It had been a few hours after the combat test, and it was already noon. The next test was supposed to commence at noon, but the examiner had announced that the elders were having a meeting. It seemed something had come up, and everyone seemed to have an idea of what was really happening.
Bahamuth.
The name resounded in their minds like a loud bell, telling them of his crazy feats. A blind boy in rugs and a pet bunny, defeating... no massacring beasts like child's play. A nobody destroying powerful foes and breaking past his limits.
He had crossed the fourth stage into the fifth stage and defeated the golden sun eagle in record time, breaking the record of his predecessor, the Black Fang Prodigy. Plus, he was far weaker than the Black Fang Prodigy at that time.
His actions clearly spoke of his potential, and people began to wonder, his true origin.
...
The meeting room smelled faintly of myrrh and hot stone. Golden lamps hummed low, throwing slow shadows across the twelve elder chairs that ringed the circular dais. The argument raged like a storm within that small, holy space, voices sharp, opinions sharper.
"If you ask me," Elder Derek said, white robes flashing gold where the light caught them, "that child cannot continue. Even if he's above his peers by leagues, it's obvious. He should be given direct admission." His voice carried the easy authority of someone used to issuing orders. If Ren were here, he would have recognized the tone, long, confident, threaded with the arrogance of the man who had once called himself his master. Derek's long golden hair fell over pointed ears; his blue eyes burned with a heat that matched the aura he favored.
"We can't bend our laws because he's…interesting," Silvia snapped back, voice cool as the blue of her robes. She smoothed the butterfly antennae at her brow and kept her tone measured. "Rules are the only thing that keeps this sect from becoming chaos. He will continue with the tests."
"Silvia." Derek's smile was thin. "This is not a matter of favoritism. This is mitigation. We have an anomaly on our hands; someone who moves far beyond his Circle. You saw what he did. You felt the pressure. You know what that means."
Caron slid forward from the shadow of his hood, obsidian eyes glittering. "He's past special, Silvia. He eclipses the Black Fang Prodigy." His black robes pooled like oil. "This isn't about leniency. It's about opportunity. If we take him in directly, we control him. Let him remain in the trials, and he'll tear through our ranks and possibly away beyond our reach."
A murmur of agreement hummed through parts of the room. Then Anutach, jackal-masked, wrapped in the trappings of wealth and lineage, spoke with the slow, dangerous cadence of the old-money powerbroker he was. "You've all spoken well, but do not mistake spectacle for safety. His battle intent reads like Circle of Comprehension. That's Tier 2 thought-form pressure. He is barely Tier 1. That is not merely a prodigy. That is a fault line. Supervision and study are necessary." The mask tilted; even behind it, his meaning was clear.
Elder Frugo folded his hands and added quietly, "He somehow exerts control. That must be catalogued." His white hair was short, his left eye a scar, the right one glinting like a coin. He had leaned toward curiosity rather than panic. "Study before decision... preferable."
Sylna flipped a strand of silver hair and scorned lightly, "He is good, but weak. Not worth my time." Her dismissal landed like a thrown dagger, sharp and meant to wound.
Karesh's laugh was sarcastic, a low rumble. "Says the one who sent her people first to spectate. You watched him tear through a wyrm and the golden eagle and still call him weak?" He jabbed a finger at her. "Your people go first because you wanted an excuse to see him fight."
Tankuht, the elder with the eagle staff, spoke then, voice gravel-rough with age and experience. He wore blue-gold robes and held the polished staff crowned by an eagle statue, its gaze steady. "I don't know why we debate whether he needs tests. The divine aura bypassed his defenses. He fought as if born of the wild. That is the mark of survival, not training. He has the Circle of Body made into teeth and talons. He does not merely survive, he remakes survival in his image." His tired eyes scanned every face in the chamber. "To leave him in the ordinary stream is to invite disaster or to waste what might be a unique weapon for the sect."
Derek nodded, eager. Caron folded his arms and watched the room for alignment.
A younger elder in plain white, Merit, spoke softly, "If we bring him into the fold directly, there is also a risk. He could become a rallying symbol we cannot control. But leaving him to the tests risks losing him or suffering internal collapse should he lash out."
Baset, the beastkin elder, thumped his padded paw against the stone in annoyance. "He fights with animal cunning and raw force. That is not the sect's usual product; it's a different breed. Either we harness or we are devoured." His voice carried the growl of someone who'd learned to read fangs as language.
Iset, scholar-elder, whose robes were trimmed in the pale hues of library parchment, pushed a thin hand forward. "We should take samples. Records. Bind him to watchers. Observation in tandem with controlled training. If the boy truly possesses unusual comprehension-level intent, then our libraries should catalogue it. We owe it to the balance of the sect and to the region."
Karesh rolled his shoulders. "So study him to death while he walks away and leaves us to pick up the pieces? No. We integrate him. We make him ours. Derek's plan stands."
The room hummed, voices rising, splintering into alliances and rebuttals until it felt like the roof might tear.
Finally, the circle turned as one toward the last chair, the Chief Elder's seat. The man who sat there was older than any document, older than the carved stones of the Citadel. Chief Elder Sekhem rose with the slow dignity of a mountain. His robes were a deep onyx threaded with threads of burnished gold; his presence drew the room taut. Sekhem's face was lined like a well-read map, his eyes the color of dried papyrus, and his hands were steady as if cast from the same stone as the dais.
Silence dropped like a curtain as he folded his fingers.
"Enough," Sekhem said, and his voice cut through the clamor like a blade through linen. He did not shout. He did not need to.
He addressed them in the calm cadence that had made law of quarrels in the sect for decades.