The Vagabond's Secret
The aftermath of the assassination attempt did not result in the quiet, somber atmosphere one might expect. Instead, the Thorne Estate became a hive of cold, clinical efficiency. Duke Valerius had tripled the perimeter guards, but Alistair knew that walls of stone and steel were useless against the shifting political tides of the Aurelian Empire.
In the week following the attack, Alistair had not rested. His "Genius" mana-circuit, augmented by the processing power of the 0-RA AI core, allowed him to function on mere hours of sleep. He spent his days in the alchemical labs, perfecting the "Thorne-Kelvin" distillation process, and his nights in the library, mapping the star-charts of the Orion Sector.
"Master Alistair," Elowen said, stepping into his study. She was no longer wearing the muted grey of a house guardian. She wore dark, form-fitting leather armor reinforced with Mythril mesh—a gift from Alistair for her loyalty. Her green eyes were sharp, scanning the shadows of the room before she even looked at him. "The transport to the Sky-Gates is prepared. But your father is... hesitant. He believes you are too young to visit the Anvil."
Alistair didn't look up from the holographic display of a star-system. "My father believes that safety is found in shadows. I know that safety is found in leverage. The Anvil is where the mercenaries, the informants, and the independent blacksmiths gather. If I want to build a company that isn't beholden to the Emperor's whims, I need to start there."
"And the Lady Seraphina?" Elowen asked, her voice dipping into a tone of slight possessiveness. "She has been waiting in the rose garden for three hours. She knows you are leaving."
Alistair finally closed the display. He looked at Elowen. He could see the tension in her shoulders—the way she gripped her bow as if expecting an invisible enemy to snatch him away.
"I will speak with her," Alistair said. "But first, we go to the forge. Thrain has finished the 'Project.'"
The Forbidden Core
The deepest level of the Ironfoot Forge was off-limits even to the Duke's highest-ranking Knights. It was a vault carved directly into the "Aether-Vein" of the floating continent.
Thrain Ironfoot stood before a massive, shrouded object. The heat in the room was intense, enough to melt lead, yet Alistair walked through it comfortably, using a passive Tier 2 Frost-Armor spell to regulate his body temperature.
"I shouldn't have done it, lad," Thrain muttered, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the lava-channels. "If the Union finds out I've used Void-Steel for a non-military vessel, they'll have my head on a pike."
"The Union doesn't pay your bills, Thrain.
House Thorne does," Alistair said, stepping up to the shroud. "Show me."
Thrain pulled the heavy cloth away. Beneath it lay a ship's engine core, but unlike any Alistair had seen in this world. It wasn't a clunky mana-boiler. It was a sleek, rotating sphere of dark, translucent metal, suspended in a field of magnetic resonance.
"It's the Aether-Pulse Drive," Thrain whispered. "Based on the blueprints you gave me. It doesn't just burn mana; it recycles it. It bleeds energy from the Void itself."
Alistair reached out, his hand hovering inches from the rotating sphere.
"Analysis complete," 0-RA's voice chirped in his mind. "Energy output is 400% higher than Imperial Standard. Efficiency: 98.9%. Note: The use of Void-Steel allows for 'Phase-Shifting' capabilities. This ship will be invisible to traditional mana-scanners."
"It's beautiful," Alistair murmured.
"It's a death sentence if you're caught with it,"
Thrain retorted. "I've built the chassis in the Anvil's secret dry-docks. I call her The Vagabond's Grace. She's small—a heavy corvette—but she'll outrun an Imperial Destroyer and outgun a Void-Cruiser."
Alistair looked at the Dwarf. "You've done well, Thrain. When I take over the family's shipping lanes, you'll be the Chief Engineer of the entire Thorne Fleet. No more hiding in basements."
Thrain grunted, but Alistair could see the pride in his eyes. "Just make sure you don't scratch the paint, lad."
The Parting of Souls
The rose garden was bathed in the pale violet light of Luna-Prime. Seraphina stood by a fountain, her reflection shimmering in the mana-infused water. When she saw Alistair approaching, she didn't run to him. She stood her ground, her silver hair fluttering in the wind.
"You're going to the Anvil," she said, her voice a mixture of sadness and resolve. "The place where the law of the Empire ends."
"I have to, Sera," Alistair said, stopping a few feet from her. "The Thorne name is a target here. At the Anvil, I am just another merchant with too much gold and a sharp sword. I can move freely. I can build the foundation of our future."
Seraphina stepped closer, her "Spirit-Sensing" flaring. She reached out and touched his chest, right over his heart. "I can feel your mana, Alistair. It's... cold. It's like a storm that's waiting to break. I'm afraid that if you go out there, you'll forget how to come back to me."
Alistair took her hand and pressed it firmly against his chest. "Feel the rhythm, Seraphina. It's steady. It's calculated. I won't lose myself. I'm not going out there to find adventure; I'm going out there to claim what belongs to us."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver pendant. At its center was a tiny fragment of the AI Core—a "Sync-Stone."
"This is linked to my mana-circuit," Alistair explained. "As long as it glows, I am alive. And if you ever need me—if the shadows in the capital move against you—press the center. I will come for you, even if I have to burn a path through the Void to do it."
Seraphina took the pendant, her eyes filling with tears. She leaned in and kissed his cheek—a soft, fleeting touch that felt like a brand.
"Be careful, Alistair. I don't want to be an Empress of a graveyard."
"You won't be," he promised.
The Journey to the Anvil
The departure from Aethelgard was a grand affair, though Alistair kept his personal entourage small. He traveled in a Thorne-branded "Star-Skiff," accompanied only by Elowen and a small squad of elite Knights.
As they reached the Sky-Gates—massive rings of ancient technology that acted as wormhole stabilizers—Alistair felt the shift in the atmosphere. The "Aurelian Peace" was behind them. Ahead lay the Orion Sector, a lawless expanse of asteroid mines and rogue stations.
"Master, we are being followed," Elowen whispered, her hand already on the string of her bow.
Alistair looked at the radar display on his wrist.
Three unidentified signatures were closing in from the shadow of a nearby moon. They were "Void-Raiders"—mercenaries hired by rival houses to ensure the Thorne heir never reached his destination.
"They're using Phase-Cloaks," Alistair noted, his eyes narrowing. "Inefficient ones. I can see the mana-leakage."
"Should I take the shot?" Elowen asked, her eyes glowing with a feral intensity.
"No," Alistair said, standing up and walking toward the skiff's open observation deck. The rushing wind of the upper atmosphere whipped his cloak around him. "I need to test my new spell-matrix. Elowen, provide cover for the Knights. I'll handle the ships."
"Alistair, those are Star-Skiffs! You're on foot!" Elowen cried.
Alistair didn't answer. He stepped off the edge of the ship.
For a second, he was falling. Then, he snapped his fingers.
V = \int_{t_1}^{t_2} \frac{P_{mana}}{m} dt
In his mind, he calculated the precise amount of mana needed to create a platform of solid air. He didn't just hover; he accelerated. Using a combination of High-Level Wind Magic and Knight-Grade Body Reinforcement, Alistair became a silver streak in the sky.
The lead raider ship opened fire, its mana-cannons spitting bolts of purple energy.
Alistair didn't dodge. He unsheathed his new sword—the Obsidian Star-Cutter Thrain had forged. He channeled his mana into the blade, not as a glow, but as a vibration.
"First Style: Void-Rift," Alistair whispered.
He swung the sword. A wave of black energy erupted from the blade, cutting through the purple mana-bolts as if they were mist. The wave hit the lead ship, slicing through its shields and its hull in a single, clean arc. The ship exploded in a silent burst of fire.
The other two ships tried to flee, but Alistair was already above them. He raised his left hand, the AI core glowing brightly.
"0-RA, synchronize with my mana-pool.
Execute: 'Chain-Lightning Torrent'."
"Executing," the AI replied.
A forest of silver lightning erupted from Alistair's fingertips. It wasn't random; each bolt was a heat-seeking missile of pure electrical mana. The lightning struck the engines of the remaining ships, disabling them instantly.
Alistair landed back on his own skiff as it passed beneath him. He didn't have a scratch on him.
Elowen was staring at him, her bow lowered.
The Knights were silent, their faces pale. They had just seen a seven-year-old destroy all mercenary squad in less than sixty seconds.
"Check the wreckage for survivors," Alistair commanded, his voice cold and indifferent. "I want to know who paid them."
He looked toward the horizon, where the massive, metallic structure of The Anvil was beginning to appear against the backdrop of a distant nebula.
"Elowen," Alistair said, not looking back.
"Yes, Master?"
"Make sure my armor is polished. We are about to meet the people who will help us build our company. I want to look the part of a Sovereign."
Elowen bowed low, her eyes fixed on his back with a devotion that was now tinged with a terrifying obsession. "As you wish, Alistair.
Your will is my world."
The Arrival at The Anvil
The Anvil was not a planet, but a hollowed-out asteroid the size of a city. It was a place of neon lights, steam-pipes, and the constant sound of metal on metal. It was the heart of the galaxy's "Grey Market."
As Alistair's skiff docked, he was met by a wall of sound and smell. It was a world away from the sterile beauty of the Thorne Estate. Here, Elves rubbed shoulders with Dwarves, and AI-controlled droids moved crates of illegal alchemical components.
Alistair stepped onto the docking bay, his obsidian sword at his hip. He looked around, his "Genius" mind already cataloging every face, every weapon, and every potential recruit.
"Welcome to the edge of the world, Master Alistair," Thrain said, appearing from the crowd. He had traveled ahead to prepare the dry-docks. "Ready to see your ship?"
"I'm ready to see my future, Thrain," Alistair replied.
But as they walked through the crowded streets, Alistair felt a familiar, dark presence. It wasn't a Void-Walker. It was something else—something human.
A man stood in a dark alleyway, his eyes fixed on Alistair. He was tall, with scarred hands and a smile that held no warmth. He was Malakor, the man who would one day become the greatest villain this world had ever known.
For now, he was just a mercenary leader, but he looked at Alistair not with curiosity, but with recognition.
"Warning," 0-RA whispered. "Anomaly detected. Subject possesses a soul-signature that does not match this timeline."
Alistair stopped. He looked back at the man in the alley.
Malakor raised a hand in a mock salute, then vanished into the shadows.
Alistair's grip tightened on his sword. So, he thought, I am not the only one who was reborn. This just became much more interesting.
"Master? Is something wrong?" Elowen asked, her hand moving to her bow.
"No," Alistair said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Everything is exactly as it should be. Let's go. We have a company to build."