"Is that a no?"
"It's a you're—" Avian caught himself, the noble mask sliding back into place even as his real thoughts screamed. "It's inadvisable, Your Highness. What you're asking... standing among the dead and requesting lessons in creating more... surely you see how unwise that appears?"
Fucking idiot child. Does she have any idea what she's asking? What those techniques cost to learn?
The princess's eyes flashed at his careful words. "I prefer to think of it as recognizing opportunity when it presents itself."
"Opportunity," he repeated, tasting the word like ash. "Your Highness mistakes necessity for opportunity. These techniques... they weren't developed for glory or sport. They exist because the alternative was death."
Stop. You're saying too much. Noble third son, remember? Not a veteran who learned to kill before he learned to read.
"With respect," he continued, forcing his voice back to appropriate deference, "perhaps Your Highness should seek instruction from the imperial sword masters. I'm certain they can provide—"
"Pretty lies that will get me killed slightly slower?" She smiled, throwing his thoughts back at him like she'd read his mind. "No thank you."
Too clever. Too fucking clever for her own good.
"Then I wish Your Highness the best of fortune in her search." He bowed, perfectly correct, perfectly dismissive. "If you'll excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend."
"Wait—"
But he was already moving, melting into the shadows between buildings. Behind him, he heard the knights urging their charge to leave, heard her protesting, demanding they follow.
Let them try, little princess. See how far your authority goes in the dark.
Avian took a winding path through the lower districts, doubling back twice to ensure no pursuit. His ribs throbbed where the club had connected, each step sending fresh spikes of pain through his side. Without proper aura reinforcement — without the massive reserves he'd once commanded — even minor injuries lingered.
Weak. Still so fucking weak compared to what I was.
In his past life, that club would have shattered against his aura without him even noticing. He'd stood against demons that could tear through steel like paper, had channeled enough power to split the earth itself. Had been strong enough that even the other Hero Candidates kept their distance.
Now? Now he was playing at being a Master when he'd once been...
As strong as Father is now. Maybe stronger.
The thought stopped him cold. Aedric Veritas, Paragon Knight, one of the Five Great Blades. In his past life, Dex had operated at that level. Had transcended normal limitations so thoroughly that reality itself bent to accommodate his will.
And now he could barely maintain Master-level aura without exhausting himself.
Not acceptable. Not nearly enough.
The compound walls appeared through the gloom, and Avian scaled them with practiced ease. His window remained open, waiting like a mouth in the darkness. He slipped inside, Fargrim humming with satisfaction across his back.
As he cleaned the blood from his hands, a plan began forming. Not just for the trials, but for what came after.
The restricted archives are just the beginning. I need power. Real power. Not just political influence or noble titles.
He stared at his reflection in the washbasin, water turning pink with diluted blood. In six months, he needed to be strong enough to win the trials decisively. But more than that, he needed to reclaim what he'd lost.
His aura, currently limited by this body's age and development. He'd have to push harder, risk more, channel amounts that would seem impossible for a twelve-year-old. Build his tolerance gradually but relentlessly.
His mana, which he'd barely touched since reincarnation. Playing the single-path warrior had been safer, but he'd been dual-path in his past life. That versatility had saved him more times than he could count. Time to stop hiding that particular capability.
His sword work would need refinement too. Not the techniques — those were carved into his soul — but the strength and speed to execute them properly. This body needed conditioning that wouldn't raise suspicions.
Six months to go from talented youth to viable heir. From Master to something approaching Grandmaster at minimum. From forgotten third son to undeniable genius.
"Fuck," he muttered, seeing the mountain he'd have to climb. "This is going to hurt."
But what choice did he have? Stay weak and hope for scraps of truth? Wait decades for natural development while the lies calcified further?
No. He'd suffered through worse. Had pushed his original body past every limit in pursuit of strength. He could do it again.
Win the trials. Become heir. Access the archives. Find the truth. Reclaim my power.
Simple goals. Impossible goals. But then, he'd specialized in the impossible.
Avian moved to his bed, where Fargrim rested in its sheath. He fed it another trickle of mana, feeling the blade drink greedily. At this rate, it would take months to fully awaken. Unless...
Unless I stop being so careful. Unless I feed it what it really needs.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd start pushing every boundary. Train until his body broke, then use healing techniques he wasn't supposed to know. Channel mana through pathways that should be dormant. Practice the forbidden forms in secret while playing with acceptable techniques in public.
He'd need to be careful. Gradual enough not to trigger suspicion, but fast enough to matter. Make it look like natural genius blooming under pressure rather than ancient skill reasserting itself.
Like a flower growing through stone. Impossible, but undeniable.
"I was as strong as a Paragon Knight," he whispered to the darkness. "I will be again. Stronger, even. Strong enough that no one can bury the truth again."
His ribs throbbed, reminding him of current limitations. But pain was just information. Weakness was just a starting point.
And Dex had always been good at turning disadvantages into victories.
Six months, he thought as sleep finally claimed him. Six months to become what I was. To claim what's mine. To find out why you killed me, Vaerin.
And when I do... we'll see who needs mercy.
In the darkness, Fargrim pulsed once, rust flaking away to reveal a glimpse of steel beneath. Even sleeping, the blade recognized its master's resolve.
The game had changed. No more hiding. No more playing safe.
It was time to become the monster they'd named him, if that's what it took to find the truth.
After all, he'd already died for being a hero.
How much worse could being a villain be?