Bari knew he would be targeted. It was inevitable. Someone had already tried to kill his sister—so why not him?
The answer was simple: they would. But whoever was behind it was clever. Too clever to risk planting another mole inside his home so soon after the last one failed. No, they were patient, waiting for the right moment. The next opportunity.
And what better chance than now?
Instead of going for the "defenceless" child protected within clan walls, they could chase the one who had wandered too far. The bird who strayed from the nest.
Himself.
There were many ways to strike. They could attempt it directly, if they had the strength. They could hire blades to do the work for them. Or—most insidious—they could place a new spy close enough to wait for the perfect moment.
If it were him, Bari knew which method he would choose. And so, he expected it.
However, they had made one crucial mistake. What they had not expected nor accounted for… was his eyes.
The instant his true name had been revealed, his Aspect was already in motion, drinking in every ripple of intent.
Bari's eyes caught every detail, every truth, even passively. So what happened when he focused that perception, narrowed it to a single, ruthless purpose?
The effect was phenomenal. When he focused—when he commanded his eyes to narrow on one intent—the world bent to his will.
Who wanted him dead?
Who sought to get close?
Who sought to use him?
The world answered.
His vision sharpened, hungry, like a beast desperate to please its master. He withdrew to a vantage point, somewhere far enough to watch unnoticed. Not that walls or angles mattered. Whether by direct sight, reflection, or the subtle interplay of motion, his eyes pierced all concealment.
The moment the leader board rankings appeared, expressions cracked open. Time slowed. Faces froze into masks of curiosity, envy, disbelief. Truths spilled naked into the air, their owners unaware.
Most were harmless—wide eyes, whispers, awe. But a few… a few shone like knives. Glances that lingered too long. Eyes that carried not just curiosity but hunger, calculation, spite. Determination veined with ambition.
Not proof. Not yet. But enough to reduce a hall of hundreds down to a handful of suspects.
And that was all Bari needed.
Now, he only had to watch, to wait, to let his enemies reveal themselves fully
***
Bari or ehh… Will-Born, as many of his teachers had already taken to calling him—had chosen two courses: Combat Training and Sorcery Basics.
At first, he had been torn between Sorcery and Artifact Study. Both seemed useful, both offered paths into deeper power. But the more he listened, the clearer it became. These classes were not meant to shape geniuses nor meant to create professionals of an art, only to keep Sleepers alive. They existed to push the lowest common denominator to an acceptable standard, to hand out the most basic knowledge. Once Bari realized that, his decision was simple. Artifact Study could wait. Sorcery would serve him better.
Sorcery Basics was disappointing, at least on the surface. The instructors promised no secrets, no glimpses into the true powers of the craft. Instead, they drilled the same tired mantras: how to recognize common runes, how to read and decipher them, how to tell the difference between the crude brands of a sleeper, nightmare spell, awakened and master while teaching the sleepers the more standardized glyphs favoured by government scribes.
For most Sleepers, this was challenging work. To Bari, it was insulting.
His eyes cut through it all. Words, scripts, strokes—they didn't just sit on the page. They unravelled in layers, structures revealing themselves like threads of a tapestry, each rune speaking its own truth. The instructors might spend a week hammering a single alphabet into their class. Bari could memorize and internalize the entire language in days. For him, learning wasn't a climb—it was the effortless inhale of a breath.
He had to remind himself not to show too much. Not to let slip how fast he was.
That was why while he could take all the courses at once, he only did two. For a normal Sleeper, splitting focus would be suicide. A month was barely enough to master one field, let alone two. But for him? Information was nothing. What others saw as mountains were, to him, mere pebbles scattered along a path.
***
Three weeks.
That was how long it had taken Bari to devour everything the sorcery studies class had to offer, or so that's what he wanted people to think, in actuality, it was more of 4 days. To say it was underwhelming would be an understatement. He had entered the Academy with high hopes, he even discussed at length with Dax—expecting revelations that would ignite his path forward. Instead, what he found was a neatly packaged syllabus of common knowledge, most he already knew.
The lessons touched the surface: how to decipher and read runic language, especially the runes tied to the Nightmare Spell and the mysteries of True Names. Useful, yes—but not what he wanted. The Academy refused to push students further. They would not allow Sleepers to attempt writing or invoking runes; after all, without soul essence, no rune could be brought to life.
So Bari was left dissatisfied.
Still, he reminded himself, it wasn't a complete loss. The ability to read and understand True Names was an accomplishment beyond most, and many Awakened struggled for years to achieve what he had gained in a week. If he could read them, then the next step was inevitable: learn how to write them.
***
What truly captured his attention wasn't runic sorcery at all—it was a subject he had stumbled upon in his father's journal.
A whole section, carefully penned and annotated, was devoted to one discipline above all others:
The Sorcery of Names.
His father described it as the most ancient form of magic mortals had ever known. Where runic sorcery was a derivative language—a fractured script that mimicked the essence of creation—naming sorcery was its source. To speak a True Name was to speak the tongue of the gods themselves, the one true language woven into the fabric of existence.
Human tongues were inventions. This language was not. It was inherent, both shaped by the world and shaping it in turn. To speak its words was to rewrite reality itself.
His father's writing carried both awe and warning: True Names were never meant to be spoken by mortals. To attempt it was to force a divine pattern into a fragile vessel. The mind strained, the soul cracked, the Name itself resisted—like water poured into a broken cup. Even remembering a True Name was difficult. The knowledge shimmered and slipped, trying to erase itself from memory, as though reality itself rejected mortals holding it.
And yet, some had succeeded.
Those few were called Shapers.
Shapers did not rely on chalked symbols or carved sigils. They spoke, they sang, they wove the True Names into Verses that bent the world. Where runic sorcerers scrawled barriers and enchantments, Shapers reshaped reality. It was the most primal form of magic, demanding not just intellect but endurance, willpower, and the raw strength of soul. A single mistake could scar the body—or worse, shatter the mind.
This, however, was the reason Bari's thoughts returned to the subject again and again. Why the Sorcery of Names consumed his every idle moment.
A theory.
One dangerous enough to be madness, but radiant with possibility. A key—if it worked—that could raise him beyond anything the Academy, the clans, or even his father's peers had ever dreamed.
His attribute, [Unique Being], was not a hollow title. It marked him as someone outside the threads of fate, someone who did not belong to the tapestry that bound all others. His existence was not a strand woven into destiny's loom—it was something else, alien, singular. Entirely different from everything and everyone.
Then there was [Divine Protection]. A veil wrapped around his essence, a safeguard from truths too sharp for mortals to bear. Any knowledge, any revelation, no matter how poisonous or incomprehensible, could not break him. Where others' minds would shatter, his would endure. Where others' souls would burn, his would remain untouched.
So he asked himself the question that none dared whisper:
"If mortals failed because their flesh, minds, and souls could not bear True Names… what of one who was not truly mortal?"
Could he speak them? Speak them all? Speak without limit the forbidden tongue of the gods?
The thought clawed at him, relentless. The very idea was intoxicating—terrifying—but he could not turn away. It stalked him in silence, even when he willed himself to focus elsewhere.
If his protection truly guarded him against truths too dangerous to endure, did it also shield him against the strain and restrictions that made True Names deadly to humans? Would his soul, cushioned in divine armour, remain whole where others tore apart?
There was only one way to know.
He would have to find True Names. Learn them. Speak them.
***
Runic sorcery, as it was taught in the Academy, now seemed almost laughable to him. It was a diluted echo, a child's toy made from fragments of a shattered god's tongue. Useful, yes, but only as training wheels. A bridge for mortals who could not dream of touching the real thing.
It was diluted tongue crafted for human thought—symbols and structures designed to translate what mortals were never meant to grasp. A tool for safety, yes, but a cage all the same.
True Names were the source.
They were different from runic sorcery. They were not symbols, not marks on parchment, not neatly codified runes that could be taught like arithmetic. They were the pulse of reality itself. The world was not just shaped by them—it was them.
Those who learned them, even in fragments, could wield a sliver of that primordial power. But the authority was fleeting, unstable—like gripping a lightning bolt with bare hands. It could only be invoked aloud, shaped into sound. And sound demanded flesh. A mortal throat. Mortal lungs. A mortal mouth. They only lived when spoken, breathed into the world for a moment before fading back into silence. It was both intoxicating and merciless.
That was the first wall.
The second wall was mastery. True Names could not be fumbled or half-spoken. They demanded perfection. To shape them wrong was to invite backlash—the Name itself unravelling into raw force that lashed at the invoker. Even the smallest error could maim, blind, or kill.
The price was steep.
The discipline demanded talent, affinity, and endless practice. Even those with the gift needed years to grasp the simplest of Names. And mastery was not only knowledge but endurance—soul power to bear the strain, and iron will to bend under it without breaking.
One wrong syllable could tear the lungs. One wavering intent could backfire and burn the caster's soul.
That was why so few survived the path of shaping. It was not merely skill—it was obsession.
***
Bari sat in his bed, pressing his palm flat against his fathers journal. That was the only thing he had taken from his home, the only thing he would not trust anyone with, his fathers note.
Flashback
Bari pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the room. Dust motes swirled lazily in the shafts of amber light that spilled through the tall, stained-glass windows. The air smelled of aged parchment and ink, tinged with a faint metallic note—blood, old and almost imperceptible. This was his father's chambers, a place he had only dared to imagine, now silent and waiting.
His divine eyes, sharpened beyond ordinary perception, swept over the room. Most would see bookshelves, a desk, and scattered scrolls. Bari saw truths—threads of essence lingering in the book shelf, distortions in reality, subtle ripples where time itself seemed to hesitate. One particular bookshelf drew his gaze; something about it hummed with quiet intent.
He crouched before it, eyes narrowing. A leather-bound book lay low to the ground, its spine pierced by a slender, glinting needle. Faintly, dried blood clung to it, less than a drop, but enough to send a pulse of curiosity through him. The runes etched along the spine seemed almost to whisper. His mind traced the mechanism instantly: blood. Only the rightful blood could open this hidden door.
Bari's pulse quickened. Only his father had entered here. Only his father could have set this secret. But his father—a man saintly in every sense of the word—would never spill blood unless compelled. He pricked his finger, letting a bead of his own blood fall onto the needle. The runes ignited, a soft luminescence spreading like veins of liquid fire. The bookshelf shuddered and slowly split, revealing a room beyond.
The chamber beyond was breathtaking, lavish in a quiet, otherworldly way. Golden light reflected off polished marble floors, brushing over shelves and cabinets carved with intricate motifs that seemed almost alive. Yet the corner of the room was an unmistakable sight: a vast section of glass cases lined the wall, raised on a pedestal of black marble, perfectly polished.
Perched within the case, delicate and radiant, stood Shard Memories—Memories that were designed to live even after the wielder's death. They shimmered like tiny, trapped stars, each one a fragment of life, preserved against time itself. Bari's breath caught. These were his father's first memories, now transformed into Shard Memories. Childlike laughter left his lips for the first time since his fathers death. The first stumble into his fathers personal life. The marble pedestal had words engraved within, "The first memory: Quite Song, they all stood, silent yet insistent, waiting to be touched by understanding. It was as if the case was a shrine, and the shards themselves treasures, preserved for a moment when someone worthy would come to look upon them.
Bari moved closer, eyes scanning the room. Notes, journals, and cryptic sketches surrounded the case, the remnants of a life meticulously recorded. Each item seemed deliberately arranged, a map into the mind of a man who had lived as a saint yet harboured secrets even in death. He could feel the weight of their presence, the silent power of memories that refused to fade.
Here, in this hidden chamber, Bari realized the full scope of what he had discovered. Not just books or journals, but a father's essence captured in light and memory. Secrets, knowledge, and the faint echoes of joy and sorrow—all waiting to be unravelled. He had stepped into the heart of a legacy, and nothing could remain hidden here.
Flashback End
As his thoughts vanished, Bari traced the faded lines of his father's handwriting. The ink was long dried, but to him it still felt alive, a heartbeat pressed into the parchment.
Willpower. His father had written of it often, though only briefly. As if hinting that Bari, too, would one day need to understand. To rise to the ranks of the Supreme, one required more than talent or knowledge—one needed will as sharp and unyielding as steel. The kind of will that could not be broken, no matter what truth it stared into.
And Bari's eyes—his [Eyes of Genesis]—were already trained to do exactly that. They devoured truth. They survived it. They rewrote it into comprehension.
For others, will was a ladder. For him, it was a birthright.
The thought made him shiver, equal parts fear and exhilaration.
If he was right, if his protection truly extended that far…
then runes were nothing. True Names were his destiny.
And shaping the world would be no more dangerous to him than breathing.