Rachid walked through the corridors of the palace, his new scholar's cloak trailing behind him. The fabric whispered against the stone floor, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo his heartbeat. His steps were light, almost buoyant, despite the physical frailty that had always defined him.
The palace guards he passed nodded respectfully, but Rachid barely noticed them.
His mind was elsewhere.
Everything has changed.
The thought echoed through his consciousness with startling clarity. Not just the thought itself, but the quality of it—sharp, precise, crystalline. It was as though a veil had been lifted from his perception, and the world had suddenly come into focus.
He replayed the initiation in his mind, second by second.
Master Tour's voice. "Close your eyes, Young Master. Breathe deeply. And reflect."
The scent of sage and myrtle, sharp and clean, curling through the air.
The cold touch of water on his forehead, tracing the spiral symbol.
The rhythmic chant: "I seek the unseen truth. I walk the path of clarity. I am the observer, the seeker, the vessel of knowledge."
Every detail was there. Not as a memory that had begun to fade, not as fragments stitched together by his imagination—but as a perfect record, vivid and complete, as though he could step back into that moment and experience it again.
Rachid paused mid-step, his eyes widening slightly.
I remember everything.
Not just the initiation. He could recall the exact wording of texts he had read weeks ago. The patterns of light through the window that morning. The tone of his father's voice during their last conversation—every inflection, every pause.
His memory had always been good. Sharp, even. But this was different.
This was flawless.
He resumed walking, his smile widening.
A First Grade Scholar Initiate, he thought. This is what it means.
But it wasn't just memory.
There was something else—something subtler, harder to define.
He recalled Master Tour's words during the instruction stage. The old scholar had spoken of patterns, cycles, the architecture of knowledge. At the time, Rachid had understood the words intellectually. He had nodded, absorbed the information, filed it away.
But now, walking through the corridor, those words resonated differently.
He found himself interpreting them in ways he hadn't before. Connections formed in his mind—connections between Tour's teachings and things Rachid had read years ago, observations he had made about the court, fragments of overheard conversations between nobles.
It was as though his mind had become a vast web, and every piece of information was a thread, linking to others, forming patterns he hadn't been able to see before.
Is this the Route working through me? he wondered. Or is something else guiding my thoughts?
He remembered Tour's explanation of the astral planes. The entities that dwelled there. The spirits of scholars long dead. The guardians of knowledge.
During the ritual, when Tour had placed his hand on the binding stone, Rachid had seen them—faint, luminous shapes watching from the edges of the room. Ancestors. Scholars who had walked this path before him.
Did the initiation create a link? Rachid thought, his analytical mind turning the question over. Are they... helping me?
It would explain the sudden clarity. The connections his mind was making seemingly on its own. The feeling that knowledge was flowing into him from somewhere beyond himself.
He couldn't be certain. Not yet. But it was a hypothesis worth investigating.
Rachid turned a corner, passing a window that overlooked the training grounds. Below, warriors sparred—muscular, powerful men who moved with brutal efficiency. Their bodies were weapons, honed through years of discipline.
Once, Rachid would have watched them with envy. With shame.
But now, he felt... nothing.
No. Not nothing.
He felt detached.
He observed them dispassionately, noting their techniques, their strengths, their weaknesses. His mind cataloged the information without attachment, without emotion clouding his judgment.
Is this the purification? he wondered. The ego death Master Tour spoke of?
During the second stage of the initiation, Tour had made him acknowledge his attachments. His need for his father's approval. His resentment. His pride. His fear.
And then, he had been instructed to release them.
At the time, Rachid hadn't been sure if it had worked. But now, walking through the palace, he realized something profound:
The emotions were still there. He could feel them if he focused—faint echoes of what they once were.
But they no longer controlled him.
He could observe them. Acknowledge them. And then set them aside.
It was as though he had gained distance from himself. As though he was no longer trapped inside his own perspective, but could step outside it and see himself—his thoughts, his feelings, his biases—with clarity.
The realization sent a thrill through him.
If this is what the First Grade grants, he thought, what will I become at the Second? The Third?
He imagined himself advancing. Climbing the tiers. Becoming an Apprentice. An Adept. A Master.
What would that feel like? To have such control over his mind that emotions were merely tools—things he could activate or deactivate at will? To see the world not as a chaotic storm of feelings and impulses, but as a grand pattern, a structure that could be understood and navigated?
Would he lose his humanity in the process? Would he become cold? Detached? An observer standing above the world, watching as others struggled and suffered, unable to connect?
The thought made him pause.
But then, slowly, he smiled.
Perhaps that's exactly what I need to be.
The world was not kind to those who felt too deeply. His father had proven that. The court had proven that. Politics, war, ambition—these were games played by those who could set aside sentiment and act with ruthless clarity.
If advancing on the Scholar Route meant draining himself of emotion, if it meant becoming someone who could sit at the top and see every move others were making without the burden of attachment—
Then so be it.
He would become the observer. The strategist. The mind that operated in the shadows, pulling strings, seeing patterns, guiding outcomes.
And no one would overlook him again.