The shudder wasn't pain—it was overflow.
The Devourer had done its work, consuming raw power and distilling it into concentrated soul energy. Normally, such energy would be absorbed, strengthening the core—but this time it was too pure, too dense for a vessel of his current grade. If he forced it in, his soul would rupture. He'd go up in light and ash.
He could let the Devourer eat the excess or purge it entirely, but that would waste a resource beyond measure. What he needed was a way to channel it—to turn danger into strength. He would find that way; he only needed time.
But he couldn't risk calling on the Devourer again so soon. He'd already used it once today, and history had shown what happened when his ancient enemies sensed its awakening. They had slain him once before. They might do so again.
A bitter smile touched his lips. I never wanted attention. Yet the orphan boy awakens something the world thought impossible.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself. Turn the disadvantage into the weapon. That had always been the lesson.
The stench of decay clung to him, heavy and metallic. His skin itched beneath a layer of dried residue, and a foul black sheen still marked his chest and hands. The air was thick with a chemical tang that burned his nostrils. It felt like years had passed since the awakening, but it had been only a day.
"Compendium," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Can you determine if this energy can be used by you?"
The answer came cold and precise, a sterile voice inside his skull.
[Query Initiated: Energy cannot be directly utilized by the Arcane Compendium. Energy structure aligns with Biomancy parameters.]
Kael's eyes snapped open. He was still in the infirmary—the white cot a lone island in the sterile sea of silver walls. The fusion had succeeded, leaving him whole, but the process had birthed a dangerous residue.
He could feel it pulsing beneath his ribs like a caged star.
I must become Kael the orphan boy again. The mask had slipped already, and that was perilous. The predator within snarled at the thought of pretending to be weak, but he forced it down, letting the human façade rise.
"Compendium," he whispered again, "how long before this energy overloads my soul?"
[Query Initiated: Insufficient data for precise calculation. Based on current volatility, projected stability window: approximately seven days.]
A week.
His mind—half predator, half survivor—snapped to focus. He was a bomb with a timer ticking in his chest. Victory had become his most immediate threat. He needed a sink, a conduit—something to channel or transform the volatile power before it tore him apart.
He raised a hand and studied the faint metallic scent of soul-soot clinging to his fingers. I hold the key to optimize all knowledge, he thought, but I lack the knowledge itself. He needed to master the foundations first—to build the structure that would one day support the world.
Kael sank back against the pillow as another tremor passed through his soul. The Compendium registered it as a faint echo.
[Notice: Instability rising 0.7% per hour.]
He needed access to the Kingdom's archives, to every shred of data the Academy hoarded. The military already sees value in me. They'll feed me knowledge—then I'll feed on it until none can threaten me again.
Across the room, a polished silver wall reflected his silhouette. He didn't study his face, but the expression itself—the panic, the sharp edge of calculation. Slowly, deliberately, he smoothed both away until only controlled awe remained. His reflection hardened into a lie that could pass for innocence.
The bolt on the door slid back with a metallic hiss. Kael's features froze into his perfected mask—ninety percent awe, ten percent humility—just as the door opened.
Kellan entered first, followed by Lilian and Lyon. The handler took two measured steps inside, then halted. His nose wrinkled. One gloved hand covered his face; the other pressed to the bridge of his nose. For a heartbeat, the mask of professionalism cracked, replaced by genuine revulsion.
"Damn it, Lilian," he muttered, voice tight. "You didn't cleanse the room? It smells like a charnel pit."
Kellan recovered instantly, the brief flash of disgust swept away by his professional conditioning. He lowered his hand but kept his distance from the bed.
Lilian, however, glared at Kellan and spoke, her tone clipped and scathing. "This is what happens when the body is cleansed—or have you forgotten your own advancement? Kael just had more impurities than usual, and thus the result is as you see."
Kellan schooled his expression, a tight line forming around his mouth. "Does that mean he is not in any immediate danger due to the poor body anymore?"
"It is stabilized, Kellan. Kael's body is as healthy as I could make it. He can start with the Academy classes, and he will be able to compete with his peers—at least as far as his physical form is concerned." Her voice was dry, devoid of warmth.
Beside her, Lyon, the master soul-mage, spoke in a terse tone. "I will be the judge of that."
The air in the room thickened. Lyon's words weren't directed at Kael, yet they landed like a challenge. He was intentionally dismissing him, a clear attempt to signal that Kael was no longer his concern—a lie Kael instantly flagged.
Kael tensed, ready to interject and ask what Lyon meant, but Kellan quickly cut him off.
"Yes, yes, good. That is very good. But please get him cleaned first. We will wait and discuss this properly rather than smell this filth." Kellan's attention was fixed solely on Lilian now, dismissing the boy entirely.
Lilian turned to Kael, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, he saw naked desire there—not human affection, but an analytical hunger. The same kind of hunger that lived inside the Devourer, but focused on his aspect. Kael realized he needed to be more careful.
She wants what I am, not who I am.
Do they know the military tried to soulbind me? he wondered. Based on the way Lilian and Kellan were talking and looking, they seemed unaware of the depth of Lyon's earlier actions.
"Kael, please follow me, and I will show you where you can wash and change your clothes."
Kael desired nothing more than to cleanse himself. The lingering smell of soul-soot was crawling into his lungs now, threatening to make him retch. He nodded silently, careful not to add any unnecessary movement.
The Devourer stirred faintly, almost amused by his restraint.
He pushed himself off the bed and followed Lilian to the changing room.
After the bath, Kael felt renewed—as if the filth of the old world had been peeled off with the grime. The constant weakness that had once haunted him was gone, replaced by a light, satisfying strength that hummed beneath his skin. His muscles no longer trembled; his breath came steady.
He could feel it clearly now—the way his body had been repaired and optimized, tuned to a higher standard. Every movement felt precise, intentional. The orphan boy had never known a body like this; it felt like a weapon built to serve him instead of betray him. For the first time in his life, his flesh did not feel like a cage.
Kael returned from the changing room, clean but chilled. The academy robe—a muted gray—hung comfortably on his new form. The coarse fabric, once a sign of low status, now fit like armor. The grime of his past was gone.
Kellan stood near the examination table, posture loose but eyes alert. The bureaucrat's usual stiffness had softened into a patient authority, the sort reserved for men used to commanding dangerous things. Across the room, Lilian was lost in her own thoughts, pen scratching over a journal with mechanical precision. Lyon remained near the door, arms folded, his presence like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"Come, Kael," Kellan said at last, his tone gentle but heavy with purpose. "We must discuss how to proceed."
Kael stepped closer, posture modest, eyes lowered. The handler's voice was quieter now, almost reverent. "Your awakening, Kael, can uplift humanity itself. Perhaps we can emerge as one of the leading races once more—and that is nothing short of miraculous."
Kael studied Kellan's face beneath the mask of humility. He could feel the enthusiasm in the man's voice, the barely concealed obsession. Lilian had once told him that Kellan hated the Elves—that his vendetta ran deeper than politics. That hatred pulsed beneath his praise like a buried scar.
"You are the change that will alter the Verdant Kingdom," Kellan continued, "for better or for worse. It's my task to ensure it's for the better. If you want protection from the Kingdom, you must help the Kingdom in return."
Kellan's eyes didn't waver. "You must follow these rules to the letter. They are there to protect you as much as they protect the throne."
Kael's pulse slowed. He let the silence stretch, forcing Kellan to fill it.
"You may speak freely," Kellan said—but didn't truly mean it. Kael understood the performance. He stayed still, wordless, letting the handler control the stage.
He needed Kellan to keep believing he was the obedient tool—the boy too grateful to plot. Resources come to the quiet survivor, he thought.
Kellan laid a heavy hand on Kael's shoulder. The weight of it wasn't comforting—it was possessive, practiced. A physical reminder of control.
"Your Aspect is unique, Kael," Kellan said softly. "Sensitive—and yours alone. You must never, under any circumstance, mention the Compendium. Not to another student, not to a mentor, not even if you are asked directly. This is for your safety."
His tone darkened. "If rumors spread, the Kingdom might not survive. And we would do anything to preserve the Kingdom."
Kael could feel the threat behind the words—quiet, clean, and absolute. It was the tone of a man who'd killed for less.
Kellan's hand slipped away as he continued, voice steady. "You will not receive special treatment. You will study, eat, and train like every other student. If you appear favored, the noble families will start asking questions. That we cannot allow."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"If you want resources," Kellan added, "you may earn them through service. Take missions from the Kingdom's internal board. Use your Aspect in ways that benefit the state."
Kael inclined his head, eyes calm, thoughts racing. So that's the leash.
Kellan's tone turned brisk again as he gestured toward Lilian. "You'll report to Healer Lilian every week for two hours. Treat these as your routine physicals. She will monitor your progress and guide your studies in Biomancy."
Lilian looked up, her expression unreadable. Her eyes lingered on Kael's face for a heartbeat too long before she returned to her notes.
"She believes her tutelage is the only way to refine your control," Kellan added. "And she's likely right."
Kael almost smiled. A variable Kellan can't predict, he noted silently.
Kellan straightened his coat. "I have also registered myself as an instructor here. I will be teaching divination—personally. That way, I can ensure your safety while observing your development firsthand."
Kael caught the tone of self-importance and answered with his most convincing imitation of gratitude—a faint smile, a nod just shy of reverence.
"Finally," Kellan said, glancing toward the silent figure near the door, "Master Lyon has agreed to oversee your physical conditioning and combat practice. His involvement guarantees that any questions about your anomaly die before they're asked. He will be the ultimate authority should anyone pry."
Lyon's eyes flicked briefly toward Kael, cold and sharp. Kael's stomach tightened—a mix of hatred and buried terror. He tried to unmake me once, he thought. Now he'll train me.
Kellan's hand dropped to the hilt of his short sword, resting there as if by habit. "Your role is simple," he said. "Trust us. Learn fast. Adapt faster." His eyes narrowed. "Do you understand the terms, Kael?"
Kael dropped his gaze, careful to let his posture soften into submission. A tremor ran through his hand—small enough to seem unintentional, perfect enough to sell the fear.
"I understand," he said quietly. "Thank you. I will do my best."
The silence that followed was long and heavy, filled only by the faint hum of the Compendium in the back of his mind.
[Observation: Obedience successfully simulated. Emotional mimicry: 94% accuracy.]
Kael's mask didn't crack. But deep beneath it, something darker stirred—a quiet satisfaction.
Kellan's rigid posture finally eased into a thin, satisfied smile. "Excellent," he said. "Your new life begins immediately. You will be housed in the first-year dormitory. Lyon will escort you there and provide you with the necessary academy items."
Kael nodded once—a gesture of solemn acceptance that perfectly masked the desperation roaring beneath his ribs. He turned, every movement measured and deliberate, and walked toward the door.
Lyon stood beside it, arms folded, the same unreadable composure as before. As Kael approached, the soul-mage's gaze flicked to him—a look drained of curiosity, of humanity. Whatever interest Lyon once had was gone. Now there was only cold dismissal, the satisfaction of seeing a dangerous experiment securely chained.
Kael passed him without a word. The air between them crackled faintly with restrained contempt.
Lyon fell into step beside him as they entered the corridor. Their footsteps echoed through the metallic hall, the hum of runes vibrating faintly beneath the floors.
Without looking at him, Lyon spoke in a low, venom-laced voice.
"Your first assignment," he said, "is to provide the military with advanced Biomancy models. That bitch Lilian hoards her research—she feeds us scraps while pretending to heal the masses." His lip curled. "You'll make up for her failures."
Kael's brow furrowed slightly, though his tone remained polite. "I didn't realize the military had been denied access to her work," he said. The statement was careful, neutral—but his mind raced. So even the Academy's healers defy the throne. Lilian may be more useful than I thought.
"Yes," Kael added smoothly after a moment, "I will provide the data you require."
He didn't even see the movement—just the crack of flesh against flesh and the blinding sting that followed. The impact sent him staggering sideways, his vision flashing white. He hit the floor hard, the sharp taste of iron blooming in his mouth.
Lyon's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Have you forgotten your place, rat?" he hissed. "You will address me as Master. If I hear your filthy tongue speak to me as an equal again, I'll tear it out myself."
Kael froze where he'd fallen, the pain throbbing in his cheek like a hot throb. He blinked once, twice, forcing his thoughts into alignment. The Devourer snarled in the depths of his mind, whispering violence, but Kael strangled the impulse.
Not yet, he thought. Not here.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, head bowed. "Yes… Master," he said evenly. His tone was flat—empty, but submissive enough to pass.
Lyon studied him for a moment longer, then scoffed and turned away. "Learn your station, boy. Remember: even a weapon doesn't raise its edge against the hand that wields it."
Kael rose silently, his face still burning from the strike. Inside, the storm churned—rage, humiliation, and something darker, colder. He thinks I'm his slave, Kael thought. Let him believe it. It will make his fall easier. Because when time comes for my revenge even his soul will not be spared.
They continued down the corridor in silence, the echo of their steps swallowed by the academy's sterile hush.
When they reached the dormitory gates, Lyon stopped and gestured lazily toward the rows of metal doors. "Your quarters," he said. "Welcome to the acadmedy."
Kael inclined his head, wordless, and stepped forward. He did not look back.
The moment Lyon's footsteps faded behind him, Kael exhaled, the mask slipping for just a heartbeat. Beneath the calm exterior, the shuddering pulse of volatile power throbbed like a living countdown.
He was in the general population now—clean, contained, obedient, and sitting atop a soul ready to explode.
He had won a temporary reprieve.
A fatal one.
Seven days. That was all the time he had to find a conduit—to learn, to adapt, to survive.
The Kingdom had forged its perfect weapon.
It simply hadn't realized yet that the weapon was learning how to aim itself.