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Chapter 5 - Chapter 5: The First Thread

Alaric's days with Master Borin gradually shifted from passive observation to active, albeit hidden, experimentation. The old scholar, immersed in his musty tomes, never noticed the subtle changes in the boy's routines. Alaric would spend hours poring over charts of constellations, not for their celestial beauty, but for the precise geometric patterns they formed. He'd study diagrams of ancient runic circles and mage sigils, dissecting their lines and intersections, searching for a universal language of power. He wasn't just reading; he was reverse-engineering the very fabric of this world's energies.

He discovered that by focusing his burgeoning spiritual perception (which he mentally categorized as the "true sight"), he could discern faint auras of living beings—the mundane glow of villagers, the flickering, nervous energy of a startled rabbit, or the ominous, chilling presence of residual monster essence clinging to a broken wall. This ability allowed him to navigate the village unseen by those he wished to avoid, becoming an unnerving ghost in plain sight.

One particularly damp afternoon, Borin was struggling to mend a broken lute. His fingers, stiff with age, fumbled with the intricate wood joinery. "Damnation," he muttered, "this precise work tries my patience."

Alaric watched, a calm calculation in his amber eyes. He extended a small hand, making an almost imperceptible gesture. He focused, not on the lute itself, but on the perception of Borin. He willed the old man to feel a sudden, inexplicable surge of clarity, a moment of acute focus.

Borin blinked, frowned, then his eyes cleared. His fingers, moments ago fumbling, now moved with a surprising dexterity. He adjusted the splintered wood, aligning the pieces with uncanny precision, and soon, the lute was mended. Borin stared at his handiwork, a look of bewildered pride on his face. "Well, I'll be," he murmured, "I didn't think I had it in me. Must be the storm clearing my head."

Alaric merely offered a small, knowing smile that went unnoticed. Control of focus. An excellent application for rudimentary Kyōka Suigetsu. The ease with which he could manipulate such a complex mind excited him. It wasn't brute force, but elegant, psychological manipulation.

His attention soon turned to the village's dwindling resources. The last monster attack had devastated their harvest, and winter loomed. Whispers of venturing to the nearest town, Dravograd, for supplies grew louder, laced with fear of bandits and lingering beasts. Dravograd was larger, possessed a market, and, more importantly, a larger collection of books, perhaps even a small library or a scholar's private collection.

Aizen decided the journey was necessary. He needed to broaden his intellectual horizons beyond Borin's limited, albeit useful, collection. And he needed to begin weaving the first threads of his influence on a larger scale.

He began subtly influencing the villagers. He'd make them 'remember' certain favorable trade routes, 'suggest' the timing of the journey, and even 'inspire' a handful of the younger, bolder men to volunteer for the dangerous trek. He sat quietly by the fire each evening, appearing as just another silent orphan, while his will subtly shaped their communal decision-making. The villagers, convinced they were making practical choices, felt a strange sense of newfound unity and purpose.

"We leave at first light, then," the burly man, who had given Alaric stew, declared one morning, his voice firm. "For Dravograd. It's a risk, but we've no choice." He looked around, meeting the nods of the others, all subtly swayed by Alaric's unseen touch.

Aizen felt a cold satisfaction. He wouldn't be a mere passenger. He would be the unseen navigator. The Witcher world was about to receive its first introduction to the meticulous craftsmanship of Sōsuke Aizen. The small village, its dwindling resources, its simple minds—they were merely the training ground. Dravograd awaited, and with it, new pieces for his ever-expanding game board.

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