The night, though now devoid of roars, remained tense. The smell of upturned earth and dissipated energy lingered in the air. Silas sat in the dark interior of the carriage, rubbing a hand that still tingled faintly. He knew the itch was a sign. A sign for Andros. A sign for the Kingdom. A sign that the journey had barely begun, yet it had already revealed something neither the world nor perhaps he himself was prepared to understand.

  Outside, the conversation between Ronny and Andros dipped into murmurs, initially inaudible to Silas. They moved slightly away from the carriage, two dark silhouettes against the pale moonlight. Silas strained his ears, forcing a sharpness he didn't know he possessed. Finally, key phrases pierced the hum, resonating with unsettling clarity: —...Ether after the baptism... ninety percent... the system... what will they do to him... force him... or something worse...

  A chill ran down Silas’s spine. He grasped the danger of being an "anomaly" in a kingdom that valued order above all else.

  The two Legionaries returned. Ronny sat against a tree, checking his greaves. Andros approached the carriage, his face serious, though the intensity in his eyes remained.

  —Listen, kid —Andros said, his voice lower now—. What happened here tonight... what you did with your hand... is unusual. Very unusual. It is crucial you keep this a secret. Understood? Don't tell anyone at the academy. No one. Just... forget it for now.

  Silas nodded slowly, though he knew forgetting would be impossible. The implications of Andros’s words echoed those he had heard in his dream. Being different was dangerous.

  Andros sat on the ground near the carriage. The gleam of his red armor seemed duller in the firelight. A long silence stretched. Andros stared into the flickering flames, seeming to weigh something.

  —You know —he said suddenly, breaking the quiet, his voice taking on a storytelling tone—. You remind me of someone. Of an old friend.

  —There were three of them —Andros began—. Childhood friends in the city. They grew up together in the same neighborhoods. There was the big, burly one. —Ronny, sitting across the fire, nodded slightly—. Always the biggest and strongest, even as kids. Then there was the timid one. The one who always had to be encouraged not to fall behind. And then there was the leader. Even back then. He had a natural talent for fighting, an innate skill... Despite how strong the burly one was, the leader always beat him in practice duels.

  Andros paused, watching the dancing shadows.

  —They had many adventures as kids. The leader dreamed of being a great Legionary. He said the three of them would go to the academy together, be the best. The burly one, of course, was always ready to follow the leader. The timid one... he just wanted a quiet life. He would have settled for being a passive user, far from trouble.

  —The day of the Baptism arrived for the group of friends —Andros continued, his voice dropping lower—. There was a huge commotion in the church. One boy... the machine... registered an incredible percentage. Seventy percent body efficiency for channeling Ether. An extraordinary level of potential, rarely recorded, even among elite Legionaries.

  Silas listened, his heart pounding. Seventy percent... unheard of. More than ninety? The story sounded familiar. Silas formed a conclusion in his mind based on the initial descriptions and who was telling the story with such an aura of power and command.

  —I... I understand —Silas interrupted, leaning forward—. The burly kid... was Ronny, right? And you, the leader... you're the one here with me, the one who won the fights, the one who got the seventy percent?

  His own question sounded confused. Andros let out a short, joyless laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

  —No —he said, looking directly at Silas—. You're wrong, kid. Or rather, you're wrong about the most important part.

  He leaned closer to the fire, the flames reflecting off the red metal of his armor. The pause stretched for a moment, building suspense.

  —It's true... the burly kid was Ronny —Andros finally said. Ronny nodded again from across the fire—. The machine classified him as a Legionary. A strong Legionary... somewhat above average.

  —And the leader... —Andros's voice cracked slightly—. The innate fighter. The one who dreamed of being a Legionary... The machine classified him as a Scholar. His name was Albert.

  The revelation landed in silence. Albert, the leader, a Scholar? The irony was palpable.

  —And I —Andros continued with a darker undertone—. I was the somewhat timid kid who wanted a quiet life. The one who only wished to be a passive user. I was the one branded as that 'super Legionary.' The one who got the seventy percent Ether channeling. —He looked at Silas—. You remind me of Albert, the leader.

  —Sometimes, fate has strange ways, doesn't it? It gives what one wants... to another who didn't ask for it.

  —I was subjected to a lot of... physical demands —Andros went on, his tone hardening—. At an early age. Training, tests... It wasn't pleasant. They force you to become what the number says you are.

  —Albert... Albert never showed sadness about being a Scholar, at least not in front of us —Ronny interrupted, his voice grave from the fire—. But you could tell he wasn't taking it well. They didn't give him the chance to enter the Legionary school, despite everything he was.

  Andros nodded. —Yes. So... he focused his efforts elsewhere. On using his Scholar mind. On us. Albert was brilliant. A true Scholar. Even though he couldn't fight as he dreamed, he used his knowledge. He gave us gifts.

  Ronny spoke again. —He gave me a potion. Some weird thing he made. He explained that according to his calculations, it would make my body create more resistance cells if I trained. I didn't understand much. But I trusted him. —Ronny patted his bicep—. It worked. Now my defense is almost as strong as my attack.

  Andros looked down at the hilt of his sword. —And to me —he said, his voice softer now—. He gave me this sword with instructions. He said I should look like I was destined to use it because it was the perfect weapon for someone with my... peculiarity. —He brushed his thumb over the pommel—. He created it with a level of complexity that anyone would think is a legendary weapon from an ancient civilization... plus, he made sure only I could use it. If anyone else tried... it would be... unpleasant for them.

  Andros looked at the sword again. —Albert named this sword... Damocles. —He explained the name briefly, the reference to the sword hanging over the throne, symbolizing the danger and responsibility of power—. He said it was a fitting name for a weapon only I could wield, and one as powerful as it was dangerous.

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  Silence fell again. The story seemed... incomplete. Ronny and Andros had their gifts. Albert was a Scholar. And then what? Silas's curiosity about the fate of the Scholar leader grew.

  —And what happened to Albert? —Silas asked, voicing the unspoken question—. Do you not see each other anymore?

  Andros stared into the flames again. The sadness in his eyes deepened into a heavy shadow. When he answered, his voice was barely a whisper, distant.

  —Albert... went away. —He took a deep breath, and Silas noticed a subtle tremor in his gloved hands—. He left a long time ago. To a very distant village. He said... he didn't want to be a burden to his parents. That there, far from the city and everything, he could live without... without being a problem.

  As he said this, Andros looked away. In his face, despite the simple explanation, Silas sensed something didn't add up. An immense grief, a pain that the story of moving to a distant village couldn't explain. It was the same shadow of deep sorrow he had seen in Sister Lucia's eyes when speaking of Albert's fate, the same one he felt in his dream resonating with the words: I didn't want to be a burden...

  Silas looked at Andros, at the palpable pain in his posture, at Ronny sitting in silence with a somber face. He understood that the story they had just told, of fate's irony and final gifts, had a much darker epilogue, an ending Andros couldn't speak aloud. With his intuition, Silas felt there were some truths that shouldn't be revealed. The night in the forest was no longer just darkness and danger. It was also a web of destinies intertwined by irony, tragedy, and the subtle hand of knowledge—a knowledge reaching Silas in the most unexpected ways.

  The next day, the morning sun barely filtered through the trees lining the road, casting long shadows that danced with the carriage's movement. After a few hours of travel, the overwhelming sensation of having lived an adult life began to fade for Silas. His skin itched slightly under his clothes, a constant reminder of the energy moving beneath it, but the heaviness of the memories receded, making way for the familiarity of being, once again, a twelve-year-old boy.

  Andros, beside him, maintained a thoughtful expression. He knew the Legion's high command wouldn't take lightly the report of a child with over ninety percent Ether efficiency. He remembered well the brutal training and pressure he himself had been subjected to after his own anomalous result. It wouldn't be easy for Silas. He decided that, at the very least, he could prepare him a little. Teach him the basics, the essentials to survive the rigors of the academy and, perhaps, the inevitable bullies who would want to try their luck against the "Sword Saint kid."

  They stopped in a clearing, a haven of peace where the fresh air and birdsong contrasted with the seriousness of the lesson about to begin.

  —Alright, kid —Andros said, removing his armor to stand in light clothing and leather gloves. His arms, surprisingly defined under the fabric, showed scars—a silent testament to his own path.

  Silas watched, sensing the training wouldn't be a walk in the park. Andros adopted a firm stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.

  —First, I need to explain a few things. The efficiency percentage the machine gave you is a potential ceiling. It’s how far you could go if you train, and only in very exceptional cases can that limit be broken slightly. Having ninety percent doesn't mean someone with ten percent can't beat you to a pulp right now. Don't get cocky.

  —But if I trained, in theory, I could be stronger than you? —Silas asked, a spark of childish mockery in his eyes as he struck an exaggerated 'great knight' pose.

  Ronny, watching nearby, let out a loud guffaw, more at the mental image of Silas trying to take down Andros than the comment itself. Andros frowned slightly; he wasn't used to jokes, save for Ronny's.

  —First, pay attention to what I'm going to teach —Andros replied in a tone that brooked no argument—. Second, don't be arrogant. And third —his voice lowered a bit, tinged with wounded pride—, no one... absolutely no one is stronger than Andros.

  —Forget any fantasy of acrobatic moves for now —he continued, returning to seriousness—. Legionary style, at least the basic one, is about efficiency and control. And a few tricks Albert taught me about using your own weight and the opponent's against them.

  The following days passed in a steady rhythm: they trained early, traveled until dusk, and camped. Andros taught Silas a couple of simple defensive and offensive stances, emphasizing the importance of maintaining balance and protecting vital points. Then, he moved on to showing some basic takedown techniques—simple but effective moves to destabilize and control a larger opponent.

  —You won't always be the strongest —Andros explained while demonstrating how to pivot and use the other's force against themselves—. But leverage and momentum are your friends.

  Silas practiced with enthusiasm, though he sometimes tripped over his own feet. After attempting a takedown that ended with him on the ground, he got up dusting himself off and asked with the curiosity typical of his age:

  —Andros, isn't there some super-secret training method? Something only Legion veterans know? Any mystical ritual or forbidden exercise?

  Andros let out a soft laugh. —Kid, the truth is the 'secret' is mastering the basics until they become instinct. There are no magic shortcuts. Discipline in the fundamentals is what keeps you alive when things get tough.

  While Silas continued practicing the stances, Andros took the opportunity to tell him a bit more about the Legion.

  —The Legion is divided by specialties: pure strength, speed, and resistance. There are also mixed users, like Ronny and me, who have an affinity for more than one. Being pure or mixed doesn't indicate how strong you are, but the function you might be assigned. —He explained that armor color also indicated something about the specialty—: Blue for defense, red for attack, and yellow... hmm, though I doubt anyone is foolish enough to use yellow.

  Silas asked why. Andros, without elaborating, replied: —Yellows are the fastest and usually perform espionage work. Wearing yellow would be like saying 'Hi, I'm a spy.'

  —Inside the Kingdom —Andros continued—, only high-ranking Legionaries can display their armor color. It's a way to show status, to say 'I am an important person.' But that's a rule only within our borders. —He shrugged slightly—. When we leave the Kingdom, armors are camouflaged. Neutral colors, no flashy insignias. You don't want the enemy to know exactly what kind of fighter they're facing just by looking at you. It's a matter of tactical surprise. I, honestly, only use it for these kinds of errands. It saves a lot of time on explanations. Usually, I don't like attracting attention; I do it more so I don't get bothered.

  As they spoke, Ronny, who had been stretching a bit further away, approached with a mischievous grin.

  —Hey, kid! Wanna see how steel biceps are built?

  Without waiting for an answer, Ronny began performing a series of strange and exaggerated exercises, making comical noises with each rep and pulling strained faces. Silas watched him, initially confused, then an uncontrollable laughter bubbled up from him. Silas's laughter was contagious, and even Andros had to suppress a smile. It was a good reminder that, despite the seriousness of the training, they were still young men on a journey.

  —The academy isn't just training and rules —Andros continued once Silas's laughter subsided—. It has its good parts. You meet people from everywhere, learn things they wouldn't teach you anywhere else. There's camaraderie, and discipline forges you. It's tough, yes, but it prepares you for what's out there. —Andros gave Silas a pat on the shoulder—. What's important now is that you focus on the basics. Strength comes from technique, and technique is perfected with repetition. And don't worry, in the academy, there will be time for Ronny to teach you all his 'secret methods' for biceps.

  As they neared the city, Andros and Ronny decided to travel by night to gain time. Not without making a brief stop for one final lesson. That night, Andros called Silas. He called him by his name, not "kid," "boy," or "brat," which indicated an unusual seriousness.

  —Silas, pay attention —Andros said, his voice grave—. Everyone knows Ether is managed in the body and can be transferred to objects in direct contact, like our armor and weapons. But that is not all that can be done with Ether.

  Finishing those words, Andros looked Silas in the eye for an instant. Silas felt his body tighten, as if the air had been sucked out of him, and a sensation of terror gripped him, as if he were about to die. The feeling vanished as quickly as it came. Silas, with a stunned face, looked at Andros.

  Andros told him seriously: —This is something I hope you can handle later on... But as long as you don't master the basics, if you feel that against any opponent... run.

  Silas nodded, the gravity of the warning etched into his mind.

  Back in the carriage, Andros and Silas took turns driving the horses. Ronny, his voice tinged with sadness for the boy, spoke to Andros: —Was it necessary for you to do that?

  Andros replied, feeling a scar on his chest ache: —Probably not, but I hope the lesson can keep him safe while he grows.

  That night, Silas fell asleep in the carriage, unaware that his body would remember having lived that sensation before, and the memories it would bring with it.