"You have quite the unique name, young man," the old man mused, his gravelly voice tinged with curiosity as he adjusted his spectacles. His eyes twinkled, but there was a subtle undercurrent of appraisal in his gaze, like a jeweler inspecting a stone for hidden flaws.

The young man offered a wry smile, his posture relaxed yet guarded. "What can I say? When the time came for a name, I only had a handful of... let’s call them unconventional references. It shows, doesn’t it?"

The old man chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound that echoed in the quiet room like distant thunder. "Indeed it does. And no last name, either?"

The question hung in the air, more weighted than it had any right to be.

"No," the young man replied with a shrug, his tone light but his words carrying a deeper edge. "Never thought I'd need one. A name’s just a name, after all."

The old man chuckled before speaking. "Well even without formal schooling, it’s clear you’ve been taught by the greatest instructor of them all,

the fickle whims of life. And I’d wager you’ve had your fair share of lessons, eh, young man?"

The young man’s grin turned lopsided, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You could say that."

For a moment, the jovial mood held. Then all previous friendliness faded from the old mans face. The atmosphere shifted with him, the warmth in the room evaporating as a sudden stillness descended, sharp as the edge of a blade. His gaze, once kind, now gleamed like steel.

"Still..." The old man’s voice dropped to a low rumble, his words deliberate and heavy. "You will be under heavy surveillance."

The young man stiffened almost imperceptibly, his earlier nonchalance fading like smoke in the wind. He didn’t respond immediately, his expression betraying neither defiance nor submission, but a cool, practiced neutrality.

The old man leaned forward slightly, his shadow stretching across the room. "That’s not a threat, mind you," he said, his tone calm yet laden with unspoken implications. "Just a fact. A necessary one, for someone like you."

As soon as the words left the old mans lips his previous jolly disposition returned.

"Welcome to Basins Soul Academy... Professor Orphan"

-----

(A Month Prior)

In a dilapidated shack near the pier, two young men were locked in an argument. The air inside was heavy with the briny tang of the sea, mingling with the faint scent of mildew and the burnt-out stub of a candle on a rickety table. Shadows danced erratically as waves outside reflected dim light through cracks in the warped planks.

The shorter of the two was wiry, with jet-black hair flowing a few inches from his scalp and a scattering of freckles on his pale skin. One of his eyes was a piercing sky blue colour, glinting with a cunning born from years of survival in the streets. The other eye was concealed beneath a tattered leather eyepatch, adding a rugged edge to his youthful appearance. His stature barely reached the shoulder of his companion, but his presence was sharp and commanding, like a blade hidden in the folds of a coat.

The taller man stood half a head higher, his curly brown hair brushing against his chin in unruly waves. His face was clean-shaven, revealing soft features that belied the shrewdness in his light, grey eyes. There was a glimmer of mischief in his gaze, a spark of restless intelligence that seemed always on the verge of igniting trouble.

"Are you sure about this, Orphy?" the shorter one asked, his voice tinged with skepticism. His freckled brow furrowed as he crossed his arms.

"I'm sure, Quentin," Orphan replied curtly, a note of irritation creeping into his tone. He waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing away the other's doubts like cobwebs.

Quentin shook his head, his curls bouncing slightly. "Even Terror’s gang wouldn’t touch city trucks, Orphy. You’re going to get yourself killed."

Orphan scoffed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Terror and his brutes? They’re nothing but hammer-handed savages. They smash their way through every problem, and that’s why they’d be squashed in the aftermath. Me? I’m smarter than that. The guards won’t even know what hit them—I’ll be in and out before they can draw a breath."

Orphan turned on his heel with a theatrical sigh, as if the conversation had already been decided. But a flicker of thought lit up his expression, and he whirled back around, jabbing a finger in Quentin’s direction.

"And theft only gets you five years in a labor camp, tops! You, of all people, should know this—you’ve spent half your life with your nose buried in books," Orphan added with a sly grin.

Quentin groaned and buried his face in his hands. "That’s not the point," he muttered through his fingers.

The grin faded from Orphan’s face, replaced by a rare seriousness. He took a step closer, his voice dropping into a softer, steadier tone.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Look, Quentin… the streets might have raised me, but they’re not my future." His words hung in the air like a challenge, unyielding and resolute.

Quentin lowered his hands, watching Orphan’s face carefully. The determination there was as unwavering as the tide.

"You have your dreams of becoming a Soul Professor," Orphan continued, his voice almost reverent, "and I have mine—"

Before he could finish, Quentin cut in with an incredulous laugh. "How does becoming an explorer have anything at all to do with robbing a government vehicle of Soul goods?" His tone was flat, his raised eyebrow a picture of skepticism.

"Come on, Quentin," Orphan said with a smirk, lifting his hands to make air quotes. "'Soul goods'. You know what's really there."

Quentin sighed heavily, a defeated sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire shack. "I wish I never told you about it," he muttered, his voice muffled by his palms.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the rhythmic lapping of waves against the pier. Then, with a resigned groan, Quentin sank onto the cold, cracked concrete floor. He rubbed his temples, his eyes darting back and forth as if weighing options on an invisible scale. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

"Fine," he said, pointing a finger up at Orphan. "I’ll help you. But—" his voice sharpened, "—you’ll get out as soon as you retrieve the compass."

Orphan’s face lit up in triumph, but before he could celebrate, Quentin cut him off.

"And," he added, his tone deadly serious, "you’ll owe me a kebab from Claze’s place."

Orphan’s grin faltered. His brows furrowed in mock outrage. "Are you kidding me? Claze’s prices have skyrocketed! And he charges me double because he hates my guts!"

Quentin shrugged, a knowing smirk on his face. "Then just give me the money, and I’ll buy it myself."

For a moment, Orphan stared at him in silent disbelief. Then, a grin spread across his face once more. He extended a hand toward Quentin.

"You’ve got yourself a deal," he said, his grin matching the mischievous glint in Quentin’s eye.

The two clasped hands, their laughter mingling with the sound of the sea.

--

The gang of two had made it several kilometers beyond the city’s outskirts, now perched on a cliffside overlooking a tunnel that bridged two lonely roads. The wind whistled through the craggy rocks, carrying with it the faint scent of wild herbs and the dry tang of dust. The setting sun painted the horizon in hues of orange and crimson, casting long shadows across the jagged terrain.

"How likely is it they’ll see through my invisibility?" Orphan asked, his voice betraying a rare flicker of uncertainty.

Quentin leaned back against a boulder, arms crossed casually. "Not very likely," he said with a reassuring smirk. "As far as we know, your Illusionary Soul is one of a kind—and you’ve got it up to Adept already. If the Old Priest couldn’t see you, I doubt anyone in that convoy stands a chance."

Orphan nodded slowly, though doubt still lingered in his grey eyes.

Quentin, sensing his hesitation, pressed on. "Those old zealots are notorious for their Observational Souls. Seeing ancient demons and all that... if they couldn’t catch you, then trust me, this lot won’t."

"I guess you’re right," Orphan admitted, his tone less grim. "And my soul wasn’t even at Adept back then." He cast a glance toward the descending sun. "It’s almost nightfall. You’d better head back to the city. If they’re scouting the road, they’ll see you coming a mile away."

Quentin grinned, pushing himself off the rock. "You’re right. Must be a blast for you, spending two whole days up here all by yourself."

Orphan’s lip curled in a faint smirk. "Wouldn’t be the longest time I’ve spent sitting still."

Quentin chuckled as he started down the cliffside trail. "Well, I’ll be waiting for my kebab back in the city," he called over his shoulder.

"Hopefully you get it in three days and not five years," Orphan quipped back with a dry chuckle.

Quentin paused for a moment, turning to give a brief nod. "Stay safe, Orphan." Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he leapt off the cliff’s edge and sprinted toward the distant city, his figure growing smaller by the second.

Orphan leaned over the edge, watching him disappear into the gathering dusk. "The fucker left before I could say anything... He just gets faster and faster," he muttered, his voice having a proud undertone. "His Speed Soul’s probably nearing Adept too..."

The cliffside grew quiet once more, save for the rustle of wind through the brush. Alone now, Orphan melded into his surroundings like a chameleon, the patterns of the rocky terrain shimmering faintly across his figure until he was all but invisible.

Hours passed, and the night deepened. The stars twinkled faintly above, their light dimmed by the encroaching glow of the city in the distance. Orphan’s sharp eyes caught movement—a group of humans flying in formation, their shapes silhouetted against the night sky. They circled the area, flying toward the city and back again, their paths methodical and precise.

"Scouts," Orphan muttered under his breath.

He stilled his breathing, his body merging further into the shadows. All humans leaked Soul Aura to some degree, like faint ripples in a pond, but Orphan had trained himself to mask his presence completely—a skill few bothered to learn, and even fewer mastered. He was invisible not only to the naked eye but also to Soul Sense.

Yet, he knew there were exceptions.

Firstly, there were those with Observational Souls vastly more powerful than his Illusionary Soul. That was simple logic.

Secondly, Oddities.

When Orphan was younger, he’d known a blind old man named Tevel. Despite his blindness, Tevel had a way of seeing through everything Orphan tried. No illusion, no trick, no amount of stealth could fool the old man. Orphan had spent hours trying to sneak past him, only to trip on some unseen obstacle and scrape his hands on the concrete making him cringe. Tevel would smirk then gaze up at the sky, and say some cryptic bullshit like, "To stay truly hidden is to extinguish your presence." Making Orphan cringe again.

Tevel had taught them more than just cryptic lessons. He’d taught Orphan how to use Illusions to slap someone without being detected, and Quentin how to hide his slap with sheer speed. They’d spent endless afternoons having slap duels after that. Challenging Tevel to one had been a mistake thought...

"I miss that old bastard." Orphan said while softly rubbing his cheek .

The old man had vanished without a trace a few years later. Even Terror’s gang, who feared few, had respected and avoided Tevel. In a strange way, the man had brought stability to Orphan’s chaotic life, a sense of safety that he hadn’t known since.

The days passed in monotony, broken only by the occasional sweep of scouts flying overhead. Orphan remained still as stone, his mind focused and his body attuned to the rhythms of his environment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the distant rumble of engines reached his ears. The sound grew louder, accompanied by the faint shimmer of headlights breaking through the darkness.

"Finally," Orphan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

His muscles tensed as he prepared to move, his grey eyes glinting with determination. The convoy was here.