Chapter 63

  The “snack” turned out to be half a beast he’d hunted days ago—just enough to quiet the screaming hunger his enhanced body had been nursing. The influx of energy settled through him like a slow-burning furnace, and with it came the restless urge to move. He needed to feel this new body, measure it, understand it.

  So he slipped into the royal training grounds.

  He began lightly—a steady jog to test the balance of his stride, then the familiar burst-step sequences Neimar drilled into him. Short, explosive accelerations meant to snap you from one point to another so fast the eye stuttered to track it. Pair it with psionic enhancement, and you might as well have teleported. It was the same technique he’d used against the harlven, where misdirection and footwork were as deadly as any blade.

  Except now, every “light” step struck the stone floor like a hammer.

  The first burst cracked the air, the impact echoing through the grounds. Raime winced, forced himself to adjust, recalibrating strength to intention. Power scaling had always been more of a mental problem than a physical one—and if there was something he excelled at, it was letting his mind dictate terms.

  Within minutes, the stomps tapered into controlled whispers of movement.

  He ran drills. Speed first—short dashes, pivots, sudden directional shifts—then full-body strikes. The training dummies Neimar had provided him was a bulky construct layered with inscriptions to absorb and redistribute force. He tested it anyway: palm strikes, elbows, hooks, knees, heel kicks. Raime’s fighting style blended fluid motion and brutal impacts; Raime cycled through its variations with rising confidence.

  Half an hour passed and still no fatigue.

  That alone felt surreal.

  He exhaled slowly and shifted into something more demanding. Energy flowed into his limbs in thin, controlled currents, wrapping each movement with precision and intent. His techniques sharpened, his control refined. The difference between before and after the enhancement was… staggering. Heaven and earth, truly. Strength, speed, reaction time—everything had more than doubled, and now that his coordination was catching up, the raw power felt intoxicating.

  I could fight the harlven head-on now.

  No psychic tricks, without deception.

  Just strength against strength—and he’d win.

  That thought lingered as he stepped back, split his mind into three streams, and tried something he could have never done before.

  One stream handled his body—footwork, angles, strikes.

  Another expanded outward, scanning the environment in the steady, analytical sweep he always maintained.

  The last, twisted psionic Threads into the right shape to create a Mind Lance. A lesser, restrained variant—he didn’t want to deplete his reserves or push the recovering threads too far—but it still formed in seconds.

  Not his fastest… but forming a skill while moving, while aware of everything around him, while fighting?

  That was new.

  Raime inhaled, burst forward, rotated his entire frame behind a whipping kick that slammed into the dummy. The construct—dense, weighted, magically reinforced—skidded five, maybe six meters and crashed against one of the pillar, a dent caving into its chest.

  The psionic lance fired a heartbeat later, streaking from just over his right shoulder and threading through the exact spot his kick had struck. The impact carved through metal and inscription alike, leaving a fist-sized hole that hissed as the tearing energy dissipated.

  Raime stood still for a moment, breathing harder, watching the last motes fade.

  “Cool,” he muttered.

  “Cool is not exactly what your adversary will think if subjected to this level of destruction.” Neimar’s voice came from behind, forcing him to restrain the impulse to jump back and attack.

  I can’t perceive him at all… damn, I was about to strike, not that it would have done anything, but still.

  “Sorry about the dummy, I was just testing out a couple of things.”

  “Mmm, you managed to ruin a training tool made for a Tier III, it is not a simple feat. Use the one at the end of the room to the left next time, it was made for Royal Guard trainees, you reached that level already, it is impressive.” A hint of amusement could be seen on the old Sovereign.

  “What Tier were your Royal Guards?”

  “Most of them were early Tier IV, but my captain was at the cusp of becoming a Tier V, he was an old friend.”

  “Holy hell, they must have been strong, especially your friend, what about the trainees then? Could I have competed against them?” Raime was curious, the Sovereign wasn’t one for casual conversation most of the time.

  “They were very strong indeed, the requirement for joining was the ability to fight above your Tier, all of the recruits were warriors of great caliber, most of them were mid to peak Tier II. With capabilities similar to the one you possess now.”

  “Are you trying to tell me to not slack off because in the grand scheme of things my strength is not that impressive?”

  “Not at all,” The Sovereign regarded Raime with an inscrutable expression. “Your power is very much impressive, for an unawakened even more so. Alas my intention was to highlight how they reached a similar level of power after years of sacrifices and efforts. You entered the Rift just a month ago.”

  Raime remained silent at the words of his mentor, while he felt pride in his rapid ascension to power, the experiences he lived through were something that left a mark on him, and more than that, he knew that without the help of the Administrator and Neimar he wouldn’t be alive now, his circumstances played a great deal into making him as strong as he was now, and that gnawed at him.

  “If you had the time to grow and receive proper guidance you would have been a champion between my people, unfortunately, there is not much more time for us.”

  “Teacher…” Neimar raised a hand, to stop him, then he approached and put it on Raime shoulder, squeezing lightly.

  “Our roles are still not finished in this story. But know this disciple, while your existance had been a light in the dark for me, for the future of my people… I enjoyed the time we spent together immensily, and while imparting my knowledge to you, I remembered what I was fighting for.”

  Raime was speechless, looking up at the eye of his mentor, he could see on his wizened face, a fondness he never saw before.

  “Follow me.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Neimar turned without another word and strode toward the far archway. Raime followed, trying—and failing—to steady the swirl of emotions burning in his chest. The Sovereign’s sentiment lingered in the air like the fading warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

  Where is all this coming from?

  It wasn’t like Neimar to speak so openly. Not so directly. Not… fondly.

  But the old Sovereign didn’t elaborate, and Raime didn’t ask. They walked through a succession of guarded corridors, past sealed bulkheads and layered enchantments, each one older and more complex than the last. Some hummed faintly with ancient power, others rippled like mirages as they passed through.

  Their passing echoed in the silence.

  Raime’s thoughts kept circling back, trying to parse pieces of meaning from the Sovereign’s earlier words, but each time he reached for clarity, the questions dissolved into more uncertainty.

  Still, he followed.

  Downward. Deeper. Past locked mechanisms of stone and light he couldn’t even begin to understand.

  Eventually they reached the final door.

  It dominated the end of the passage—a colossal slab of midnight-blue metal, smooth as glass yet somehow reflecting no light. Raime could see it, could trace the edges with his eyes, but when he reached out with his mind—

  Nothing.

  It was a hole in his perception. Not a wall—an absence.

  I can touch it. I can see it. But psychically? It’s like the thing isn’t even here.

  A deeply unsettling realization.

  Neimar rested his palm against the door. “Beyond this threshold lies the safest place in all of Ithural,” he said quietly. “And the greatest treasures of my civilization.”

  A heavy click reverberated through the stone as the door shifted. Layers slid aside with slow, weighty finality, revealing a vast chamber beyond.

  Raime’s breath caught.

  The room wasn’t just a vault—it was more like a hangar. The ceiling arched so high he could barely make out its shape, the far walls swallowed by distance.

  And within it stood row upon row of towering sarcophagi.

  Thousands of them.

  Tall. Silent. Perfectly aligned.

  Each crafted from dark stone veined with faint luminescence, each humming with dormant energy that prickled at Raime’s senses—but only faintly, as if behind countless barriers.

  Not alive. Not dead.

  Schr?dinger’s Ithurians, Raime thought before he could stop himself.

  Please, please tell me he didn’t hear that.

  If Neimar did, he gave no sign.

  The Sovereign stepped forward, his expression solemn in a way Raime had never seen. As they walked between the sarcophagi, Neimar brushed his fingers along some of them—light, reverent touches, like greeting sleeping comrades.

  “These,” he said softly, “are my people. Preserved in the moment between life and death. Waiting.”

  The weight of it pressed on Raime’s chest. A world in stasis. A race trapped on the knife’s edge of extinction, held together by a dream and sheer will. One, impossibly strong will.

  They reached the far end of the vault, where piles of treasures lay arranged in organized chaos—ingots of strange metals, racks of weapons, armor sets, artifacts floating lazily in containment fields, shelves of tablets etched in glowing script.

  Neimar bypassed all of them.

  He walked to a recessed alcove set into the back wall. Within it sat three items: a small cube, slightly larger than a Rubik’s cube; a ring; and a simple pendant.

  The Sovereign reached for the pendant first. Unremarkable compared to the other two, yet he held it as if it were the most precious of things, his fingertips lingering on the smooth surface. Without explanation, he placed it around his own neck. For a moment, Raime glimpsed something in his mentor’s expression—sorrow, memory, something ancient and deeply personal.

  Then Neimar picked up the ring.

  It was beautiful in a way that felt almost wrong—silver at first glance, but shifting with inner iridescence, alive with fleeting colors that never cast light on the surroundings. Raime’s mind couldn’t quite track the hues as they danced.

  Neimar flicked his fingers, and the ring shot away like a comet. Raime barely managed to follow it with enhanced sight as it cut through the air in intricate arcs. Wherever it passed, objects vanished—entire racks of materials, armours, artifacts, gone in a blink.

  In less than ten seconds, the ring returned, hovering before Neimar’s hand.

  “A spatial ring,” the Sovereign said. “A rarity beyond measure. My people never mastered spatial artifacts. These two”—he gestured to the ring and the cube—“were taken from an invader who once sought to lay waste on Ithural. They have served me well for many years.”

  He extended the ring toward Raime.

  “Now it is yours. And everything within it.”

  Raime swallowed, throat dry. “Everything…?”

  “Everything,” Neimar repeated.

  Then he lifted the cube.

  Composed of the same iridescent metal, it pulsed once before shooting away in a mirrored sweep. A silent tide followed in its wake as entire sections of the vault vanished—ingots, weapons, relics, materials, artifacts, all drawn into the cube as though they had never existed.

  Only two things remained when it slowed to a stop:

  The thousands of sarcophagi.

  And a single orb—black as void, floating serenely in the back of the room.

  The orb drifted to Neimar’s hand, disappearing into a fold of his robe without a word.

  Then the cube turned toward the sarcophagi.

  Raime’s breath tightened as, one by one, the towering coffins dissolved into motes of light and streamed into the artifact. Thousands upon thousands of Ithurians, stored with painstaking care, pulled into a strange, impossible container held by a single being.

  Finally, when the last coffin vanished, Neimar lowered the cube, wove a delicate enchantment across its surface, and placed it gently into Raime’s hands.

  The vault—once overflowing with history, might, and the dormant weight of an entire civilization—was now an expanse of emptiness.

  Only the two of them remained.

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Heavy with meaning, history, and all the unspoken things Raime didn’t quite know how to name.

  Neimar turned to him, the vast, hollow vault casting long shadows across the Sovereign’s features. For once, his expression wasn’t stern or measured. It was… open. Unarmoured.

  “Raime,” he began, voice quieter than Raime had ever heard it. “Despite the situation we now face… despite the very real possibility that I will not survive what is to come…” He paused, the words gathering weight. “I find myself grateful.”

  Raime blinked, caught off guard. “Grateful?”

  “That of all the beings who could have fallen into the Rift,” Neimar said, “you were the one who came here.”

  Raime’s throat tightened.

  The Sovereign continued, moving closer until they were only a breath apart. “When I first named you my disciple, it was out of necessity. A calculation. A final, desperate attempt to give my people a sliver of a future by guiding you outside of the Rift.” His gaze softened. “But in a handful of weeks, you proved yourself far beyond any expectation.”

  Raime looked down, uncertain how to hold the praise. I don’t deserve this, he wanted to say, but something in Neimar’s presence stopped him.

  “I am proud of you,” Neimar said simply. “Proud of your dedication. Your effort. Your achievements. Proud of the integrity you have shown despite finding yourself in a place few minds—of any age—could withstand.” He lifted a hand, resting it gently on Raime’s shoulder. “You are young by my standards, yet your will is tempered like an elder’s.”

  The words hit harder than any strike.

  A warmth built in Raime’s chest—painful, surprising, grounding.

  “I couldn’t have asked for a better disciple.”

  Raime swallowed hard. His voice came out rough. “Teacher… I— I don’t know if I can live up to all of that.”

  “You already have,” Neimar said. “And you will continue to.”

  Raime forced a shaky breath, meeting his mentor’s eye. “I won’t give up. I swear it. I’ll make that core… whatever it takes. And I’ll do it fast enough to matter. I won’t let you down.”

  A smile curved the Sovereign’s lips—rare, quiet, deeply genuine.

  “I know,” he said. “Because even in the darkest moments, a single spark of defiance can grow into a bonfire bright enough to guide you in the night. And you, Raime… have never lacked for fire.”

  Emotion twisted in Raime’s chest—not fear, not anxiety, but something almost buoyant. Strength drawn from someone else’s unshakable faith.

  For a moment they stood there, mentor and disciple, the empty vault around them feeling less like a finality and more like a possibility.

  Then Neimar straightened, the familiar aura of stoic regality settling over him once more—though now, Raime could see the fondness beneath it like a steady glow.

  “That will be enough sentiment for one day,” the Sovereign said, voice returning to its usual controlled timbre. “Go. Continue your training. You have still much to do.”

  Raime managed a smile—small, lopsided, but real. “Yes, Teacher.”

  He turned and began the ascent back through the silent corridors. His steps were lighter, his heartbeat steadier, the coil of anxiety from the new quest loosened by Neimar’s confidence.

  Alright, he thought, a quiet spark igniting inside him. Let’s get to work.

  And with renewed resolve, Raime headed toward his meditation chamber—ready to prepare his soul for his first ascension.