-14 YEARS AGO

The training room hissed and groaned as steel walls closed in, geometric patterns shifting into blunt corners and sharp edges. Kaelen stood in the center, his breath fogging in the cold air. His cybernetics hummed faintly beneath his skin, a constant reminder of what he’d lost—and what he’d gained. The neural links in his left leg prickled as he shifted his weight, the synthetic muscle fibers contracting and releasing with near-perfect precision. Almost perfect. Almost.

“Tenacity, durability,” Valerius barked from the observation deck above, his voice amplified by the room’s acoustics. “Those are the advantages of your new class. Use them.”

Kaelen grit his teeth but bit back a response. Valerius was right to call him out for not leveraging his class abilities, but to Kaelen's credit he was still getting used to the new options.

[ Class: Cybernetic Revenant ]

The name was macabre, but he liked what it represented: a promise of power born from suffering. His old self had certainly died—either in that ritual or after his fifth round of failed recuperative surgeries—but what rose in its place was stronger. Harder. More worthy of the crown.

His stamina reserves flickered red in his peripheral vision, something he had been conditioned to never ignore. But the General was right—his class made him more than a standard warrior.

> [ Steel Persistence ]

>

> As you make your augments a more critical part of your Path, your body becomes more capable of reflecting the immutable stability of the alloys that you have grafted. So long as your implants do not tire, neither will your flesh.

He activated his [Steel Persistence] and watched the Stamina indicator fade to a dull gray. His cybernetics hummed louder, spreading their tireless nature through his biological systems. The burn in his muscles dulled, replaced by cold efficiency. The exhaustion still lurked beneath the surface, but it no longer mattered. His augments would carry him through, just as they had these past months of recovery.

The walls began to move faster, the room reconfiguring into a maze of jagged obstacles. Sensors embedded in the floor lit up, creating a grid of red and green markers. Kaelen’s eyes darted across the space, calculating distances, angles, and the most efficient path. His pulse quickened, the thrum of the cybernetics syncing with the rhythm of his heart.

“Go!” Valerius’s command echoed like a gunshot.

Kaelen launched forward, his left leg propelling him with a burst of speed that nearly sent him careening into the nearest wall. He corrected mid-stride, the neural links adjusting his momentum. His fists clenched as he navigated the maze, weaving through tight corners and leaping over obstacles. The sensors beneath his boots flashed green with every precise landing, red with every misstep.

Valerius's stare drilled into him like a shard of ice. Every session ground Kaelen down, pushed past what his augmented flesh could take. His muscles burned, his joints screamed, and afterward Valerius would flay his performance to ribbons with that clinical precision. Kaelen's jaw clenched. The worst part wasn't the pain or the critiques—it was knowing he couldn't do this alone. That without Valerius, all the chrome in his body meant nothing.

A wall slammed down in front of him, blocking his path. Kaelen skidded to a stop, his boots screeching against the floor. He barely had time to react before the wall began to advance, forcing him to backtrack. The maze was alive, shifting and changing with every step he took. He cursed under his breath, his cybernetics whirring as he pushed himself to keep moving.

“Focus!” Valerius’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’re thinking too much. Feel it. Let it flow.”

Kaelen gritted his teeth. Feel it. Right. Because that was so easy. He’d spent his entire life thinking, analyzing, calculating. His father had drilled that into him, taught him to always be one step ahead. And now? Now he was supposed to throw all that away and just feel?

Another wall closed in, this time from the left. Kaelen barely dodged it, his shoulder scraping against the rough surface. The room was getting smaller, the walls pressing closer together. He could feel the weight of the maze bearing down on him, the cold steel brushing against his skin. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it back. He couldn’t afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.

“Use your anger,” Valerius’s voice was quieter now, almost soothing. “Channel it.”

Kaelen’s hands clenched into fists. Anger. He had plenty of that. It burned inside him, a constant fire that threatened to consume him. And now? Now he was supposed to use it?

Well, alright.

The walls closed in faster, the maze collapsing around him. Kaelen’s chest heaved as he pushed himself harder, his cybernetics humming with the strain. He could feel the anger building, a storm gathering in the pit of his stomach. He let it rise, let it fuel his movements. His fists slammed into the walls, the impact sending shockwaves through his arms. His kicks were brutal, each one driven by a raw, primal force.

The maze shuddered, the walls retreating as Kaelen’s attacks grew more ferocious. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. The anger was a living thing now, a beast that roared in his ears and clouded his vision. He was a blur of motion, a whirlwind of precision and power. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

The room fell silent, the walls receding into their original positions. Kaelen stood in the center, chest heaving, his body trembling with the aftermath of the storm. Sweat dripped down his face, his hands still clenched into fists. He could feel the weight of Valerius’s gaze, but he didn’t look up. Not yet.

“Better,” Valerius said, his voice calm and measured. “But you’re still holding back.”

Kaelen’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Holding back? I just demolished your damn maze.”

Valerius leaned against the railing of the observation deck, his expression unreadable. “Physically, yes. But you’re still fighting yourself. Until you let go of that, you’ll never reach your full potential.”

Kaelen bit back a retort, his jaw tightening. He wanted to argue, to push back, but he knew Valerius was right. There was something inside him—a part of him—that he couldn’t quite let go of. A part of him that still clung to those old hopes, those old dreams. But they were gone now, shattered like the walls of the maze.

Kaelen’s fists clenched tighter, his nails digging into his palms. He had been cast aside, left to pick up the pieces of a life he didn’t want. But he wasn’t going to let that define him. He wasn’t going to let his father’s disappointment, or his brother’s pity, hold him back. He would forge his own legacy, one that had nothing to do with the Chimera project.

“Again,” Kaelen said, his voice low and steady. “I’m ready.”

Valerius studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room began to shift again, the walls moving into a new configuration. Kaelen took a deep breath, his body settling into a ready stance. He wasn’t the same person who had stood in that chamber, full of hope and pride. No. He was something else now. Something once broken, and stronger for it. Something angrier.

The walls closed in, and Kaelen moved. This time, there was no hesitation, no doubt. He let the anger guide him, let it fuel every strike, every leap, every dodge. He was a force of nature, a storm of steel and fury. The maze didn’t stand a chance.

Valerius watched from above, a faint smile playing on his lips. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the fire I’ve been looking for.”

The session lasted hours, the maze growing increasingly complex and brutal. Kaelen didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He pushed himself harder, drove himself further. By the time Valerius called an end to it, Kaelen’s body was battered and bruised, his limbs protesting every movement. But he didn’t care. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

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“You’ve got potential,” Valerius said as they left the training room. “More than most. But potential isn’t worth a damn if you don’t use it.”

Kaelen nodded, his mind already racing ahead. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to let anyone—or anything—hold him back. Not Valerius. Not his father. And definitely not Vylaas.

The cold air of the corridor bit at his skin as he limped toward the barracks, the memory of the maze still fresh in his mind. He could still feel the anger, simmering just beneath the surface. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a weapon. And he was going to use it.

As he walked, the lights of the Ascendancy Guard barracks came into view, a beacon in the darkness. Kaelen’s lips curved into a thin smile. This was his path now. His legacy. And he wasn’t going to let anyone take it from him.

* * *

The late afternoon sun slanted through tall windows, casting warm amber light across shelves of leather-bound books and scrolls. Maps covered the walls of Lord Elmsworth's study—some yellowed with age, others holographic overlays that shifted and flowed with data streams. The air smelled of old paper and wood polish, with undertones of the spiced tea steaming in delicate cups on the side table.

Vylaas sat in a deep leather armchair, his fingers absently tracing the coastline of an ancient map spread across the table before him. Unlike the rigid posture required in the training grounds, here his shoulders had loosened, though his eyes remained sharp and focused on Lord Elmsworth. The old strategist paced before the fireplace, his academic robes swishing softly against the carpeted floor.

"Tell me, Prince Vylaas," Elmsworth said, pausing to sip his tea, "what do you know of the Drigurn Crisis?"

"The rebellion in the outer systems?" Vylaas straightened slightly. "Father's archives say it was crushed in a series of decisive battles. The Victory Day celebrations still mark—"

"Ah." Elmsworth's smile carried a hint of mischief. "Your father's archives. The official archives. Of course. I'll stop you there on the assumption that you've got the sanctioned answer memorized." He moved to a shelf and withdrew a slim volume bound in blue leather. "But, unofficially, have you ever wondered why such a supposedly decisive victory required so little actual fighting?"

Vylaas frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Let me tell you a different version of that story." Elmsworth settled into the chair opposite Vylaas. "One that won't be found in the Imperial Archive's carefully curated histories."

The old strategist's eyes took on a distant look as he began his tale. "The Drigurn systems were a powder keg. Decades of economic exploitation had left their populations angry, their resources depleted. Traditional military analysis suggested a prolonged and bloody campaign would be needed to maintain imperial control."

"But that's not what happened," Vylaas said slowly, remembering the historical accounts.

"No indeed." Elmsworth's smile widened. "Because one woman—Admiral Helena Voss—saw what others missed. The rebellion's leadership was fractured, held together by mutual hatred of the empire rather than any true unity. Their strongest houses were also their most prideful. Their greatest weapons merchants were also the most greedy."

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "In six months, through carefully planted information, strategic trade concessions, and the subtle manipulation of key personalities, Voss had the rebellion's leaders at each other's throats. No shots fired, no worlds burned. The empire retained control, and historians recorded it as a military victory—never mentioning that the greatest battle was fought with whispers, not warships."

Vylaas's brow furrowed. "But... that seems..."

"Dishonorable?" Elmsworth arched an eyebrow. "This is why Myra saw fit to put us together, Your Highness. You can still be swayed from the path your brother was set on. Your brother—bless his enthusiasm—sees proof of strength in a shattered wall. I see strength in a wall that never needed to be built because the threat was averted before it materialized."

The words struck something deep in Vylaas. He thought of Kaelen, endlessly drilling in the training rooms, pushing himself to the breaking point in pursuit of raw power. He would never understand this, Vylaas thought. He only sees the hammer.

"But my father says strength is power," Vylaas said, voicing the mantra that had been drilled into him since childhood. "Force commands respect."

"Your father borrows the language of the kratocrats to win their support." Elmsworth's voice was gentle but firm. "There are other vantage points, Prince—and your father well employs them, when it suits his goals. Consider: an empire built only on conquest is like a golem—powerful, perhaps, but ultimately mindless. It will crumble under its own weight, or be outmaneuvered by something smaller but cleverer."

Vylaas affected his most pompous courtier voice, the one that made his etiquette tutors beam with pride. "One might point out, Lord Elmsworth, that the Tylwith Empire has waged wars of expansion for over a century with remarkable success." He raised his chin, mimicking the aristocratic sneer he'd seen countless times. "Surely you wouldn't label the Imperial Throne as mindless?"

A dry chuckle escaped Elmsworth's lips. "Careful, Your Highness. That impression was too good—someone might mistake you for Lord Caldwell's eldest." He set his teacup down with a soft clink. "But to defend myself against any outrageous implications, I will clarify: The Empire endures precisely because it knows when to use the sword and when to use more subtle tools." He tapped his temple with one finger.

"Cannons are loud, Prince Vylaas," Elmsworth continued, "but whispers in the right ears can topple empires. The truly powerful are not those who can destroy a city, but those who can ensure the city never needs to be destroyed in the first place."

The sun had sunk lower, casting longer shadows across the study. In the dimming light, the maps on the walls seemed to shift and dance, revealing new patterns, new possibilities.

"What kind of leader do you want to be?" Elmsworth asked softly. "One who commands through force, or one who shapes events through understanding? One who breaks resistance, or one who makes resistance unnecessary?"

The question unmoored Vylaas. He hadn't ever considered himself in any leadership capacity. But not having thought of a scenario before was no excuse to ignore it going forward as well. He thought of his training, of the endless drills and sparring matches, of the way his instructors demanded brutal efficiency. He thought of Kaelen, becoming harder and colder with each passing day. Was that truly the only path to power?

"I..." Vylaas started, then paused, collecting his thoughts. He might be about to voice treason, and he didn't wish to repeat himself. "I disagree with the Imperial mandate of 'vires super omnia.' I've always felt there must be more to the world than the pursuit of power, especially when the only goal is more power. But everything in our society, in our training..."

"Is designed to create warriors," Elmsworth finished. "But consider this: in a realm of warriors, who holds the real power? The strongest blade, or the mind that knows when—and when not—to use it?"

Vylaas leaned forward, eyes bright with sudden understanding. "Like Admiral Voss. She won without fighting because she understood her opponents better than they understood themselves."

"Precisely." Elmsworth rose and moved to a shelf, retrieving more books. "And that understanding came from study, from observation, from thinking beyond the obvious path." He placed the volumes on the table between them. "These contain similar stories—victories won through wit rather than warfare. Tales that won't be found in your father's libraries."

Vylaas stared at the books, understanding the risk they represented. "If my father finds out..."

Lord Elmsworth said nothing, instead waiting patiently for Vylaas to finish the thought on his own. After a moment, Vylaas found the conviction required to do so.

"If my father finds out, it will be alright. Some knowledge is worth any consequence," he said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice.

Elmsworth's eyes sparkled with approval. "Courage is not just found on the battlefield, Prince. Sometimes, the bravest thing is to think differently than those around you. That goes doubly when defying one's parent also means defying their King." He placed a hand on Vylaas's shoulder. "But such defiance is only the beginning. Now you must be smarter than those who would control you."

A soft chime sounded—the palace's evening bell, calling trainees to their final drills. Vylaas rose, placing a palm over the books Elmsworth had offered. He triggered his personal VI—not the one his tutors had given him, but the second more discreet unit Sister Myra had furnished him. Within moments, the data chips within the tomes had transferred their contents to his local database. As he turned to leave, the old strategist's voice stopped him.

"One last thing, Prince." Elmsworth's expression was serious now. "Remember: true power lies not in having all the answers, but in knowing which questions to ask. The Empire is, if nothing else, powerful. And your father's kingdom is one of the strongest and most favored serving under the Imperial Throne, but strength without wisdom is like a sword without a wielder—dangerous to friend and foe alike."

Vylaas nodded, feeling as though he understood at least some of what the Lord Scholar was trying to convey. As he left the warmth of the study, stepping into the cooler corridor beyond, his mind was already forming those questions. About his father's rule. About the empire's true nature. About the path he would choose for himself.

The collar at his throat no longer felt like a chain, but like a reminder. They could control his body, his mana, but his mind... his mind was free to soar beyond the barriers they'd built. And in that freedom, perhaps, lay a power greater than any his father had ever wielded.