Planning

Dawn in Clockthon was always gray.

Smoke from the factory chimneys that never stopped spewing painted the sky a leaden shade, muting the new sunlight into nothing more than a faint sign that the day had changed. I stood in the middle of my room at the Raven's Nest, wearing a new uniform. The dark gray wool felt stiff and foreign against my skin. The emblem of the Royal Military Academy, a winged sword piercing a book, was pinned to my collar.

Grisa Rash was already waiting for me outside.

Our trip to the academy went by in silence, as usual. The Fravikveidimadr armored vehicle glided smoothly over the cobbled streets, its metallic interior offering no comfort whatsoever. I tried to ask a few things about the academy: its curriculum, the factions within, and the key figures among the faculty.

"All important information is in the student handbook you'll receive," she replied without turning, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "Your job is to study, not gossip."

I didn't ask again.

The wall between us remained as thick as ever, but now there was a small crack on its surface. A crack I had made with Euler's equation. She knew I wasn't just a child, and that uncertainty made her more cautious, uneasy even.

The Royal Military Academy of Clockthon wasn't what I imagined.

No glittering towers full of wonder, no majestic gates guarded by statues of griffons. What stood there was only a colossal fortress of black granite, most likely built centuries ago to repel barbarian hordes and now repurposed as a place of learning. Its high, thick walls had been dulled by acid rain and industrial soot. Its wide courtyards were filled with cadets marching in formation, a monotonous gray tide moving in unison.

The air here didn't smell, nor did the scenery resemble anything tied to knowledge or curiosity. It was more the scent of discipline solidified into power.

This was the clear shape of disappointment.

A grand institution that, from the outside, looked more like rusted bureaucracy than a place where knowledge was pursued. Just like the murim sect in my previous life, a great name, now nothing but the hollow shell of its past glory.

Grisa handed me over to a stout, sour-faced middle-aged administrator.

The registration process took a full hour, triple-layered forms and bureaucratic stamps at every step. I was nothing more than a line of data, a numbered file slotted into an endless drawer. To the administrator, I was "Welt Rothes, a gifted orphan from Caledon." Rationally speaking, it was a convenient fiction.

Finally, I was escorted to the junior cadet dormitory.

The building was as large and soulless as the rest of the academy. My room was on the third floor, cramped, with two iron beds, two desks, and a shared wardrobe. The air smelled of disinfectant mixed with damp socks.

My roommate was already there.

He sat on his bed, reading a thick, leather-bound book. He didn't look quite my age, maybe eight years older. Jet-black hair, neatly cut. Gray eyes, the same as Clockthon's sky.

When I entered, he looked up. His stare carried something like curiosity. He wasn't surprised to see a ten-year-old here.

"You must be Welt Rothes," he said, his voice soft and clear. "I'm Roshtov. Roshtov Valerius."

Valerius was a minor noble family from the southern territories. I only nodded, setting down my bag, just one spare set of clothes, on my bed.

"I saw your name on the notice board," he continued, his eyes going back to his book even though I knew his attention hadn't left me. "Emergency admission… that doesn't happen often."

I didn't respond. I just began arranging the few belongings I had.

The silence between us turned into something deliberate. He was analyzing my actions, trying to deduce my background. I responded with silence, forcing him to make the first move.

"Caledon, huh?" he asked after a pause. "I've been there. Peaceful province. Didn't know they had an academy branch."

"They don't," I answered curtly. "A talent scout found me."

I recited my cover story, fully aware how flimsy it sounded.

Roshtov gave a thin smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.

"A very lucky scout, then." He closed his book.

"Welcome to the Prison, Welt Rothes."

"The Prison?"

"They call it an academy," he said with a shrug. "But we all know what this place really is. A machine for separating grain from chaff, and a factory for taming troublesome noble heirs and churning out officers who are little more than leashed dogs. Hope you enjoy your stay."

He returned to reading. The conversation ended, and I had met the first person here who was worth my attention.

Roshtov wasn't ordinary. His cynicism ran far too deep for someone his age, oddly specific, almost like mine.

My first class was 'Introduction to Essence Control.'

It was a large hall with high ceilings and arched windows overlooking the training grounds. Around thirty other students sat at wooden benches, all around eighteen years old or close. I sat in the back row, my presence barely noticed.

The instructor was a man named Sirus, a middle-aged Evolver with a bloated gut and sleepy eyes.

He spoke in a flat tone, explaining the basics of essence visualization and channeling. It was all painfully dull, material I had already mastered in my first week at the Raven's Nest.

The first exercise was to light a candle on our desks using nothing but Essence.

One by one, the students focused. Some produced faint sparks, while a noble girl from a prominent family managed to ignite her candle steadily, making its flame dance with precision. She earned a nod of approval from Professor Sirus.

Then it was my turn.

Every eye turned toward me, the so-called prodigy from some remote province. I could feel their expectations.

I stared at the candle, closed my eyes, and pretended to focus.

I sank into the sea of Void Essence within me. But I wouldn't reveal my true strength. Instead, I chose deliberate failure.

I released the smallest fragment of my Essence, a fragile, unstable flicker. I didn't try to light the wick, only nudged it toward the candle.

The result was exactly what I wanted.

The candle shook violently for a moment. Its shadow on the wall stretched and twisted into bizarre silhouettes before returning to normal. No flame. No light.

I opened my eyes and looked at the professor with a frustrated expression.

"I can't do it, Professor."

Professor Sirus sighed.

"Oneiric Path, I see. Always troublesome. Your Essence lacks thermal or kinetic attributes, which makes it ill-suited for standard tasks. Keep practicing your visualization. Next."

He moved on without another word.

Whispers rippled through the students. Disappointment and mockery.

The prodigy had failed.

My reputation as a weak, talentless oddity began to take shape, exactly as planned. Being non-threatening was the perfect camouflage.

Inside, I smiled faintly, as always.

They only saw the ripples on the surface.

The day ended.

I returned to my room. Roshtov was there, still with his book.

"I heard you put on quite a show in Professor Sirus's class," he said, eyes never leaving the page.

"At least I tried," I replied.

"Shadow distortion," he murmured. "They'll have trouble classifying you. Could be an advantage, or a curse."

I didn't reply.

I climbed into bed, turned my back to him, and pretended to sleep. That night, I didn't rest. I expanded my awareness, feeling the web of Essence that enveloped the academy. Every student, every teacher, every guard emitted the same faint pulse.

Then I felt something.

Far below, in a place I assumed to be the archives—or maybe deeper—there was a pulse. A faintly familiar Essence pulse. Not pure Void Essence like mine, but resonating the same way.

Something that shouldn't exist, almost certainly buried beneath this fortress.

This was the world Dales had kept from me. This was my first real lesson.

Since that day, days turned into weeks.

I kept my guise as a clumsy, ordinary student. My theory scores stayed average, my practice results were failures more often than not. I became a shadow in the academy, unnoticed because I wasn't worth noticing.

Grisa's surveillance stayed tight. Every night, I reported to her at the designated spot.

"Nothing happened. The lessons are dull, and the food is awful."

I repeated the same report, over and over, to make her lower her guard.

Beneath the surface of all the academy's routines, I worked alone each night. After Roshtov fell asleep, I would slip away, not physically, but through my awareness. I had learned to pass through the Throne of Nothing undetected, by extending a thread of Essence that slid through shadowed hallways, down stone staircases, chasing the faint surge of power I had sensed that first night.

It was grueling work. Controlling such a delicate thread at that distance demanded immense focus, and time after time, it would snap, sending sharp jolts through my mind.

But I endured, night after night…

At last, after weeks, I succeeded. My awareness reached the source.

A sub-basement not marked on any academy map.

Through my Essence's 'eyes,' I saw a vast circular chamber. At its center floated a glass orb the size of a human head.

Inside the orb was something indescribable.

The orb was suspended by strange machinery affixed to its sides, drawing on a constant blue energy field that kept it aloft. Several technicians in white lab coats, identical to Elias's, moved about it, turning dials and recording readouts on their instruments.

This was Fravikveidimadr's secret laboratory, hidden directly beneath the academy.

Then I looked to another corner, specifically, to one side of the chamber where a row of containment cells stood. Inside one sat a man, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. His hair was long and matted, his eyes vacant as they stared at the glass orb in the center.

My Essence thread drew closer. When I 'saw' his face, a memory surfaced. Not mine, not the current Welt Rothes's, but Grime's. A memory of hunger, of cold, and of this man handing a piece of bread to a child in a slum alley.

Grime, so named because his parents discarded him like refuse.

This man had once cared for Welt Rothes before I took his body.

And now he was a prisoner in Fravikveidimadr's secret lab. The pulse I thought came from the artifact, part of it came from him.

Somehow, he was connected to it.

I immediately withdrew my awareness, my heartbeat quickening. The situation was far more complex than I had expected.