Monday.
The silence in the obsidian mansion was oppressive, a sound vacuum that seemed to suck even the light from the floating energy globes. Sophie Ledger sat in her favorite armchair in the living room, her long, pale fingers wrapped around a cup of the finest porcelain. The tea inside, an elven infusion the color of amber, was cold. She didn't even remember making it.
Her gaze, distant and laden with a worry she would never allow to show in public, was fixed on her younger brother. Reid sat across from her, impeccable as always, but there was a trace of tension around his mouth that didn't escape Sophie's heterochromatic eyes.
She placed the cup with a precise clink on the obsidian saucer. The sound echoed through the empty room like a gunshot. Then, she raised her head, and her eyes — a tempestuous ocean of blue-gray and a deep forest of emerald-green — locked onto Reid's with the force of a trap.
"Let me see if I understand correctly." — she began, her voice a contralto softness that cut the air like a blade.
"Indra is at a secret location, undergoing intensive training conducted by Aleksei Ivanov and Professor Carl. And he will only return one day before the start of the Paranormal Exam. Is that it?"
Reid maintained his composure, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. He nodded, a short, efficient movement.
"It's the most logical decision, Sophie. You know as well as I do that he won't achieve a significant evolution of his Inner Core in a week. It's physically impossible. But Aleksei... he can sculpt a novice's body into a weapon in record time. And Professor Carl can fill him with theoretical knowledge like an alchemy vial. For the Exam, physical performance and tactical knowledge are more crucial than a simple level increase."
Sophie remained motionless, her face a mask of smooth obsidian. Internally, however, a war was being waged. The part of her that was the Captain of the Tenth Legion, the strategist, viscerally agreed with Reid. It was the right move. The most efficient one. The part of her that was... something more, something she was reluctant to name, writhed at the idea of Indra being subjected to the brutal, unpredictable methods of a battle junkie like Aleksei.
She took a deep breath, an almost imperceptible movement.
"As long as he returns whole, safe, and stronger." — she finally conceded, her voice a touch softer.
"The method... is secondary."
An ironic smile of understanding played on Reid's lips.
"You're genuinely attached to him, aren't you? Who would have thought. The fearsome Captain Ledger, melting for a rookie from the Earthly Plane." — His smile widened, becoming a little malicious.
"It won't be long before I need to start calling him 'brother-in-law'."
Sophie didn't answer. Instead, she brought the cup of cold tea to her lips and took a ritualistic sip, the bitter, tasteless liquid sliding down her throat. She did not confirm. She did not deny. Neutrality was her only defense.
Reid, encouraged by her silence, leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"It's rather ironic, isn't it? All this... attachment. So much dedication. Considering the real reason you brought him here in the first place."
It was as if someone had opened the doors to the Interdimensional Void in the room.
The temperature plummeted. Instantly. The air became heavy and icy, making Reid's breath freeze into a white cloud. The light globes flickered and nearly went out. The pressure emanating from Sophie was physical, crushing, a primordial force of pure Will of Existence that filled every cubic inch of space. It was no longer his half-dressed sister sitting across from him; it was a Pseudo-Sovereign at the peak of her power.
And her eyes... her beautiful, unique heterochromatic eyes were gone. Both now shone with a dark, icy blue light, like the heart of a neutron star. Her Magic Power, normally a controlled river, was now a furious ocean, impregnating her vision, becoming a weapon that pierced Reid's soul.
All this cosmic fury, however, was finely directed. Concentrated solely on him. The rest of the room was untouched, but Reid felt as if his own Inner Core were being crushed in a hydraulic press. He paled, cold sweat trickling from his temples. He could barely maintain consciousness, his vision darkening at the edges.
He raised his hands in an instant, desperate surrender, his voice a hoarse thread.
"I was... joking, Sophie. It was... a joke."
The pressure vanished.
Suddenly, as if it had never existed. The air returned to normal, the temperature stabilized, and the light globes regained their steady glow. Sophie was sitting exactly as before, her eyes back to their normal heterochromatic state, but the coldness in them was deeper than any magic.
Reid gasped, bending forward and clutching his chest. It had been a long time — a very long time — since he had managed to anger her to the point of her nearly losing control like that. He had forgotten what it was like to be in the crosshairs of that part of her. And, with a mixture of triumph and terror, he realized: he had found Sophie Ledger's new weak spot. His name was Indra Shuemesch.
Without a word, Reid stood up, his legs still slightly shaky.
"I... should be going," he said, his voice still weak.
"Take care, sister."
Sophie didn't respond. She remained seated, a statue of ice and obsidian, listening to Reid's hurried footsteps echo down the hallway and the front door close with a lonely clang.
The silence returned, but now it was different. It was charged, heavy with the truth Reid had tossed into her lap like a grenade. Thanks to him, her mood was ruined. Indra... Indra never left her like this. He was a calming presence, a safe harbor of unpretentious sincerity in her world of shadows and calculations.
Ah. Thinking of Indra now only made her feel worse.
She stood up, her movements fluid but mechanical, and headed to the kitchen. Her high heels echoed on the polished floor, the lonely sound breaking the oppressive silence. She opened a built-in cabinet, not the one holding everyday ingredients, but a higher, discreet one. From within, she pulled out a bottle of wine. Not the social, expensive drink she had shared with Indra, but another, with a darker glass, almost black. The liquid inside was a purple so deep it bordered on black, the blood of a Violet Amphibian of superior purity and potency.
For the last thirty days, she had been engaged in a meticulous and desperate mission: to try and excavate the mountain of guilt weighing on her shoulders. Reid, the wretch, was right. The Fate she had imposed on Indra was one of subtle and profound cruelty. She had pulled him into her world, not out of pure benevolence, but to fulfill a role in a much larger game, a game whose rules he didn't even know.
Her "help" her shelter, her training... all of it was, in essence, compensation. A futile attempt to balance the moral scales. Even her intimacy with him — the kisses, the touches, the nights of passion — was tinged by this feeling. She offered herself to him, trying to appease the guilt with her own body, as if every caress could erase a bit of the stain of her future betrayal.
And the worst of it all? The farce was becoming reality. She was genuinely starting to care for him. Truly. For his stubbornness, his quiet determination, the unpretentious way he made her feel... human. But this feeling was a luxury she couldn't afford. It was a poison. She had no right to it.
When Indra discovered the truth — if he discovered it — he would hate her. The anger and disappointment in those honest black eyes would be her final punishment. But there was nothing she could do. This was the thread of fate she had chosen to weave, the path her oath and her very nature compelled her to follow. She was merely the executor of a grander plan, a piece sacrificing another on a cosmic chessboard.
She didn't bother with a glass. The ceremonial act seemed a blasphemy. With a brusque movement, she tore the cap from the bottle and brought it directly to her lips.
The first swallow was an icy fire that burned her throat. The second, a flood of numbness. She didn't stop. She drank like someone dying of thirst in the desert, tilting the bottle until the last trace of the dark purple liquid drained into her.
The hit of drunkenness wasn't gradual; it was a tidal wave. The room spun, the sharp edges of reality became blurred. The pressure in her chest, the gnawing guilt, the loneliness of carrying such a heavy secret — all of it was temporarily drowned under a wave of alcoholic and chemical static. Her body sank into the leather sofa, the empty bottle rolling from her inert hand and falling soundlessly onto the carpet.
In the whirlwind of her drunken mind, as darkness pulled her into a restless sleep, only one image remained, sharp and painful against the smeared background of her thoughts: Indra's face. Not the rising hero, not the promising Graduate, but the scared and grateful young man she had found in the forest that first night, whose destiny she had hijacked for her own ends.
And, for the first time in a long time, a single hot tear escaped from the corner of her blue-gray eye, betraying a crack in the ice fortress she called a heart.
---
Tuesday.
The air inside Reid Ledger's private training room in the Ledger Clan's main mansion was heavy, laden with the metallic smell of dried sweat and pulverized stone dust. Reid was sitting on the cold floor of a dark adamantium alloy, his back against a wall scarred by deep grooves and craters. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his training uniform, a black and silver tactical suit, was soaked through. Every muscle in his body screamed with fatigue, a symphony of pain he listened to with a mixture of agony and satisfaction.
The cold light of floating energy globes illuminated the scene of controlled destruction. The room was a perfect cube, fifty meters to a side, designed to withstand the clashes of high-level Paranormals. Yet, the walls bore witness to stories of extreme violence. Marks from energy claws intersected with scars left by concussive explosions, and the floor, though structurally intact, was covered in fine debris and dust.
A shadow fell over him, blocking the light. Reid lifted his head, panting. Standing before him was a man who appeared to be on the cusp of middle age, but whose erect posture and penetrating gaze denied any sign of weakness. His hair, cut close, was steely gray, and his face was a map of subtle scars, each an untold story. He wore a simple gray legionnaire's uniform, without insignia, but his authority was palpable.
Coach Morgan. A retired Colonel of the Tenth Legion, personally assigned by Michael Ledger, the Legion Commander and Reid's elder brother, to sculpt the youngest heir into a weapon worthy of the Ledger Clan.
Morgan extended a water bottle. It wasn't ordinary water; it was an energy infusion, cloudy and slightly shimmering.
"Hydrate, Reid." — his voice was rough as rock grinding against rock, a sound that carried the weight of countless campaigns in the Realm of Phenomena.
Reid took the bottle with a silent nod of thanks. Lifting it to his lips was an effort. He emptied it in one long gulp, feeling the cold, revitalizing liquid run down his throat, soothing the fire in his muscles. The simple fact that Morgan had reached an advanced age as an active legionnaire — and now, retired, but still a living legend — spoke more of his skill than any medal or title. He had faced everything from primordial beasts in Unexplored Zones to elite squads of the Chaos Insurgency. Survival was his specialty. Making others survivors, his vocation.
"Perhaps it's time for a break." — Morgan observed, his eyes scanning Reid's exhausted body with the precision of a field medic.
"You just graduated from the Academy. Rest is not a luxury; it is a tool. Even the most resilient steel breaks if hammered incessantly without annealing."
Reid shook his head, straining to stand.
"Thank you, Coach. But no. Not today."
He straightened his shoulders, feeling his bones crack. His gaze, normally laden with relaxed confidence, was now burning with a focused intensity.
"I am strong by the standards of the Ten Middle Clans, it's true. But 'strong enough' is the epitaph of mediocrity. The path ahead is long, Coach. Longer than most imagine."
He clenched his fists, his knuckles still red and scraped.
"There are... individuals... I intend to surpass. People who define the standard of what it means to be powerful in this generation. And they..." — a bitter, determined smile appeared on his lips.
"...they are not standing still. They are moving faster, training harder, sacrificing more than I am. Their obsession is my mirror. And I refuse to be left behind."
A subtle, almost paternal smile touched the corners of Morgan's severe mouth. It was the expression of a craftsman seeing the right spark in the raw metal.
"So be it." — he said, his voice losing some of its roughness, gaining a tone of resolute approval.
"Stand up, then. If the shadow of those you chase is so long, then there is no time to sit in the dust. The training, from this moment on, will become serious."
The word "serious" in Morgan's mouth, carried a terrifying weight. Reid felt a chill run down his spine, but it was immediately replaced by a wave of fierce anticipation. He stood, his aching body protesting, but his will silencing any complaint.
He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating. When he opened them, a pair of daggers materialized in his hands, drawn from his Dimensional Ring.
They were weapons of sinister, lethal beauty. The Twin Blades of Twilight, as he called them. They did not reflect light; they seemed to absorb it. The steel was a deep black, like a starless night, but carved with silver veins that twisted like slumbering serpents. These veins were not mere adornments — they pulsed softly with an inner glow of a profane lilac, a visual whisper of contained, destructive energy. It was as if each blade had been forged not in fire, but in the heart of a lightning storm, and the fury of that phenomenon had been trapped within the metal forever.
The hilts were works of art in themselves, carved from ancient gold darkened by use. From them sprouted intricate arabesques that intertwined around a single ruby gemstone embedded in the center of each pommel. The gems were not inert; they resembled the slumbering eyes of a primordial predator, pulsing with a latent fury that whispered promises of ruin.
Morgan did not seem impressed by the display. He himself had witnessed far worse weapons. With an unassuming movement, he drew a training longsword from a rack on the wall. It was a heavy, blunt weapon made of a dense impact-absorbing alloy, but in Morgan's hands, it seemed as light as a feather.
"Come." — the Coach ordered, assuming a basic stance that was nonetheless impeccable and impenetrable.
"Show me that determination. Show me you are willing to pay the price to reach those ghosts you pursue."
Reid needed no further encouragement. The anxiety for the Paranormal Exam, the pressure from his clan, the image of rivals like Ye Chen and other heirs of the Nine Great Clans advancing inexorably — all of it merged into a single, powerful emotion: the need to move, to fight, to prove himself.
With a muffled cry that was both a howl of effort and a shout of liberation, Reid charged.
His feet seemed not to touch the destroyed ground. He was a blur of black and silver, the twin daggers cutting the air in deadly arcs that left ghostly trails of lilac light. The air hissed around him, charged with concentrated Magic Power.
Morgan did not retreat. He moved with an economy of motion that was haunting. His training sword, a simple metal bar, became an impenetrable wall. It deflected a direct strike with a slight adjustment of the wrist, stopped a thrust with the forte of the blade, and evaded a spinning attack by simply taking a step to the side, the wind from the blow stirring his gray hair.
"Faster!" — the old legionnaire growled, his voice cutting through the noise of battle.
"Your intentions scream before you move! You are not chopping wood, boy; you are trying to pierce the armor of a Demigod!"
Reid gritted his teeth, his green eyes narrowed to slits of pure concentration. He redoubled his efforts, forcing his already exhausted body to respond. He became a whirlwind of attacks, his daggers weaving a web of lilac death around Morgan. He struck high and low, feinted and lunged, trying to find a gap, any opening in the Trainer's seemingly perfect defense.
But Morgan was like the rock itself. His sword was always there, an infallible obstacle. He wasn't just defending; he was teaching. Every block was a lesson in angle. Every dodge, a master class in movement reading.
"You rely too much on the speed of your blades!" — Morgan shouted, evading a dual cross-slash that would have dismembered an ordinary man.
"What if you lose them? What if you are in a confined space? What are you without them, Reid Ledger?!"
The question echoed in Reid's mind, merging with the buzz of his own energy and the throbbing pain in his muscles. He continued attacking, each blow laden not only with force, but with the grim ambition of an heir who refused to be just another name in an illustrious lineage. The sound of metal on metal filled the destroyed room, a cacophony that was the hymn of his own stubborn ascent. The Paranormal Exam might be approaching, but in this room, against this man, Reid was already fighting the most important battle of all: the war against his own limits.
---
Wednesday.
The silence inside the house was as thick as the dust dancing in the pale rays of light filtering through the cracks in the paper doors. Claire Seguette knelt on the rough, worn tatami floor, her posture impeccable, a statue of silent contemplation in a shrine of faded memories.
Before her, on the main wall of the sparse room, hung with near-ceremonial precision, were five photographs. They were not ornate frames, but simple black-and-white portraits, their edges yellowing with the weight of years. Each one framed a smiling face, a bright eye, a moment of life frozen before the eternal twilight. And below each photograph, resting on dark wooden stands, was a katana. The scabbards were simple, unadorned, but the hilts showed signs of use, from fingers that had once gripped them with purpose and passion. They were relics of interrupted lives, silent witnesses to a past that Claire carried like invisible armor.
She didn't need to read the names whispered on bronze plaques below them. She knew them by heart. Grandfather. Father. Mother. Older Brother. Uncle. The Seguette Clan, once a respected lineage of blade artisans and Aura Warriors, reduced to a single heiress and a household altar in the worst borough of Saint Felix I.
With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, Claire rose. Her movements were fluid, economical, the grace of a feline trained for efficiency, not ostentation. She didn't look back as she slid the paper door shut, sealing the sanctuary and its shadows.
The transition from inside to outside was a violent shock to the senses.
The air, once still and reverent, became heavy and fetid. The smell was a nauseating mix of rotting garbage, excrement, dried vomit, and the sweet, metallic fragrance of death. Corpses of rats and larger animals — dogs, perhaps — dotted the dirt streets, swollen and covered in flies. Here and there, human forms huddled in alleys or leaned against crumbling walls bore witness to a despair so deep it bordered on catatonia. Broken glass, gang graffiti marking territory, the distant sound of an argument — this was the symphony of the Iron Cross District.
A casual observer might have felt pity for her. Claire felt only a familiar coldness. She wasn't trapped here for lack of options. As a high-level Specialist, she could easily have secured a better place. But she chose to stay.
It was her personal reminder. Her anchor to reality. That filth, that decay, that smell of hopelessness… it was the smell of the war that had reaped her family. It was the smell of what happened to those considered "nothing" by the merciless machine of the Esoteric Society and the warring factions. Living here was an act of daily discipline, a way to never forget the hell she had survived and the hell she intended to return to, this time not as a victim, but as an avenger.
Her face, framed by her white hair with black roots, remained an icy mask. The irezumi tattoo on her left arm, a koi carp swimming against a current of cherry blossoms, peonies, and waves, seemed a stark contrast to the misery around her — a symbol of perseverance in a sea of resignation.
She began to walk, her steps firm and determined, avoiding the debris on the ground with an environmental awareness that was second nature to her. Her destination was the district's Teleportation Center. The journey was a procession through the lowest rungs of paranormal society. She passed children with old eyes, merchants selling stolen trinkets and low-quality potions, and guards from minor clans who watched her with a mixture of disdain and caution — they recognized the power emanating from her, even clad in simple, practical clothes.
The Teleportation Center was one of the few well-maintained structures in the neighborhood, a necessity for trade and logistics. Two guards in battered armor and bored expressions watched her as she approached. Claire didn't even look at them. She simply raised her wrist, passed her smartwatch over a scanner, and a soft beep confirmed the deduction of a significant amount of Esoteric Credits from her account. The currency of life on the Other Side, and she was spending it to escape, even if temporarily, from that place.
She stepped onto a circular platform of gray stone, as wide as a living room. The floor was carved with complex runes that glowed with a soft, pulsating blue light. In the center stood an obsidian pillar about one point three meters tall. On top of the pillar, a holographic screen of advanced technology seemed out of place in the degraded environment.
Claire touched the screen, her fingers navigating a list of destinations with bored familiarity. She typed: Imperial Capital, Royal Borough. A confirmation flashed on the screen.
Then came the sensation. Always weird, never entirely comfortable. The world around her didn't darken, but rather distorted. Colors bled like ink in the rain, shapes stretched and compressed. It was like being pulled through a cosmic straw, her very essence being disassembled and reassembled in the blink of an eye. There was no sound, only a dizzying pressure in every atom of her being.
And then, it ceased.
The air changed instantly. The stench of the Iron Cross was replaced by the clean, cold scent of filtered air and the distant perfume of exotic flowers. The platform under her feet was now made of immaculate white marble, surrounded by elegant columns and under a canopy of stained glass. She was in the Royal Borough's Teleportation Center.
The landscape was a visual blow. The dirty slums and dark alleys were replaced by imposing towers piercing the purple sky, dotted with flying balconies and hanging gardens. Castles of impossible architecture, mixing Gothic, Victorian, and futuristic styles, dotted the urban landscape. The ground was paved with gleaming slabs, and people dressed in fine clothes and ornamental armor passed by, their conversations a polite, distant murmur. The difference between the dregs and the nobility of the Esoteric Society wasn't just economic; it was dimensional, a separation of worlds within the same world.
Claire's face remained a blank slate, but inside, a volcano of repressed emotions roared. Contempt for blind opulence. Bitterness for systemic injustice. A resolute coldness that solidified her determination. She did not allow any of these feelings to show. They were fuel, not a weakness to be displayed. All her feelings —the pain, the anger, the loneliness — were meticulously collected and stored in a vault deep within her being. Fuel for the future. For the moment she would come face to face with him. The architect of her family's Fate. The man who had turned her name into a ghost and her home into an altar.
She checked her smartwatch. 12:37 PM. Almost time for classes to start at the Esoteric Academy. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: Indra. He was somewhere, being molded and broken by Aleksei Ivanov's brutal method. For a moment, she felt a pang of loneliness. Indra, with his naive stubbornness and raw determination, was… comforting. His absence would leave a void.
"This means I'll have to put up with Reid alone all day. Again." — she murmured to herself, involuntarily.
A near-smile touched her lips. Reid Ledger, with his impeccably styled hair and heir's confidence, was unbearably arrogant, but… he had his moments. He was undeniably skilled and, in rare moments of levity, even a little cute, in his own obstinate way.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the clean, expensive air of the Royal Borough, and exhaled forcefully, as if expelling the last vestiges of the Iron Cross from her system.
Then, she began to walk. Her footsteps echoed on the marble, firm and decided, heading towards the golden gates of the Esoteric Academy in the distance. Her face was once again impassive, her dark gray eyes fixed on the horizon.
Another day was beginning. The classes, the training, the tedious political interactions. But behind the facade of the student, the warrior was preparing. The Paranormal Exam was approaching, a springboard, a testing ground. And every step she took, whether in the filth of the Iron Cross or on the marble of the Royal Borough, brought her closer to her true goal — a confrontation years in the making, for which she would pay any price.