Instinctively, I raise my hands to my earlobes and touch the small metal pentagrams. The chill of the metal still seems to hold the memory of battle. The image of the Demonic Tiger flashes through my mind—the stench of acid burning skin, the blackened fire arrow streaking into the creature's skull. I swallow hard.
"I liked them very much, Forgemaster Nilan. They helped me in a fight against a Demonic Tiger."
The words slip out before I can weigh them. Nilan lifts his eyes to Akame, as if asking in silence whether what he heard is true—or if I'm just a boy puffed up on bravado. The silence between them lasts longer than it should, thickening the air.
Akame, however, shows no nerves.
"It was Magus Iolanda's and Elder Marduk's decision," she answers with calm. "They wanted to see how he'd fare, since Elian doesn't need incantations to cast a spell."
Nilan's expression shifts—not disbelief, but a mix of respect and consideration. He lets out a brief grunt, as though pocketing a deeper comment, and sets his hands back on the bench, its surface etched with runes scorched there by the hammer's heat.
"Even so," he says, folding his arms across his broad chest, "sending a six-year-old to fight a wild beast? What are they thinking?" he mutters, a blend of incredulity and reproach in his tone.
The words hang heavy in the workshop. The chiming of metal still vibrates on the anvil, but it seems muffled by the silence that follows. An awkward silence that makes me wish I hadn't opened my mouth. My first instinct is to justify myself: to say it was fine, that I wanted to test my strength, that the earrings truly helped. But before I can shape a single word, Akame cuts in with her usual composure:
"Shall we, Elian?" she says, giving me a steady look. "We still need to see the sword training grounds, and the room where you'll stay."
She turns to Nilan, polite as ever.
"Until later, Nilan."
The forgemaster only nods, already reaching for the hammer.
"Until then, Magus Akame. And you, boy Elian." His voice is curt, but not hostile.
We return to the corridor. The rhythmic beat of Nilan's hammer fades behind us, replaced by the footfalls of magi crossing our path. Men and women, all adults, their black-and-crimson cloaks swaying like living shadows. I feel the weight of the quick glances that occasionally land on me, but no one speaks.
"Am I really the only child here?" I think, a knot tightening in my stomach.
After a few turns through the stone passage, we veer right and step into a broad hall. Rows of long tables fill the space, some already packed with magi speaking softly as they eat. The ceiling rises high, lit by floating arcane chandeliers that pour a steady, almost cold light. The air is thick with spices, fresh bread, and seasoned meat—aromas so intense my stomach growls loudly, cruelly reminding me that I vomited my entire breakfast after leaving the portal.
"As you can see, this is the refectory," Akame explains, striding ahead with firm steps. "This way." She points to a side door on the left where the light is dimmer, as if leading into the Fortress's deeper corridors.
We walk a few more minutes until the passage opens into an oval chamber that steals my breath. The ceiling rises ten meters high, braced by arches of black stone that hum with mana along every seam. The space spans some fifteen meters across—wide and imposing—but what truly dominates it is the emblem of the Dark Throne, inlaid at the center in magic-hewn stone.
A triangle with intertwined roots, as if the earth itself had been forced into that shape. The structure rears seven or eight meters high, nearly touching the ceiling. The energy emanating from it thrums in the air, dense and pulsing, yet unlike the suffocating pressure of the Teleportation Portal, this force flows smoothly through my body, filling my mana gate without pain. It is almost… inviting.
"This is where the order's energy core lies," Akame says, her voice echoing off the clean walls. "It keeps the barriers raised. Like the portal, this place is built atop a point of extremely condensed mana."
I stare, mesmerized. The symbol seems to breathe.
"Do all orders have centers like this?" I ask, unable to hold back my curiosity.
"Yes." The answer doesn't come from Akame but from a deep voice behind us. I turn to see Elder Marduk, with Iolanda at his side. He approaches, imposing, and touches the triangle's seal. "Each order raised its core over an ancestral mana point. With them, we create barriers that protect us from external… and internal threats."
Iolanda stops beside me, her slate-gray eyes catching the runelight. "Besides that," she adds, "this core prevents us from suffering fatal wounds during training."
The thought makes me shiver. Training to the brink of death without dying? A gift… and also a curse. My response is immediate, almost instinctive.
"If no one can die…" I hesitate a moment, then speak anyway. "Doesn't that make this place perfect for torture?"
Silence drops like a blade. I feel Akame's and Iolanda's eyes on me, incredulous. But what else can I say? I know what I'm talking about. I've done it in my past life. I saw Arthur die that way. None of this is new.
"You are correct." Marduk's voice breaks the quiet with a judge's chill. "Which is why there is a cell in the depths of the Fortress, reserved precisely for that purpose."
"Elder Marduk…" Iolanda begins, but her words are cut off at once.
"He already knew that, Iolanda." His crimson gaze pierces me. "No one asks such a question without knowing what he's talking about. I've said it before: he is not an ordinary boy."
My heart kicks hard. Damn it. My mouth always betrays me. I should've kept that to myself. Now I'm marked.
Marduk simply lifts his chin and finishes:
"After all… in the near future, this is where we'll bring Baron Hoffmann, isn't that right, Elian?"
Air deserts me for an instant. He… is already thinking about it? The image of Hoffmann dragged into this chamber to pay for what he did to my father awakens something dark in me. A harsh pleasure burns in my chest.
I bow deeply.
"Thank you very much, Elder Marduk."
He nods, impassive, and turns away.
"Enough talk. Akame, show him the rest of the Fortress and take him to rest."
"Yes, Elder," she answers at once.
We head down separate aisles until we come upon a wide-open doorway where sunlight spears through, flooding the threshold. Only then do I notice something odd: along the entire route we've walked, there were no windows. The thought throbs in my mind, but I set it aside for later.
What sprawls before me steals all my attention.
An immense training field, the size of a football stadium on Earth, stretches beneath the overcast sky. On the far side, stone stands hold dozens of spectators—magi watching the bouts below in silence. On the grass, between twenty and thirty warriors duel with swords, the clash of metal rolling like repeated thunder.
Suddenly, a detonation booms in the distance, as if a bomb had gone off. I turn and see an adjacent field reserved for magic. There, spells are hurled with violence: lances of fire carve the air, walls of ice rise and shatter in seconds, and the ground trembles under the conjurers' feet.
"This is where Soldiers, Knights, and Commanders train," Akame explains, her firm voice carrying over the roar of combat.
"Soldiers, Knights, and Commanders?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise. I knew the Dark Throne supports the kingdom's army—Iolanda had told me—but I hadn't imagined training happened here, nor that their numbers were so select.
Akame gives me a brief sidelong look, as if confirming my doubts.
"Ah, right… they haven't told you yet, have they?" she says, and then begins to explain how the hierarchy works.