this is a surprise. You're actually cleaning—on your own? That's new," Lionel remarked, clearly amused, as he inspected the tidied space with casual curiosity.
Mask leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on folded arms. "It's been a while since we crossed paths. I figured I might as well do something useful in the meantime."
"We live under the same roof—technically," Lionel corrected, settling into a chair without invitation.
Mask gave him a glance. "You didn't come here to admire the furniture. What do you want? You wouldn't show up unless something needed handling. Still the same, I see."
Lionel chuckled, shaking his head. "Always so suspicious. I was occupied, that's all. Yes, I broke a promise—nothing treacherous about that."
The amusement faded from his expression as his tone shifted.
"Anyway, I'm here because of August. There's something about him that requires attention."
"You're referring to the new aura that's taken hold of him? That cold, heavy darkness—completely unlike the fiery essence he once displayed?" Mask said, a low laugh escaping him as he stared into his revered mirror. "Yes, I've sensed it. He's still weak, of course. But give it time. Just observe—he's going to evolve beyond the framework we're used to. Not in the way we typically define change... no. Something else entirely."
Sir Lionel furrowed his brow, momentarily unsettled. He leaned forward, squinting at Mask with rare apprehension. "Wait—so you already know about his..."
"Yes," Mask interrupted, eyes unwavering from the mirror. "That. Exactly that."
***
London
Two weeks in, and life was beginning to feel more like hell for them—especially Young. He was too lethargic to train, showing no motivation beyond admiring the sea chain he had chosen. Carla, by contrast, selected the Soul Katana, which aligned well with her combat instincts and style. Oddly enough, although katanas were traditionally August's preferred weapon, he felt no particular draw to it this time. Instead, it was the Soul Dagger that resonated deeply with him—almost unnaturally so.
The quiet revelation that he had unlocked his system should have sparked immediate curiosity, even confrontation. But it didn't, for long. And there was a reason for that—August's most dangerous talent wasn't combat-related. It was his aptitude for psychological manipulation.
In this case, he subconsciously employed a cognitive principle known as attentional redirection through goal substitution. This concept, rooted in behavioural psychology, refers to the human mind's tendency to abandon original, meaningful goals in favour of new, seemingly urgent but ultimately less significant ones—especially when the substitute goal provides faster or more visible rewards. It's how people can forget lifelong dreams in pursuit of short-term validation or routine tasks that feel productive.
August leveraged this by creating new 'priority objectives' that subtly hijacked Carla and Young's motivations. He framed them as vital for survival and personal growth. With Carla, he constructed a competitive framework, issuing her a challenge to master the Soul Katana through daily duels and synchronisation exercises. For someone like her—sharp, proud, and fiercely capable—this form of goal redirection was irresistible.
Young, on the other hand, was easier. August casually mentioned that the Sea Chain would only 'bond' with him if he entered meditative states daily, claiming that emotional stability would trigger hidden enhancements. Presented as a discovery rather than an order, Young accepted the idea and began indulging in the ritual—more out of intrigue than discipline. He believed he was making progress, when in fact, he was merely being redirected.
And it had to be that way. Because lying was not an option.
Carla's most significant advancement as an Exalted was her heightened cognitive sensitivity to deception. While not a superpower in the traditional sense, this trait allowed her to detect inconsistencies, emotional flinches, and subtle dishonesty with unnerving accuracy. A single false answer, and she would know.
That made it impossible for August to simply invent a random soul core type. Even he didn't fully understand his own—his soul core was unpredictable. Nightmares became frequent, and the ever-present whisper served as a cruel morning alarm. Every day became a cycle: train, meditate, repeat. Like an instruction manual of growth he couldn't opt out of.
Just like he always wanted…
And Carla and Young? They remained intent on discovering his soul core type—at least at first.
But thanks to his manipulation, they gradually shifted focus. They began to chase milestones he had fabricated. The questions faded. The urgency dissolved. All according to plan.
At present, Carla and August were observing a sparring session, their attention half-distracted by the anticipation of the night's agenda. As per their rotation, they were scheduled to head into Camden later that evening to hunt Corrupted Souls—individually, but following a strictly maintained schedule. Young was on duty Mondays, August from Tuesdays through Thursdays, and Carla took over for the remaining days of the week. Given that it was currently Wednesday, August was on shift. However, since their excursions typically commenced after sundown, he still had the afternoon free.
To pass the time, August and Carla initiated a bout of hand-to-hand combat in the courtyard near the mansion. Their movements were fluid and precise, their familiarity with one another evident in every feint and parry. Meanwhile, Young sat cross-legged on the pavement, entirely disengaged from their activity, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone. His obsession with it was obvious—he scrolled endlessly, immersed in content that bore little relevance to their current reality. Mostly fiction, or so it seemed.
"Tsk. Tsk. Burnt the world for a woman? Classic emotional sabotage. Love always finds a way to weaken," he muttered, exiting one app only to open another, the cycle unbroken.
Five hours passed in a blur. As night fell, the air cooled significantly—a welcome contrast to the sweltering summer days. Without hesitation, August prepared himself and departed for Camden.
Perhaps tonight, fortune would finally favour him. Perhaps this would be the breakthrough he needed to ascend to the next rank. The trajectory of progress felt tangible, almost inevitable.