Alaric's days in the cramped cottage fell into a rhythm of quiet observation. The villagers, slowly piecing their lives back together, saw him as a remarkably resilient child, unnervingly calm but undeniably fragile. They offered him meager portions of food, rough blankets, and a cautious kindness born of shared tragedy. He accepted it all with a serene, unreadable expression, his mind ceaselessly working.
Their conversations were a tapestry of simple needs: dwindling food stores, the fear of another beast, and prayers to local deities who seemed remarkably ineffective. Aizen listened, cataloging their superstitions, their limited worldviews. He understood that true power here wasn't just about wielding magic; it was about controlling the information that shaped these minds.
His nascent abilities continued to be his secret companions. He found he could, with increasing precision, subtly shift the perception of those around him. A mother would momentarily forget to assign him a chore, a farmer would feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to share a rare apple with the quiet boy, a whispered argument among neighbors would just as suddenly dissipate into confused silence. These were tiny ripples, yet they confirmed the profound potential of his Kyōka Suigetsu in this new environment. It was like tuning an instrument whose full range he had yet to discover, but whose notes already resonated.
The greatest hurdle, however, was knowledge. The village offered little beyond rudimentary lore and agrarian concerns. There were no grand libraries, no scrolls of ancient magic, no detailed histories. His analytical mind craved data. He needed to understand the true political landscape, the nature of this world's powerful mages, the specifics of its magical beasts, and, most importantly, the fundamental laws governing its reality.
One afternoon, while observing a group of older children attempting to rebuild a collapsed fence, Alaric overheard a snippet of conversation. "Master Borin," a boy lamented, "he'll have our hides if this isn't done by sundown. And he's got all those books..."
Books. The word resonated with a quiet intensity.
Alaric sought out Elara later that evening. "Who is Master Borin?" he asked, his voice soft, almost too calm for a child his age.
Elara stirred a pot of thin soup. "Old Borin? He lives in the big house, up on the hill. Never leaves it. Has more books than sense, they say. Used to teach the young ones their letters, before... before everything. A scholar, he fancies himself." She sighed, dismissing the thought. "Best leave him be. He's a strange old bird, keeps to himself."
Strange. Isolated. Possesses books. The profile was ideal.
The next morning, Alaric slipped away from the cottage before dawn. The trek to Borin's house was short, the air still crisp with dew. The house was indeed larger than the others, its timber walls sturdy, though vines now threatened to engulf the windows. A thick, dusty silence hung over it.
He found the door unlocked, a clear invitation for the world to intrude, yet no one had. Aizen stepped inside.
The interior was a revelation. Not because of its grandeur, but because of its contents. Every wall was lined with shelves, crammed haphazardly with aged tomes, rolled parchments, and brittle scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight piercing the drawn curtains. This was it. A repository of information.
Old Borin himself was a wizened man, hunched over a cluttered table, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, poring over a faded map. He startled, his head snapping up as Alaric entered.
"Boy? What are you doing here?" Borin's voice was sharp, but not unkind. He looked at Alaric with confusion, as if trying to recall a face he should know.
Alaric merely met his gaze, his amber eyes unwavering. He didn't need to speak. He projected a carefully crafted aura – a lost, silent child drawn by an inexplicable curiosity, a thirst for something beyond their grasp. He allowed a flicker of vulnerability, a shadow of unspoken trauma, to play across his small features. He didn't beg or plead. He simply was.
Borin stared, his eyes widening slightly. He felt a peculiar pull, an odd sense of quiet intrigue that cut through his usual reclusiveness. This child was... different. Not frightened, not overtly sad, but something else. A profound stillness. He found himself extending a hand, an invitation he hadn't intended to offer.
"Come in, boy," Borin said, his voice softening unexpectedly. "You... you seem to have a knack for finding old things."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Alaric's lips. The first piece of the grand chessboard had been secured.