The afternoon sun was relentless over the dusty trade road, casting long, wavering heat mirages across the horizon. At the gates of the border village, a handful of grizzled guards and weary travelers leaned against the stone palisade, squinting into the distance.

  "What in the hell is that?" one of the guards muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Down the road, a strange, rhythmic thumping sound echoed. Two figures were approaching, but they weren't walking upright. They moved in a synchronized, agonizingly slow crouch—a grotesque, low-to-the-ground waddle that looked like two oversized frogs struggling through mud. Behind them, a heavy wooden cart groaned and lurched, its axle shrieking as it was dragged along without a horse in sight.

  "Are they... duck-walking?" a merchant asked, his jaw dropping. "And pulling a carriage?"

  As the figures drew closer, the absurdity only intensified. Leading the way was a small boy, his face a mask of calm, focused intensity. His knees were bent so deep they nearly brushed the dirt, yet he moved with a terrifying, mechanical precision. Beside him, a grown man in a tattered butler’s suit looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. His face was a dark, bruised purple, and his breath came in ragged, whistling gasps that could be heard from fifty yards away.

  "Lower, Sebas," the boy’s voice rang out, cold and clear as a bell. "If your chest gets closer to the floor and you start crawl again, I’ll double the weight."

  The butler let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl, and dropped an inch lower, his hamstrings trembling so violently they were visible through his trousers.

  The villagers watched in stunned silence as the duo reached the outskirts of the town. Just before they hit the main gate, the boy stood up with a casual, effortless grace that defied physics. He signaled to the horse, which had been trailing behind them on a loose lead like a pampered pet, and began to hitch it back to the cart.

  Lucien took a deep breath, his lungs feeling light. Internally, he was laughing. Throughout the entire five-mile stretch, he had been using Equilibrium to tilt the scales. He had lightened his own portion of the rope while amplifying the gravitational pull on Sebas’s heels, making every step the man took feel like he was wading through sand.

  It can't be helped, Lucien thought, checking his small, unblemished hands. In a world where the strong eat the weak, only a fool plays by the rules.

  They rolled through the gate, the villagers standing their parting and giving them space. The guards didn't even ask for papers; they were too busy staring at the butler, who was currently leaning against the cart and dry-heaving into the dust.

  "Where’s your horse, mister?" a villager asked, squinting at the sweat-drenched Sebas.

  Sebas opened his mouth, but only a dry wheeze came out. Lucien stepped in with a smooth, practiced lie. "The poor horses got sick a few miles back, so we let them go to rest."

  In reality, those horses had been unhitched since the first hour of their journey. Lucien hadn't wanted to waste a single second of the two-month trek. To him, the cart wasn't a vehicle; it was a mobile weight-training room. The "horses" of the D’Roselle house had been a twelve-year-old boy and a very miserable butler, tethered to the axle by coarse hemp ropes.

  Lucien walked toward a local general store, his boots clicking sharply on the cobblestones. "A barrel of water," he commanded, tossing a coin onto the counter.

  The clerk looked at the massive wooden barrel and then at Sebas, who looked like a man ready to collapse into a puddle. "Do you need help with that, lad? Your man there looks... well, useless."

  Lucien didn't answer. He simply reached down, gripped the iron hoops of the barrel, and lifted it. He carried the heavy load back to the cart like it was a bag of feathers, leaving the clerk and a dozen bystanders staring in stunned silence. He plopped the barrel down and popped the lid.

  Sebas didn't wait. He dunked his head straight into the lukewarm water, practically inhaling it to quench the fire in his lungs. Lucien watched him, his expression one of mild pity.

  "Sebas, find us an inn," Lucien said, his eyes drifting toward a group of scarred mercenaries lingering by the village well. "I’m going to see if this village has anyone worth testing your new 'footwork' on."

  Sebas pulled his head out of the barrel, water dripping from his chin. "Please, Young Master... can we not kill anyone before dinner?"

  "We can," Lucien replied, a sharp, predatory grin stretching across his face. "But only if they aren't looking to kill us first."

  After negotiating a room for three silver—a price Lucien found offensive, but paid for the sake of privacy—they retreated to the upstairs quarters. Sebas dragged the luggage in, his muscles twitching with exhaustion, and slumped against the wall.

  "I did some research, sir," Sebas panted, trying to regain his professional composure. "The Academy entrance process is rigorous. There is the Written Exam, the Combat Evaluation, and the Soul Response Test. You must pass all three."

  Sebas had no doubt about the latter two. Lucien’s combat prowess was already monstrous, and his Soul Response—having reached the 6th Vein, the Vein of Resonance, in his previous life—would likely shatter their testing equipment.

  "But what about the written exam?" Sebas asked, worried. "The history of the Empire, magical theory, political science... these are complex subjects for a twelve-year-old."

  "Don't worry about the written exam," Lucien said, reading the butler’s mind before he could even finish the thought. "I’ll pass with flying colors."

  "How?"

  "Because," Lucien whispered, looking out the window at the mercenaries below, "I am a cheater at heart."

  "What does that mean, Young Master?" Sebas asked, confused.

  Lucien didn't offer a response to Sebas’s concern. His mind was already three steps ahead. Dealing with the immediate problem was secondary; what truly occupied him was Elaine. She would be at the Academy alongside Ray Melborne, and Lucien needed to catch her eye. Acing the entrance exam wasn't just a goal—it was the bait. Fortunately, he had a secret weapon waiting in that exam room. Passing wouldn't just be likely; it would be guaranteed.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  His stomach gave an impatient grumble, pulling him back to the physical world. He felt the hollow ache of hunger gnawing at him.

  "Sebas, let’s have a meal," Lucien said, sliding off the chair.

  "Yes, young master," Sebas replied, his voice heavy with a bone-deep weariness.

  They made their way downstairs to the tavern’s common room, the air thick with the smell of grease and cheap ale. They both ordered the beef roast. As the plates hit the table, Lucien reached for that internal lever, tilting the scales of his budding ability. He had practiced. He had refined the trade-off. By sacrificing his sight entirely, he could push his hearing into the realm of the superhuman. He no longer needed to sacrifice all of his senses. He chose sight because he wants to enjoy his roast.

  The world went black, but the tavern exploded into a map of vibrations. He could hear the sizzle of fat in the kitchen and the frantic scratching of a quill upstairs. He sat there, staring into the void, and began to eat his roast.

  One conversation at a nearby table cut through the din.

  "The war is finally going well for Melborne," a patron murmured.

  "How do you know?" another asked.

  "I was there for the battle of the Oros Walls," the man whispered, his voice shaking with a mix of terror and awe. "The Smiling Blade... that rookie he took out General Kaelen by surprise. Held that massive corpse over his head like a trophy and hurled it at the city commander. Laughed right in his face—told him it was time to switch owners. Then he jumped straight into the city and held the line long enough for Melborne’s forces to occupy it."

  A heavy sigh followed. "It's only a matter of time before they target the capital."

  Lucien’s lips curled into a sharp, knowing smile. The Smiling Blade was moving just as he remembered.

  "Sir, is that…" Sebas began, noticing the warm expression on the boy’s unseeing face.

  But before he could finish the thought, the heavy, stumbling rhythm of three sets of boots approached. Three drunk guards, their breath reeking of fermented grain, loomed over the table.

  "Hey! No horses on the table!" one of them barked, letting out a wheezing laugh as he gestured to them—a mocking reference to the pair pulling a cart into the village earlier.

  Lucien didn't blink. He didn't even stop chewing. He simply ignored them.

  The silence from the table acted like a spark in a hayloft. The guards’ laughter died instantly, replaced by the sharp, jagged breathing of men whose pride was as fragile as their sobriety.

  "Damn you! Are you deaf?" the lead soldier roared, his spit landing on the table.

  "No," Lucien replied calmly, his fork perfectly finding another piece of beef despite his closed lids. "I am currently blind." And he was. He could not see anything at the moment. He can, however, hear them just fine.

  The soldier’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. To him, this wasn't just a child’s cheek; it was a challenge to his authority in front of the whole tavern. He reached out a meaty hand to grab Lucien’s collar, but his wrist was caught mid-air.

  Sebas stood up. His movements were no longer the frantic, wasted motions of the man who had fought the bald assassin. They were heavy, grounded, and terrifyingly efficient.

  The other two guards surged to their feet, the scrape of their chairs echoing like a declaration of war. "Do you know who you're messing with?" the leader snarled, trying—and failing—to wrench his hand from Sebas's iron grip.

  "No," Lucien said, his voice flat. "Do you know who you are messing with?"

  "No!" the soldier sneered, his other hand going for the sword at his hip.

  "Good. Sebas... it’s time to show off your training. Don't make a mess."

  The lead soldier reached for his hilt, but the movement was sluggish, telegraphed by a shoulder that dipped too low. Sebas didn't even stand up fully; he simply flowed forward from his seat.

  With a sharp crack, Sebas’s palm struck the soldier's wrist, numbing the nerves and causing the sword to clatter uselessly to the floor. Before the other two could process the sound, Sebas swept the legs of the second guard and drove an elbow into the solar plexus of the third. It was a symphony of precision—three men disarmed and doubled over in the span of a single breath.

  Sebas didn't give them time to recover. He grabbed the leader by the scruff of his neck and the belt of his trousers, using the man as a battering ram to push the other two toward the exit. With a final, explosive shove from his reinforced legs, he launched all three of them through the swinging doors and into the muddy street.

  "Stay out," Sebas said, his voice as cold as the night air.

  The rejection snapped the soldiers out of their shock. Humiliated and furious, they scrambled to their feet in the dirt.

  "You're dead! You hear me? Dead!" the leader screamed.

  Simultaneously, the three men tapped into their energy. The air around them began to distort as their sigils flared to life on their forearms and chests.

  Flame licked at the fingers of the leader, while the earth beneath the second guard's boots began to crack and rise. The third manifested a swirling vortex of wind around his blade. The power was crude, but the sheer volume of energy from three grown men was enough to make the inn's windows rattle.

  Inside, Lucien didn't even look toward the door. He was busy carefully cutting a perfect square of beef. "Sebas. They're making a mess of the scenery. End it before they wake the neighbors."

  Sebas stepped out onto the porch. He didn't manifest a flashy elemental sigil. Instead, a soft, translucent blue glow hummed beneath his skin—the mark of the Third Vein of Insight.

  The soldiers lunged. The fire-user threw a gout of flame, but Sebas was already gone. He didn't retreat; he moved through the attack. To the onlookers, it looked like the fire simply refused to touch him. In reality, Sebas’s Insight allowed him to see the "path" of the energy before it even left the guard's hand.

  He appeared in the center of their formation. A single, sweeping kick—powered by two months of pulling a heavy carriage—caught the earth-user in the ribs, sending the man tumbling like a broken doll. In the same motion, Sebas caught the wind-user’s wrist and twisted, using the man’s own momentum to slam his face into the dirt.

  The leader, left alone with his flickering flames, froze. Sebas simply stared at him. The pressure of Sebas's energy, focused and refined by Lucien’s brutal training, felt like a physical weight pressing on the guard's chest. The fire on his hands sputtered and died.

  "The Young Master is eating," Sebas whispered. "If you make one more sound, I will ensure you never speak again."

  The soldier turned and bolted into the darkness, leaving his two unconscious comrades in the mud. Sebas straightened his waistcoat, brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder, and walked back inside.

  "They have been... removed, Young Master," Sebas reported, returning to his seat.

  "Mmmmm," Lucien groaned, leaning back as he savored the final, succulent morsel of his roast. He swallowed slowly, the warmth of the meal settling in his stomach before he looked up at Sebas with eyes that were far too sharp for a twelve-year-old.

  "In the future, aim for their balance," Lucien advised, his voice dropping to a low, instructional hum. "If you stop them from centering themselves, you don't need strength to win. You can control the entire fight while they're stumbling around like toddlers. Your Insight is sharp, Sebas, I’ll give you that—but your follow-through is still sluggish. You’re thinking too much about the move instead of just being the move."

  "Yes, Young Master," Sebas replied. A rare, genuine touch of pride flickered across his face. He looked down at his calloused hands, feeling the steady thrum of the Third Vein of Insight beneath his skin. Even he had to admit that the grueling two months of pulling the cart and the constant skirmishes on the road had forged him into something far sharper than the butler who had left the D'Roselle estate.

  "Eat your dinner," Lucien commanded, gesturing to the remaining food. "We have the Empire's Wall to cross tomorrow. I want you at full strength."

  "I will, sir," Sebas said, attacking his plate with renewed vigor.

  After finishing the meal in a comfortable, companionable silence, Lucien stood up and stretched. The weight of the world's future seemed to rest lightly on his small shoulders for once. "Let’s sleep for today. I have a test tomorrow."

  "A wise choice, Young Master," Sebas said merrily. He followed Lucien up the creaking wooden stairs to their room, his step light and confident.