Chapter 37
The Eleven
'The Marked Eleven'
* Over the decades, the academies of the Human Alliance have maintained a silent system: in every tri-generation—a cycle of three complete student cohorts—eleven individuals would be singled out by a destiny that neither sages nor strategists could fully decipher.
These eleven are known as The Marked.
Each academy has its own Marked Eleven. They are not chosen by decree or favoritism, but by the recognition of a potential that defies all conventional metrics. On the surface, they are students like any other—children and youths between the ages of eight and eighteen—but their performance, their perception of power, and the way they react to the unknown set them apart from the crowd.
The identification process begins long before they themselves understand what is happening.
The senior instructors, discreetly called 'observers', watch the generations in silence, noting every unusual gesture: an instinctive reaction to a latent energy, a premature mastery of advanced techniques, or the ability to resist mental or physical influences that would break a trained adult.
When a student exhibits more than one of these signs, their name is inscribed in a Candidate Registry.
At fifteen, most of the Marked face the decision that defines their destiny. That is the limit of their stay within the academies: the age when the 'promises' cease to be students and become disciples.
The institution, aware of the risks of retaining so much potential and talent in closed spaces, releases them so the world can absorb them, guided—at least in theory—by teachers or external figures who can guide their potential to new levels.
It is said that, at that age, the Marked's body and spirit have reached the precise point between maturity and malleability. Keeping them longer in the academic structure would only provoke conflicts: rivalries, ruptures, or the premature death of a brilliant talent.
Once outside, the paths diverge. Some Marked seek out legendary masters, veterans of ancient wars, or scholars who study the limits of power.
Others venture into the world without guidance, drawn by the promise of freedom or the need to test the limits of their strength. These are the ones who most quickly gain fame or infamy: they become adventurers, mercenaries, explorers of ancient ruins, or soldiers in campaigns where the Alliance extends its dominion.
The term "promise" ceased to be an academic description and became a social category. In many regions, when someone says, "he is a promise," they are not referring to just any young talent, but to a Marked One who has left the classrooms to test their gift in the raw reality of the world.
Some do not survive their first year outside the walls. Others return decades later, unrecognizable, having become legends or threats. The academies do not reclaim them; the Alliance does not control them.
They are free entities, fragments of scattered power, seeds of change planted without direction, but whose growth is expected to alter the course of history. *
***
Outside the academy gates, people were leaving with their parents and children.
Some chatted excitedly about how impressive the teachers' uniforms with the colored stripes looked; others continued commenting on the presence that Allion exuded.
There were those who still jokingly imitated him, hitting their chests with a closed fist, while others simply walked in silence, overwhelmed by the feeling of having witnessed something greater than themselves.
The murmur of the crowd mixed with the sound of footsteps on stone and the laughter of children, who were running again after having stayed still for so long.
The air, which inside the grounds had seemed solemn and heavy, now breathed differently: more alive, more human.
Near the main gate, Sil adjusted Kaep's coat to protect him from the wind.
The child kept looking back again and again, trying to see through the crowd the last glimpse of the columns or the dark uniforms disappearing behind the doors.
"No need to look so much," Iván said with a smile, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll be back tomorrow, and every day after that."
Kaep didn't answer. He pressed his lips together, holding back an emotion he couldn't name. Eli, a few steps away, picked up a small stone from the ground and flicked it with the tip of his shoe, following it with little hops.
Further ahead, groups of parents were saying goodbye to each other. Some talked about what they would do on their day off, others discussed Allion's words.
"Did you see the confidence with which he spoke?" one said. "He didn't even seem like an instructor… he seemed like someone who runs this whole place."
"At his age," added another, shaking his head. "If half of what they say about the Marked is true, those kids are born for this."
The conversation was lost among others: laughter, murmurs, footsteps.
Kaep was no exception.
He walked between his mother, Eli, and Eli's mother, talking with the energy of someone still digesting what they had just experienced.
"Did you see how everyone listened to him without moving?" the boy said, waving his hands enthusiastically. "Not even the older ones spoke, nor the teachers standing in the back."
Sil glanced at him sideways, amused.
"Of course I saw. But you weren't breathing either," she replied, in a warm tone.
Eli chuckled softly, covering his mouth.
"You looked like a statue, Kaep. Your eyes were even shining," he added, making Kaep frown in pretended offense.
"Not as much as you, you were like this," he retorted, opening his mouth exaggeratedly to imitate his expression.
The two mothers looked at each other, suppressing a smile. The lightness of the moment contrasted with the grave murmur of the adult conversations sounding further back.
Iván walked a few steps behind, next to Körper, with a more relaxed air now that the protocol was over.
The bustle of the group was gradually fading along the stone paths.
"...and to think that someone would actually become a Marked One at fifteen," Iván was saying, in a thoughtful tone. "But after seeing that boy, Allion…" He paused, shaking his head. "I understand why someone like that would manage it."
Körper nodded and immediately replied. With a mix of frankness and discipline, without taking his eyes off the path that gently descended towards the exit.
"I know it all too well," he said with a dry, almost incredulous laugh. "Even though there's only a year's difference between Allion and me…" He shook his head. "I feel there's a chasm I can't cross. Not one of strength, exactly. It's something else. A distance that doesn't shorten no matter how much I train or learn."
Iván looked at him sideways, curious.
"The difference seems that big to you?"
Körper exhaled through his nose, looking at the ground before turning his gaze to the sky, where the academy's reddish walls stood out against the orange light of the afternoon.
"It's different with adventurers. They can be hundreds of times stronger than me, and yet, I can see them as an achievable goal. I can imagine that, with time and discipline, I'll reach their level." He made a brief pause, lowering his voice. "But with Allion… no. There's no path that connects him to me. It's as if he's already in another league… looking at everything from above."
Iván nodded slowly, understanding the feeling without the need for words.
Körper, however, didn't let respect turn into resignation. He looked up again, his eyes firm, and a slight smile curved his mouth.
"That's why I admire Bairon so much," he continued. "Becoming a Marked One was… very difficult. I saw it, I lived it with him. But he did it, and that reminds me that the line isn't impossible. It's just far away… very far away." He crossed his arms, with a determined air. "And I don't plan on being left behind. Not after everything we've been through."
Iván smiled, recognizing the tone of that promise.
"You two still push each other, huh?"
"Exactly. We help each other improve," Körper replied without hesitation. "Sometimes with blows, sometimes with words. But without that, neither of us would have come this far."
A brief silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the laughter of the children a few meters ahead.
The wind carried the echo of the water from the interior fountain and the distant murmur of new families entering the grounds.
Iván looked at him for another moment, before speaking with a half-smile.
"Then don't change that. As long as you have someone who demands more from you than you believe you can give, you'll be able to keep advancing."
Körper let out a light laugh, nodding.
"I know. That's why I don't plan on letting him get so far ahead."
And they kept walking, side by side, as the sound of the academy faded behind, dissolving among the trees and the afternoon breeze.
As they walked, the group gradually dispersed among the crowd leaving the grounds. The bustle mixed with the murmur of the wind and the rustle of leaves.
Kaep, who until a moment ago had been laughing with Eli, slowed his pace. His eyes shifted from the path and returned to the front, towards the gate marking the boundary of the grounds.
There, amid the coming and going of families, off to the side of the gate, a man stood still, leaning against one of the stone pillars.
He wore a shirt that was too loose, white, wrinkled from use, and black military-cut trousers, with nearly faded violet stripes running down the sides.
His hair was disheveled, falling in unruly locks over his forehead, and his posture was relaxed, almost careless.
But what was most striking—or rather, what should have been—were his eyes: violet, deep, the same shade as Kaep's.
The boy stared at him.
And yet, he didn't see him.
His gaze didn't stop at the man, but went through him, as if observing something beyond.
The figure, still motionless, lifted his face slightly. The violet eyes blinked once, slowly. Then, the man inclined his head a little, as if acknowledging something… or someone.
By the time the group of both families approached, the man raised his arms slightly, a hesitant gesture, as if unsure whether to greet them or stop them.
His gaze moved between the faces of the adults and the children—lingering for a moment especially on Kaep.
The wind lifted the edge of his loose shirt, and a lock of his hair fell over his eyes.
He seemed about to say something.
But then…
The footsteps didn't stop.
No one looked at him.
No one reacted.
And before the man could comprehend it, the group passed through him.
They didn't dodge or push him: they simply passed through him, as if he were air.
The instant stretched. His body turned translucent for a blink, and for a moment the outline of his figure dissolved into a faint haze, the color of the sunset. When the last silhouette—Kaep's—crossed the point where he stood, the man became completely still.
His violet eyes opened just a bit wider, his expression frozen in mute shock.
He looked at his own hands.
He lifted them before his face.
They were his… but they cast no shadow.
The sound of the wind distorted, becoming hollow, distant.
He tried to speak, but no voice came from his throat; only a muffled echo.
In front of him, the two families continued on their way without looking back, laughing softly, conversing, completely unaware.
Kaep, the last to move away, turned his head for an instant, as if touched by an intuition.
And he saw how, high on the inner wall, a piece of paper detached from the stone and fell, spinning slowly in the air, until it landed right where the man was.
Only the shimmering air and the dust illuminated by the sun.
Eli's voice brought him back to reality.
"Kaep, are you coming?" she asked, turning from a few steps ahead.
The boy blinked.
He looked again towards the spot where the leaf had fallen.
Only the pillar, the shadow, and the street bathed in the evening light.
Kaep stood still for a second more, raised his gaze appreciating the academy.
Then he quickened his pace to catch up with Eli, who was already taking his mother's hand.
Behind, Iván and Körper continued talking, having noticed nothing.
The man slowly lowered his arms.
His fingers trembled.
The bewilderment on his face mixed with something harder to name: an old sadness, a sudden understanding that hurt too much to be new.
Then, his body began to lose form.
The outline of his figure unraveled into a thicker haze, like smoke fading when touched by light.
First the edges, then the arms, and finally the violet eyes—the last to fade—which seemed to look at a point beyond, before extinguishing completely.
The air was empty again.
Only the stone gate, the distant voices, and the soft breeze carrying the dust of the afternoon.
***
[Back in the room, at night]
The nearest candle burned with a thin flame, trembling with the same rhythm as his breath.
Before it, a wooden table marked by cuts and ink stains.
The sound of the small steel ball—ras, ras, ras—filled the room with a constant, almost hypnotic pulse.
Kaep was writing.
His fingers, stained with bronze and ink, moved with forced precision, as if each word had weight.
The paper crinkled under the irregular pressure of the pen, and sometimes the line deviated a millimeter before getting back on track.
Each stroke seemed to tear something out from within him: an image, a voice, a tremor that wouldn't quite disappear.
The memory was still fresh.
He could feel it, throbbing behind his eyes, mixed with a slight nausea, as if his body still hadn't understood that he had already awakened.
The metallic smell of bronze mixed with that of hot wax; he didn't notice it consciously, but his body did—the muscle in his neck, tense, his shoulders raised more than necessary.
He finished the line.
The pen stopped mid-stroke, and for an instant silence filled everything.
Only the faint buzz of the flame could be heard.
Kaep lifted the pen.
The movement was slow, measured, as if letting it go meant breaking an invisible connection.
The reflection of the metal returned his gaze for a moment before the shadow of his hand covered it.
He set it aside, on the table, right at the edge of the paper.
The trembling of his fingers wasn't from cold.
It was an internal vibration, a discharge that found no outlet.
Before him, two sheets—one on top of the other—covered in tight lines of fresh ink.
The stroke still shone under the candlelight.
The text was brief, compressed to the limit, as if he had wanted to enclose an entire life on a single page.
Kaep observed them without reading them at first.
He just followed the path of each line with his gaze, the mechanical order of the words, trying to recognize if what was written belonged to him or if he had just copied it from some corner of his mind that he couldn't quite accept as his own.
His hand trembled again.
Unconsciously, he brought his fingers to his face, brushing the lower edge of his right eye, right where the fatigue accumulated in a line of heat.
"So… they are violet."
The thought wasn't a conclusion; it was a mute confirmation.
A piece fitting into another, too late to provide any relief.