POV: Valerian
Morning in the Ironwood Estate did not bring the warmth of the sun. It brought the chill of a morgue.
Valerian sat by the window of his new quarters—a room three times the size of his previous cell, draped in heavy velvet and scented with expensive oils. To any other boy, this would have been a triumph. To Valerian, it was merely a change in scenery, a minor upgrade in the quality of his biological maintenance environment.
He was currently shirtless, observing his reflection in a full-length mirror. The bruising across his ribs had faded to a dull yellow, and the fracture in his leg was now a non-issue.
"Nano. Status of physical integration."
"Host integrity: 92%. Muscular atrophy from prior malnutrition is being corrected via targeted protein synthesis. Estimated time to reach baseline athletic standards for this age bracket: 14 days. Battery: 18.4%. Charging speed is currently limited by the host's low-tier mana output."
"We need a larger battery," Valerian whispered.
The "mana" in this world was fascinating. According to the data he had extracted from his father's brief displays of power, it wasn't just energy; it was a programmable medium. If Nano could learn to manipulate it at the source, he wouldn't just be a fast fighter—he would be a god in a world of mortals playing with matches.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," Valerian commanded.
The door opened, and a young woman stepped in. She wasn't the maid from the hallway last night. This one was older, her eyes cast downward, her hands folded neatly over her apron. She was trembling so slightly that only Nano's high-speed cameras could detect the micro-vibrations in her fingertips.
"Lord… Lord Valerian," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The Baron has requested your presence in the solarium for breakfast. He also… he has granted you the key to the West Wing Library."
She stepped forward and placed a heavy silver key on the vanity. She didn't look at the blood-stained rags that still sat in a heap in the corner of the room—remnants of the previous night's "optimization."
"Your name?" Valerian asked.
"E-Elara, my Lord."
"Elara. You are trembling. Is the room cold?"
The girl's breath hitched. "N-no, my Lord."
"Then it is fear," Valerian stated, standing up and walking toward her. He didn't do it to be cruel; he did it to observe the biological response. "Fear is an inefficient use of glucose, Elara. It spikes your heart rate and slows your cognitive processing. I have no use for a servant who cannot think clearly."
He stopped inches from her. She smelled of lavender and sweat.
"I won't kill you today," Valerian said softly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "You are a tool. As long as you function, you are safe. Do you understand function?"
Elara nodded frantically, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes, my Lord. I… I will function."
"Good. Prepare a bath. I find the smell of copper… distracting."
An hour later, Valerian stood before the doors of the West Wing Library.
The rest of the estate was in a state of suppressed chaos. He had heard the muffled cries of the Baroness from the floor above—Gilbert's mother. He had heard the heavy tread of the Knights of the Asura Kingdom arriving to "investigate" the assassin attack. He had even watched from a distance as Hance, looking like a man walking to his own execution, led the investigators down to the dungeon to see the prepared corpses.
Valerian had ignored it all. The political fallout was his father's problem to manage. His priority was data.
The library doors groaned as he turned the silver key. The air inside was thick with the scent of old leather, dust, and something sharper—the ozone-like tang of concentrated mana.
This was the Ironwood collection. While the Asura Kingdom was known for its swordplay, the Ironwoods had a history of producing mid-tier mages. The shelves stretched toward a high, vaulted ceiling, packed with thousands of scrolls, grimoires, and historical texts.
Valerian walked into the center of the room and closed his eyes.
"Nano. Begin wide-area scan. Identify all texts containing 'Mana Manipulation,' 'Incantation Theory,' and 'Elemental Structuring.' Highlight any documents with higher-than-average mana residue."
"Acknowledged. Initiating deep spectral scan… 5%… 12%…"
In Valerian's mind, the library transformed. The wooden shelves faded into a wireframe grid. Most of the books stayed gray, but here and there, a spine would glow with a vibrant neon blue or a pulsing red. These were the books that had been handled by powerful mages or perhaps contained spells so potent they warped the very paper they were written on.
"Scan complete. One hundred forty-two relevant texts identified. Three 'high-value' targets detected in the restricted vault behind the northwest shelf."
Valerian walked toward the first shelf, his hand reaching out to touch a thick, leather-bound book titled The Foundation of Flow.
"Let's see how this world 'codes' its reality," Valerian murmured.
He opened the book and began to flip the pages. To a human observer, he would have looked insane—he was turning the pages so fast it was a blur of parchment. But he wasn't reading.
"Recording data," Nano reported. "Optical sensors capturing text at 200 frames per second. Translation of ancient Asuran dialect… 40% complete. Cross-referencing with host's innate language center… Done."
Valerian moved from one book to the next. He was a vacuum of information.
The Foundation of Flow described the standard method of magic: the incantation. To move mana, one had to speak the words, visualizing the effect and letting the mana flow through the vocal cords like a filter. It was a slow, clumsy system—like trying to write code by shouting at a computer.
"Nano. Analyze the 'Silent Casting' theory mentioned in the margins of this text."
"Analysis: Silent casting is the process of bypassing the vocal filter and directly stimulating the mana gates via neural intent. Success rate for local mages: <0.1%. Difficulty: extreme."
"Can you simulate it?"
"Affirmative. By mapping the frequency of the incantations and the resulting mana vibrations, I can create a 'mental driver.' I will bypass your vocal cords and directly trigger the mana gates using the 7th Generation neural link. We will not need words."
Valerian stopped at a pedestal in the center of the room. On it sat a crystal ball—a mana measurement device common in noble houses.
"Test one," Valerian said.
He placed his hand on the cold crystal. In his mind's eye, a HUD appeared. A complex geometric pattern—the Fire Ball spell—was projected onto his retinas.
"Nano. Execute 'Fire Ball' algorithm. Power output: 0.5%."
"Acknowledged. Forcing Mana Gate Alpha-1. Overriding standard visualization protocols. Stimulating… now."
Usually, a mage would have to chant: "Let the great spirit of fire gather in my hand and bring forth the flame!"
Valerian said nothing. He didn't even breathe.
Inside his palm, the mana didn't just "flow." It exploded into existence, guided by the mathematical precision of the AI. There was no smoke, no flickering—just a perfect, spherical orb of white-hot plasma that appeared an inch above his skin.
The crystal ball beneath his hand cracked instantly. The air in the library spiked in temperature.
"Warning: Manual override required. Power density exceeds structural limits of local testing equipment. Battery: 17.2% (-1.2% per second of active casting)."
Valerian watched the flame. It was beautiful in its efficiency. He didn't feel the wonder a child might feel; he felt the satisfaction of a programmer seeing a script run without errors on the first try.
"Magic," Valerian whispered, the white light of the flame reflecting in his dead, blue eyes. "It's just another machine. And I am the administrator."
He clenched his fist, and the flame vanished as if it had never been.
The library doors opened again. Valerian didn't turn around. He already knew who it was—the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of a man who thought he was in control.
"You've been in here for three hours, Valerian," Baron Archibald said, his voice echoing in the vast hall. He walked toward the pedestal, his eyes falling on the cracked crystal ball. He stopped. "Did you do that?"
"It was… defective," Valerian said calmly. "It couldn't handle the input."
Archibald looked at the crystal, then at his son. A flicker of something that might have been genuine unease passed over the Baron's face. "The investigators have left. Gilbert's death has been attributed to an agent of the Darius faction. The funeral is tomorrow."
"A waste of time," Valerian noted.
"Perhaps. But you will be there. You will play the grieving brother. You will stand by my side, and you will show the world that the Ironwood line hasn't been weakened." The Baron leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But tonight, we have work. A merchant in the lower city has been… withholding taxes. He thinks with my eldest son dead, I am distracted."
Valerian turned to face his father. "You want me to kill him?"
"I want you to make an example of him. Use that 'precision' you showed Garek. I want the city to know that while the Baron mourns, his shadow is more active than ever."
Valerian's lips quirked into a thin, cold line.
"Nano. Begin combat simulation for urban environment. Target: merchant. Variable: stealth."
"Simulation running… Optimization complete."
"Consider it done, Father," Valerian said. "But in exchange… I want the books in the restricted vault. Tonight."
The Baron stared at him for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "The key is under the pedestal. Don't disappoint me, Valerian. I've killed sons for less than what you've cost me today."
"You can try," Valerian said simply.
End of Part 1