Real Quick

Eight years is a long time. Long enough for a child's body to grow into adolescence, long enough for carefully planted lies to take root and become irrefutable truths. The Royal Clockthon Military Academy, my iron cage, was finally releasing me. Graduation Day. An end, and a beginning.

The 19th of Sextilis, Year 1753. The spring air still carried a gentle chill in the morning, laced with the scent of lilies from the academy's meticulously groomed gardens. I stood in the center of the main plaza, a vast expanse of granite surrounded by the stout buildings that had served as both my home and my prison. The academy complex was a marvel of engineering and paranoia, black metal walls five meters high, a central clocktower whose mechanical pulse was the heartbeat of our existence, and a network of underground tunnels connecting every part like a nervous system.

Only recently did I learn that nobles entered the academy at the age of fifteen. One of the latest arrivals was Irene, I never asked why. Perhaps she was lazy, or perhaps something else. Most of them were tutored privately before being delivered here at the minimum age.

Around me, the other cadets gathered in small groups, their dark gray uniforms forming a homogeneous sea. Their voices buzzed with a mixture of relief and unease.

"…we finally made it. No more waking up at four a.m. for Essence inspections."

"Starting tomorrow, we're officially part of the active Evolver units. Out there, there's no room for mistakes."

"If you fail, you're considered a failed investment. The academy doesn't bother fixing broken tools."

Their words reflected the world they had accepted. A world where a person's worth was measured by function.

"Welt!"

I turned. Finnian O'Connell, now a lanky young man yet still wearing that same nervous expression, ran toward me. Eight years had not changed the core of him.

"You're already here! I could barely sleep last night!" he exclaimed.

"Nervousness is an inefficient use of energy," I replied flatly. "You should've conserved your strength."

"Of course you'd say that," came a clear, calm voice.

Irene Cheva approached. Eight years had transformed her. The awkward girl I once knew had become a composed young woman exuding a cold confidence. Her long brown hair was tied neatly, and her green eyes now examined the world with the acuity of an analyst. She no longer hid her intelligence behind childish quirks. She wore it like armor.

"This early? Did none of you sleep?" she asked, glancing at the central clock, still five in the morning.

"I went to bed early," I answered. "Spring mornings aren't too cold."

"I—I maybe got five hours?" Finnian stammered. "I was nervous…"

I ignored them and returned to scanning the crowd. I spotted Roshtov Valerius, standing alone as always, his face unreadable behind the book he constantly carried. He, too, had changed, taller, thinner, and with deeper shadows beneath his eyes. Our relationship over the years remained cold and distant. There were unspoken weapons between us, but nothing had ever been said aloud. His sister, Lian, stood among a clique of popular nobles, laughing haughtily. Cassian Droct, now a promising young officer, was instructing a few juniors. And William Salwors… I didn't see him. He always had a way of hiding in plain sight.

Professor Gunder, our aging and weary Essence control instructor, climbed onto the platform in front of the main building. "Attention, all final-year cadets! The graduation ceremony will begin in three minutes. All participants, please take formation according to your evaluation numbers."

The command broke the crowd into motion. We moved into orderly lines across the plaza, arranged by our academic rankings. With my deliberately "average" record, I stood in the middle rows. Ever since the incident, I had suppressed my scores to avoid standing out, I knew that fugitive would come for me eventually. Forre was a dangerous individual. Even now, I was still only Archetype 7. I needed to advance quickly.

The ceremony itself was a dull formality. Long speeches from the academy's head, an aging general who preached honor and loyalty to the kingdom. A reading of the names of distinguished cadets. The handing over of graduation scrolls. I received mine with no expression, just a piece of parchment signifying that I had successfully played my part as a "stable asset" of Fravikveidimadr.

After the ceremony ended, the cadets began to disperse. Some were greeted by noble families in gilded carriages. Others, like Finnian, clustered together to celebrate their newfound freedom. I had no interest in any of it. I had another purpose. After all, I had no family in this world, and I still didn't know what tied me to Silas.

"Welt, want to join us at a tavern in the Old District?" Finnian asked, his face filled with hope.

"To celebrate our graduation!"

"No," I replied curtly. "I have other matters to attend to."

I turned and walked toward the academy gates. I could feel Irene's gaze on my back, a gaze full of unspoken questions. For eight years, she had been my intellectual rival and the only one who seemed capable of seeing through the layers of masks I wore. Our relationship was a prolonged chess match without a clear winner.

As I walked, I passed Roshtov. He stopped me, a common occurrence by now. Frankly, I would've been more surprised if he hadn't.

"Rothes," he said quietly. "I know what you did."

I paused and looked at him. "Do you now?"

"You were never just an average student," he continued. "All your failures, all your oddities, they were part of the performance. Just like in the situational exam. Those pieces of evidence, you didn't find them. I'm certain you planted them."

I neither confirmed nor denied. I simply stared at him, letting silence do the speaking.

"I don't know what game you're playing," he said. "But I know it's dangerous. Be careful, Welt Rothes. The world outside these walls won't be fooled as easily as our professors."

He turned and left, joining his family's waiting carriage. A warning—or perhaps a challenge.

I kept walking. My destination wasn't the Old District. It was an address in the Banking District. A modest office building, unremarkable, with a brass plaque that read: Adler & Finch Legal Office.

Inside, I met a middle-aged man named Finch. He was a lawyer I had contracted anonymously through a chain of intermediaries over the past few years, using leftover funds from my "transaction" with the Viscount.

"Mr. Rothes," he greeted me, mildly surprised by how young I appeared. "Everything is ready, just as you requested."

He handed me a thick leather folder. Inside was the deed of establishment for a trading company named Boyle Acquisitions. Also enclosed were property titles for several warehouses in the harbor district and a set of complex financial instruments that would transfer ownership of minor properties from nearly bankrupt noble families to my firm.

This was the fruit of eight years of work behind the scenes. While I played the role of a middling cadet, I had quietly been building the foundation of my economic power. Using knowledge from my previous world, of markets and finance, I had exploited the weaknesses of this world's feudal economy.

"Thank you, Mr. Finch," I said. "Ensure all transactions remain anonymous."

I stepped out of the office with the folder in hand. This was the first step of the Grand Plan of Hundreds. Power doesn't just come from Essence or combat ability. True power comes from control over resources. And I had just begun my acquisition.

As I walked through the bustling streets of Clockthon, I felt something change within me. This adolescent body had become a more refined vessel. My nadir circuit's aperture was now seventy percent full. I had yet to test my limits, but I knew, I was far stronger than anyone realized.

Suddenly, a minor incident disrupted my thoughts. A runaway carriage barreled toward a child crossing the street. Shouts rang out. Without conscious thought, my will moved my body.

I didn't use superhuman speed. I merely calculated the carriage's trajectory, the child's pace, and the time I had. In a single, efficient motion, I stepped forward, scooped the child from harm's way, and placed him safely on the sidewalk, it all looked like a lucky accident.

The carriage thundered past, narrowly missing me. The child cried. His mother ran over, embraced him, and thanked me profusely.

I nodded and walked away. But as I walked, I felt that gaze again, the same as eight years ago. Analytical. Cold. Familiar.

I stopped and turned.

Across the street, leaning against a wall, stood William Salwors. He no longer hid himself. He stared directly at me. In his hand was the same black leather notebook. He raised it slightly, as if in salute, then turned and vanished into the crowd.

The game wasn't over.

Of course he had been watching me all this time. He knew.

That night, I stood atop one of my new warehouses in the harbor district, staring at the city lights that glittered like artificial stars. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and fish.

Eight years had passed. I was no longer Cheon Donghwan, the terrorist. I was no longer Welt Rothes, the orphan. I was something new, something forged by my own hand from the ruins of two lives.

I now held control over my fate. I had resources. I had knowledge. And I had a plan. This world is broken, deeply broken, and I am the craftsman ready to rebuild it.

"Fix mankind. Fix the world. Fix everything."

My childhood in this world was over. The preparation phase was complete.

Now, it was time to build.

It had been a long time since graduation.

I looked up at the dark sky, where a full moon glowed bright, unlike the fractured moon from that dust-being's memory. No matter how flawed this world is, artisans always find ways to reshape it. And I would do just that.

In the distance, the clocktower bells rang.

Midnight.

A new era had begun.

My era.

"Let's begin," I whispered to the night wind.