The Queen's voice echoed through the obsidian-paneled war chamber like a blade drawn too fast.
"You used state surveillance grids to track a boy who stares at trees, Boris?"
Commander Boris stood stiff, posture military-tight, but a faint tick pulsed at the edge of his jaw.
"He's a coreless anomaly who survived rejection with no aftershock," he said carefully. "He jogs through detection grids. Evades spiritual scans. A child shouldn't—"
The Queen stepped down from the dais, robes whispering against the polished floor.
"He jogs," she said icily. "He runs around back alleys and stares at trees. He squints at walls like they're whispering. Perhaps—just perhaps—he's lost his mind."
Boris clenched his fists behind his back. He knew better than to argue now.
"He's harmless, Commander. A cracked boy with broken dreams. Don't mistake madness for magic."
She turned away.
"You have one moon's cycle. No more shadows. No more instincts. Give me a good lead—or hand this mess to Myrren."
Her footsteps vanished like storm winds down polished stone.
Boris remained in the silence.
And yet, a whisper in his gut still crawled: He's not just a boy.
That night, Logan sat at the edge of his bed, sore from the forge and cloaked in the silence of a sleeping home. He opened the Protocol.
The interface shimmered to life.
[Status – Updated]
Name: Logan Von
Condition: Stable
Aspect Core: Void Master
Aspect Abilities:
– Voidline Sensitivity (Unlocked)
– Spatial Instinct I (Unlocked)
– Nullification (Locked)
– Dimensional Folding (Locked)
– Untethered Movement (Locked)
– Anchor Displacement (Locked)
Aspect Level: 1 (Void Initiate)
Aspect Points: 20 / 100
Spatial Awareness: 16
Fate Link: Severed
He exhaled, then checked the mission log.
[Active Mission – Spatial Resonance]
Progress: 10%
Time Remaining for Bonus Reward: 1 day, 7 hours, 13 minutes
Subtask – [Daily Jog]: ❌
Logan frowned.
His father had worked him straight through until sundown. No jog. No time.
But the bonus window wasn't closed—yet.
He stood, pulled on a hooded coat and a scarf, and tied it tightly around his mouth. Slipped out the window like a practiced shadow.
The streets of Sector Twelve were empty, lanterns guttering. He stepped onto the cobblestones and ran.
Soft. Quick. Purposeful.
Around the block. Again. Again. Again.
His lungs burned. His legs howled. But with each stride, the world felt a little more aligned—like space was giving way just enough.
When he returned, he climbed the drainpipe and hauled himself back through the window, heart hammering.
He left it open.
The night wind burst in, wild and bitter.
He leaned into it—and remembered.
That moment in the park. The pull.
This... this wind pushed.
The force of movement, unbroken and loud. It struck him, and something clicked.
That's it. That's what they meant.
[Mission Progress Updated – Insight Registered]
Conceptual Milestone: Push-Pull Contrast
Progress: 20%
He didn't get the bonus.
But for the first time, he didn't care.
This wasn't about reward.
It was about recognition.
Far away, in the marble towers of the Emerald Wing, Tessa stared at her dorm ceiling.
She should have been asleep—first integration spar tomorrow.
But her mind hovered elsewhere.
Logan.
That awkward smile. That quiet strength. That refusal to break when everything else had.
"I hope you haven't given up," she whispered to the dark.
But somehow, she knew he hadn't.
The forge was hot the next morning, but the tension in the air was cooler than usual.
Logan worked the bellows. Harold hammered. Neither spoke much.
Until the bell rang.
A hunter stepped in—weatherworn, broad-shouldered, one arm sleeved in leather bands of beast hide.
"Need a blade," he said. "Fast. Lean. Mutant toads near the river caves. Hides are changing. Don't know why."
Harold glanced toward the wrapped cloth on the workbench.
He hesitated.
Then unwrapped the Hollowsteel blade.
"This is... experimental," he said.
The hunter raised a brow. "Meaning?"
"No enchantment. No glyphs. It doesn't cut through—it bypasses."
The man stepped forward, tested the weight.
Then walked to the forge's practice block—layered beastleather thickened by weeks of commissions.
One strike.
No sound.
The leather parted as if it had been waiting to split.
The hunter stared.
"How much?"
Harold didn't hesitate. "Eighty."
The man laughed. "Double the price?"
Harold nodded. "Because it's not just a blade."
Another pause. Then a pouch hit the table.
"You let me know when you've got more."
Logan watched him leave through the front gate.
Something about the way the blade rested at his hip made Logan feel like he'd just carved the future—not with power.
But with precision.
That night, a knock came at Commander Boris's chamber.
"Enter."
An officer stepped through, expression unreadable. "Minor update. Sector Twelve's grid flagged an anomaly. Early morning, past midnight."
Boris didn't move. "Von?"
"Yes, sir. Ran the block. Covered his face. Entered through a second-floor window. Same route. Same pressure drops. No mana."
Boris let out a long, slow breath.
"The Queen will hang me if I push this again."
The officer waited. "Shut down the grid?"
Boris looked out the window.
The stars were bright tonight. Watching.
"No," he said. "Keep it running. No sigils. Hand logs only. Quiet."
"And if nothing happens again?"
"Then he's just a boy."
He turned, eyes hard.
"But if he's not… we'll be the only ones who saw it before it changed the world."