Chapter 13: The Weight ofFear
Auren slipped the black card into the inner pocket of his coat, its texture still cool against his fingers. The weight of it lingered—not in grams or ounces, but in meaning. Something about it was off, and that quiet blankness on its back whispered of deeper games at play. Still, he said nothing. He had nothing yet to say.
His steps echoed lightly as he left the alley behind, walking aimlessly toward the upper street that curved around the hillside. It was the path that would eventually lead to the school grounds—not his destination, but a place to pass the time. The city stretched before him in soft golds and grays, the mid-morning sun washing gently over the rooftops.
Meanwhile, in the heart of Solkarion General Hospital, Kaeron lay quietly in bed.
The room was lit softly, filtered sunlight weaving through sheer curtains. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, a healing calm finally overtaking the chaos of the previous day. Though his injuries weren't serious, they weren't entirely minor either. Bullet wounds—clean and treated, but painful. Exhaustion—pure and pressing. It was not the kind of rest one chose, but the kind one was forced into. His expression remained peaceful, as if in dreams far removed from this world, unaware of how many eyes had watched him fall and now watched over him.
Elsewhere, Eliana had pushed the weight of unease from her thoughts.
In her kitchen, warmth returned in the form of clinking utensils and the gentle bubbling of a simmering pot. Her movements were rhythmic, familiar—cut, stir, season, taste. Her long hair was tied back, her sleeves rolled up, and the faintest smile touched her lips. She wasn't cooking for herself. She wasn't even cooking for fun. She was cooking for him.
The tray she prepared was colorful and neatly arranged: rice, vegetables with a creamy glaze, grilled slices of seasoned meat, and a bowl of warming broth. Her thoughts lingered on Kaeron as she packed the meal into containers, making sure the lids sealed properly. Her eyes held a quiet resolve—this was something she could do. Something small. Something good.
And she would do it with her whole heart.
Across the city, within the deep stone walls of the Academy of the Forgotten, silence filled the corridors. The ancient institution always seemed like it was half-lost in time. Its halls were tall and dignified, lit by narrow windows and framed in dark wood and iron. At a desk tucked near the end of the west wing sat Xavier.
He was buried in work—scrolls, data tablets, sealed notices, and lists for the upcoming Sub-X Mastery curriculum. His brow furrowed in concentration, fingers swiftly flipping through parchment as he annotated notes with a fine-tipped pen.
A knock came.
He looked up.
"Come in," he called, his voice calm, though undeniably tired.
The door opened gently, revealing a well-groomed man in a deep navy coat—another instructor. His presence was confident but respectful. Xavier offered a brief smile.
"Ah. Kevin. Good timing."
Kevin nodded. "I hope I'm not interrupting, sir."
Xavier waved off the formality. "Never. You've been doing great work lately. I've read your recent reports. Seems like you're quickly becoming one of the academy's most praised instructors."
Kevin smiled, modest but clearly pleased. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot."
There was a pause. Kevin stepped further into the room.
"If I may... is something bothering you? You seem a little... distant."
Xavier hesitated, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Just tired, perhaps. The postponed classes threw off more schedules than I'd like to admit."
Kevin narrowed his eyes slightly. He didn't fully buy the answer, but he knew better than to press. Xavier had always been sharp—disciplined in his thoughts and careful with his emotions.
Xavier continued before the silence could grow awkward. "But enough of that. I heard your duel simulation last week set a new difficulty benchmark."
Kevin nodded, letting the change of subject guide the rest of their conversation. As he eventually prepared to leave, he paused at the door.
"Sir... sometimes it helps to talk. Even if it's just to the walls. They may not listen, but they let you feel lighter."
Xavier gave him a quiet smile, nodding once.
"Duly noted."
With that, Kevin exited, leaving the senior instructor alone with his thoughts.
Back at the school grounds, Auren now sat quietly on a stone bench near the perimeter of the old playground. The place hadn't changed much—rusted rails, cracked tiles, worn field grass. Children laughed in the distance, and birds drifted overhead.
He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, eyes scanning the empty sky.
Then he noticed them.
A group of boys—four or five—surrounding another, smaller boy. Shouting. Laughing. One shoved the boy hard enough to make him stumble. The others laughed louder.
Auren's eyes narrowed.
He said nothing. Did nothing.
But in his mind, thoughts stirred.
Everything has a meaning.
That boy... he's powerless now. I could end this in seconds. Scare them off. Give the kid a way out. But what does that change? If he breaks here, then maybe this was never his path. But if he endures... if he fights back tomorrow or next week... maybe he becomes more than any of them.
Auren looked up at the sky, eyes closing briefly as he inhaled the soft breeze. The sun was warm. The trees whispered. The world turned.
Then the sound changed.
Not shouts of bullying.
Shouts of violence.
An explosion—not one of fire, but force. He stood up quickly, turning his head. Across the field, two rival groups had clashed. Nearly thirty boys, fists flying, objects being thrown, chaos erupting across the schoolyard.
Auren sighed. The bystanders—dozens of students, even staff—stood frozen. No one moved. No one intervened.
Pathetic.
He stepped forward.
Calm. Silent. Hands in his pockets.
He walked directly into the storm.
The air shifted.
Black smoke curled from his feet, then his hands. It rose like ink in water, spiraling upward and outward. Whispers formed in the edges of the fog, unintelligible and chilling.
The brawlers began to slow.
Auren's presence darkened the field. The shadows bent toward him. And then—
Eyes.
A pair of enormous dark eyes opened within the smoke. They were not his. They were something ancient. Something raw.
A wave of fear pulsed through the domain.
Boys who had moments ago been throwing punches now stumbled backward, clutching their chests, gasping. Their knees buckled. Some dropped to the ground, trembling.
Auren's power—fear manipulation—wasn't violent. It didn't hurt. But it showed you things. Things buried inside you. Things you couldn't unsee.
Some wept. Some begged. All apologized—to the townspeople, to the boy they had bullied, to each other. The entire group fell apart. They scattered, broken and crawling from the weight of something they couldn't explain.
And then the smoke faded.
The air cleared.
Auren stood alone again in the calm.
He turned slowly and walked back to his bench. Sat down. Exhaled.
But he wasn't alone.
In the crowd—among the silent observers—stood a man in a sleek black suit. He hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken.
He lifted a hand.
Tilted his hat slightly.
And from beneath the brim, glowing red eyes peered out.
Watching.
Unblinking.
And then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.