The Crimson Pavilion did not feel like a place that trained disciples.
It felt like a place that rewrote them.
For three days after the red lantern, Sung Jin Ezio returned through the same hidden corridor, past the carved panels of lovers with hands that gripped too tightly, into halls that smelled of incense and bruised petals. The Pavilion welcomed him with warmth and light, the way a trap welcomes a foot—soft, inviting, certain.
And every time, it punished him.
Silk thread blades bit his wrists until the skin turned raw.
Illusions slipped apart the moment he tried to hold them, dissolving like mist against his clumsy intent.
Emotional sensing came in bursts—too loud one moment, gone the next—leaving him dizzy, nauseated, trembling with the shame of failure.
He was bad at everything.
Not dramatically bad, not the way geniuses pretend to fail so the audience applauds when they succeed. Bad the way a real nobody is bad in a world designed to turn nobodies into stepping stones.
Vesper did not comfort him.
She didn't insult him either. That would have implied he mattered enough to be mocked. She watched his mistakes like a physician watching an infection spread—calm, precise, assessing whether to cut the limb off.
Lucifer, meanwhile, enjoyed himself.
"Again, kiddo," Lucifer would murmur when the silk thread snapped back and stung his wrist. "Try not to embarrass us in front of the furniture this time."
Ezio would grit his teeth and force his qi outward, slow, careful, trying not to flinch as the thread vibrated—trying not to want it too badly.
Wanting made it worse.
Wanting made his qi surge clumsily, like a drunk man reaching for a knife.
He learned that quickly.
If he forced it, it snapped.
If he begged it, it slipped.
If he tried to prove himself, the thread punished him.
And somewhere in that repetition—pain, failure, pain—something small inside him began to sharpen.
Not power.
Attention.
The Pavilion did not reward strength first.
It rewarded awareness.
On the fourth night, Vesper brought him back to the mirror hall—the smoked-glass mirror that showed him as unfinished.
"Speak," she told the kitsune disciple again.
The kitsune smiled at Ezio with the softness of remembered love.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
The warmth hit Ezio's chest like a fist. His body reacted before his mind did; a step forward, a tightening in his throat.
Lucifer sighed. "Kiddo… you're a predictable animal."
Ezio forced himself still. He focused—not on the words, not on the illusion of tenderness—but on the texture behind it.
The kitsune's true emotion pulsed beneath the warmth like a dark heartbeat: amusement, curiosity, a thin blade of contempt.
Ezio exhaled.
"She's lying," he said quietly.
Vesper's eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"
Ezio swallowed and described it—how the sweetness didn't match the contempt, how the warmth was laid on top like perfume over rot.
Vesper watched him a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"You're not good," she said. "But you're learning the right thing."
Ezio's throat tightened. "What's the right thing?"
Vesper's gaze slid to the mirror.
"People," she said. "Not techniques. People are the technique."
Lucifer chuckled. "Hear that, kiddo? Congratulations. You're studying meat."
Ezio didn't laugh.
He wasn't sure if he could.
Because in the hours after that lesson, he began to notice something that made his stomach cold.
He could feel patterns.
Not only emotions, but sequence.
When someone lied, the lie came with a faint constriction before the words, like a breath held half a beat too long.
When someone feared, the fear spiked first in the throat, then in the hands, then in the feet—always the same order.
When someone desired, the desire pulled toward the object first, then away, then back again, like a tide testing the shore.
He was still too weak to hold illusions for more than a breath.
Still too clumsy to keep his silk threads from trembling.
But he was starting to read the room the way a predator reads wind.
That night, after Ezio stumbled through a meditation and nearly vomited from the strain of feeding his Illusion Seed, Vesper finally spoke the words that changed the shape of the story.
"Enough," she said.
Ezio looked up, sweat clinging to his brow.
Vesper's face was unreadable.
"You are training in a cage," she said. "A safe cage. Controlled. Predictable."
Lucifer's whisper was pleased. "Oh? Field trip?"
Vesper's eyes held Ezio's. "If you want to cultivate illusion, you must learn the truth."
Ezio's voice came out hoarse. "What truth?"
"That desire is not taught," Vesper said. "It is harvested."
She rose.
"Tonight," she continued, "you will come with me."
The place Vesper led him to wasn't called a nightclub by the university.
Officially, it was a "cultural pavilion," a social lounge for visiting sponsors and wealthy students, a harmless place for music and poetry and spiritual wine.
That was the lie.
The truth revealed itself the moment Ezio stepped through the entrance curtain.
Warmth swallowed him.
Music drifted from somewhere unseen—stringed instruments, slow and hypnotic, like a heartbeat trying to seduce the lungs. Lantern-light glowed red and gold against velvet walls. Incense thickened the air until it felt like breathing through perfume.
People moved in clusters, laughing softly, voices low, eyes sharp.
Students in expensive robes.
Merchants with rings that pulsed faintly with storage arrays.
Sect envoys who pretended they were here to enjoy the music and not to buy secrets.
Kitsune disciples who wore glamour like skin.
A pale vampire seated near the back, smiling without showing teeth.
And under everything—beneath the laughter, beneath the flirtation—Ezio felt it.
Emotion.
Not single emotions, but a sea of them.
Fear hidden under silk.
Ambition wrapped in charm.
Desire sharpened into hunger.
Ezio's breath hitched.
The room was noisy in a way his ears couldn't explain. His Illusion Seed fluttered like it had been thrown into a storm.
Lucifer's voice slid in, delighted.
"Welcome to the real classroom, kiddo."
Ezio swallowed. "It's… too much."
Vesper did not look at him. She moved like she belonged here, her silk robe parting crowds without effort. "Do not try to feel everyone," she said. "You will drown."
Ezio forced himself to follow, keeping to her shadow.
Vesper stopped beneath a carved arch where the light was dimmer. From here, the room stretched out like a stage.
"Look," she said.
Ezio looked.
"At people," Vesper corrected. "Not bodies. Not faces. Intentions."
Ezio tried.
The first thing he noticed was how blind he'd been before.
He watched a young man flirt with a woman near a lantern. The man smiled, spoke softly, leaned in. His aura felt warm, attractive—until Ezio caught the tremor beneath it.
The man's warmth was manufactured. His true emotion was impatience—he was trying to extract something, not give something.
Ezio's stomach turned.
He looked at the woman.
Her laughter was real. Her desire was real too—sharp, hopeful, hungry—but behind it was fear, hidden and pulsing, like she was terrified of being left alone.
Lucifer hummed. "Two desperate animals pretending they're elegant."
Ezio's throat tightened.
Vesper's voice was low. "Tell me what you see."
Ezio's gaze moved across the room, and the night suddenly became a map.
Here—an older merchant sweating through his robe, fear in his throat, guilt in his chest. He wasn't here to relax. He was here because someone had leverage on him.
There—a young noble laughing too loudly, pride inflating her aura, desperation hidden beneath. She needed someone to notice her power, or she'd crumble.
There—two students exchanging a folded note under the table, their excitement sharp and guilty. A trade. A secret. Something forbidden.
Ezio's head began to ache from the flood of sensation.
Vesper watched him. "Focus. Choose."
Ezio blinked. "Choose what?"
"Your target," Vesper said simply.
Ezio's chest tightened. "For what?"
Vesper's eyes were calm. "For your first lesson in the real world."
Lucifer whispered, excited. "Pick someone worth robbing, kiddo. Don't waste our time on pocket change."
Ezio's gaze drifted again.
Not the prettiest face.
Not the loudest laugh.
He searched for the feeling that made his Illusion Seed twitch.
He found it near the back, beneath a dim lantern where the shadows pooled thick. A woman sat alone at a low table, a cup of spiritual wine untouched before her. Her robe was elegant but understated. Not trying to be noticed.
But her aura…
Her aura was controlled the way a locked door is controlled.
Calm on the surface.
Tight beneath.
Fear, yes—but not the fear of being unloved. A sharper fear. The fear of being discovered.
And beneath that fear was something else.
Ambition.
Coiled, hungry, disciplined.
Ezio's heart began to thud.
Vesper's gaze followed his.
"That one," Ezio said softly.
Vesper's mouth curved slightly. Not approval. Recognition.
"Good," she said. "That one has something."
Ezio swallowed. "What?"
Vesper's voice was quiet. "Machiavelli's breath is on her."
Ezio's skin prickled.
He had heard the name, of course. Everyone had. Machiavelli wasn't a person here; he was a sect-network, a philosophy turned into an immortal machine. His disciples didn't shout or duel. They arranged.
They turned people into pieces and moved them across the board until the board belonged to them.
Lucifer chuckled. "Oh, kiddo. If you steal from her, you're stepping on a snake."
Ezio's mouth went dry. "Then why—"
"Because you won't learn caution from safety," Vesper said. "Only from risk."
Ezio's hands trembled faintly.
He was still nobody.
Still weak.
But a seed inside him burned with curiosity like a small sin.
Vesper leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear.
"You are going to speak to her," she murmured. "You will not boast. You will not flirt like a dog begging for scraps. You will listen. You will mirror. You will make her feel seen."
Ezio swallowed. "And then?"
Vesper's voice was barely audible.
"Then you will steal."
Lucifer's whisper was pleased. "Attaboy."
Ezio's legs felt heavy as he crossed the room.
Every step felt like walking onto a stage naked.
The woman didn't look up as he approached. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup slowly, not drinking. Thinking.
Ezio stopped at the edge of her table.
He forced his voice steady. "Is this seat taken?"
The woman finally lifted her eyes.
They were dark and intelligent, the kind of eyes that didn't waste time on things that didn't matter.
Ezio felt her gaze slide over him, measuring. Cheap robe. Wet hair. No signet ring. No sponsor.
A nobody.
Her eyes returned to her cup.
"No," she said. "Sit if you want."
Ezio sat.
Silence pressed between them.
He had no charm. No practiced seduction. No beautiful words.
His throat tightened with an old reflex: perform. impress. beg to be wanted.
Lucifer sighed. "Kiddo, if you start boot-licking again, I'm leaving your soul."
Ezio inhaled.
He remembered Vesper's instruction.
Listen.
He focused on her aura.
Fear was present—subtle, tight in her chest, like she was holding her breath. But her fear didn't spike at him. It spiked when she glanced toward the center of the room, toward the clusters of envoys and merchants.
She wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of being watched.
Ezio let his voice soften. "You're not enjoying this."
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you decided that how?"
Ezio's stomach tightened. He could ruin this in one sentence.
He chose honesty—not about facts, but about feeling.
"The music is loud," he said. "The wine is expensive. The room is full of people pretending to relax." He paused. "And you look like someone who came here to find something, not to forget something."
The woman studied him.
Her fear trembled faintly—not increased, but recognized. Like someone had touched a bruise.
Ezio continued carefully, voice low. "If I'm wrong, ignore me."
The woman's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Almost.
"You're not wrong," she said after a moment. "You're just bold."
Ezio swallowed. "I'm not bold. I'm… wet and lost."
That earned him the smallest real reaction: a brief exhale, almost laughter.
Lucifer purred. "Good. Self-deprecation without begging. You're learning."
The woman's eyes stayed on him longer now. "What's your name?"
Ezio hesitated.
Names were chains.
But he couldn't say "Nameless." He couldn't say "nobody." Not here.
He gave her the name he wore like a mask.
"Sung Jin Ezio," he said.
Her gaze flicked, evaluating the foreign edges of it. "Ezio," she repeated softly. "That sounds like a blade."
Ezio's throat tightened. "It isn't."
She tilted her head. "Not yet."
He let the moment breathe.
Then he asked the real question, the one that mattered.
"What are you afraid of?" he said quietly.
The woman's eyes sharpened immediately.
Lucifer chuckled. "Oof. Straight to the throat."
Ezio felt her aura tighten, like a door locking.
He almost backed down—
Then he felt something else: a ripple, faint but telling.
Her fear spiked, and behind it a hidden emotion surfaced for a heartbeat—
Guilt.
Ezio's pulse quickened.
He softened his tone. "You don't have to tell me."
The woman stared at him, and for a moment the room around them seemed to dull, as if her attention had formed a small private world.
"My name is Liora," she said at last, voice quiet. "And you ask dangerous questions for someone who looks like he can't afford to bleed."
Ezio's lips parted, but Lucifer answered first inside his skull.
"Tell her bleeding is your hobby, kiddo."
Ezio ignored Lucifer.
He kept his gaze steady and said something true.
"I've already bled tonight," he said. "I'm just trying to learn what it means."
Liora's eyes softened slightly—only slightly. But her aura eased a fraction, enough for Ezio to feel the shape of her intent more clearly.
She was here to trade something.
Or hide something.
Ezio's Illusion Seed fluttered.
His silk bracelets were under his sleeves, hidden, cold against his wrists.
Vesper's words echoed: steal from afar.
Ezio let his hands rest on his knees and focused on his breath.
In.
Hold.
Out.
He extended a single silk thread—so faint he couldn't even see it—down the inside of his sleeve, out into the air between them.
His control was shaky.
His wrists still burned from training.
He couldn't afford to overreach.
Lucifer whispered, eager. "Slow, kiddo. Don't snap it. Don't make it hungry. Make it patient."
Ezio swallowed his nausea and guided the thread toward Liora's robe.
He didn't aim for her body.
He aimed for the place where her aura felt… weighted.
A hidden pocket. A storage slip. Something small.
His thread brushed her robe.
Ezio felt the contact like a nerve touched with ice.
Liora didn't move.
But her fear flickered—tiny.
Had she felt it?
Ezio kept his face calm, continuing the conversation as if nothing was happening.
"So," he said quietly, "what are you looking for tonight?"
Liora's eyes held his. "Information."
Ezio nodded. "About what?"
"A person," she said. "A mistake."
Her guilt pulsed again.
Ezio's thread found the edge of something hidden: a thin scroll sealed with a lacquer stamp. The seal carried a faint, disciplined aura—the kind that smelled of planning and cold intention.
Machiavelli.
Ezio's heart hammered.
He tried to pull.
The thread trembled.
His vision blurred slightly.
He almost lost it—
Lucifer hissed softly. "Breathe, kiddo. If you faint at the table, I'll haunt you myself."
Ezio inhaled, steadying his qi, letting his desire become a contained flame instead of an explosion.
Slowly, the scroll slid.
Just a hair's breadth.
Liora's gaze sharpened suddenly.
Ezio felt it—her attention shifting inward, a subtle tightening of aura.
She sensed something.
Ezio's stomach dropped.
Then the world… flickered.
For the briefest moment, he saw it.
Not a vision. Not a dream.
A sequence.
Liora's hand would move.
Her fingers would slide beneath her robe.
Her eyes would turn slightly left, toward a watcher standing near the arch.
She would stand up.
She would leave.
All in a single smooth chain.
Ezio's breath caught.
The flicker vanished.
He stared at Liora, stunned.
Lucifer's voice was low, excited, almost reverent.
"Oh, kiddo… did you just peek?"
Ezio swallowed hard. "What—"
"Don't talk," Lucifer whispered. "Move."
Ezio's body reacted before his mind caught up. He tightened his thread now, before Liora's hand moved.
The scroll slid fully free into the air, hidden under the table's shadow, drifting toward Ezio's sleeve like a shy ghost.
Liora's hand moved exactly as he had seen.
She reached beneath her robe.
Her fingers met emptiness.
Her eyes narrowed.
Ezio kept his face still, forcing his heartbeat to slow.
Liora's gaze flicked left—exactly as the flicker had shown—toward the arch, toward a shadow watching.
Ezio felt cold sweat on his back.
The watcher's aura stirred, subtle.
Machiavelli's network.
Liora's mouth tightened. She stood.
"I think you're right," she said softly, voice controlled. "This isn't a place to relax."
Ezio nodded as if he agreed.
He felt the stolen scroll press against his wrist inside his sleeve, cold and real.
Liora leaned slightly closer, her voice barely audible.
"You're either very lucky," she whispered, "or very stupid."
Lucifer chuckled. "Both."
Liora turned and walked away.
Ezio did not move until she disappeared into the crowd.
Only then did he exhale, long and shaking.
His hands trembled beneath the table. His stomach churned from strain.
He was still weak.
Still nobody.
But inside his sleeve lay a piece of poison carved into scripture.
Vesper appeared beside him as if she'd always been there.
Her eyes flicked once to his sleeve.
Then back to his face.
"Well?" she asked.
Ezio swallowed. "I… stole it."
Vesper's expression didn't change. "And?"
Ezio hesitated, then whispered the truth.
"I saw what she was about to do," he said. "For a moment. Like… the next few seconds were already written."
Vesper's gaze sharpened for the first time.
Lucifer's voice purred. "He peeked at fate, didn't he?"
Vesper leaned in slightly, the lantern-light painting her cheekbones like a blade.
"That isn't future sight," she said quietly. "Not yet."
Ezio's mouth went dry.
"It's probability," Vesper continued. "Pattern. Intent. A mind trained to predict what comes next."
Her eyes held his. "And if you cultivate it wrong, it will drive you insane."
Ezio's throat tightened. "So what is it?"
Vesper's smile was faint, almost satisfied.
"A door," she said. "One you shouldn't be able to see."
Ezio's Illusion Seed fluttered like a living ember.
Lucifer whispered, delighted and cruel:
"Congratulations, kiddo. You didn't become strong."
A pause.
"You became interesting."
And in a world ruled by sects and immortals, being interesting was the first step toward becoming hunted.