Brennick Estate - Dawn
The sunrise painted the destruction in shades of gold and crimson—colors that should have been beautiful but only served to highlight the carnage scattered across what remained of the estate grounds. The main house was partially collapsed, western wing destroyed entirely where combat had compromised structural integrity. Bodies lay where they'd fallen—servants, slaves, guards, the hunters themselves—all rendered equal by violence that hadn't discriminated between guilty and innocent.
John sat against a section of wall that still stood, staff laid across his lap, watching the sun climb above the tree line through ki perception that translated light into temperature gradients and air pressure differentials. His robes were soaked through with blood—most of it not his own, though enough belonged to him that moving required conscious effort to overcome pain signals from multiple wounds.
Beside him, Kiran lay unconscious in human form. The boy was naked—transformation having destroyed his clothing—and covered in injuries that would have killed someone without beast Uncos healing factor. Deep lacerations across his torso and limbs. Bruising that suggested internal damage. Burns on his hands and forearms where his own flames had scorched flesh during extended manifestation.
But he was breathing. Alive. Returned to human consciousness after however long he'd spent as pure predator.
John didn't remember the details of how the fight had ended—just fragments. The werewolf lunging. His own desperate laughter that had somehow disrupted the attack long enough for him to... what? He wasn't certain. Either he'd managed something that reached through beast instinct to human consciousness, or exhaustion had simply claimed Kiran's transformed body and forced reversion. Either way, they'd both survived.
The sun continued rising. Birds began calling—tentative at first, then more confident as they realized the violence had ceased. Morning sounds that felt surreal against backdrop of death and destruction.
John forced himself to stand—using the staff for support, his wounded leg barely taking weight, multiple other injuries making the simple act of rising feel like monumental achievement. He looked down at Kiran's unconscious form, considered leaving him here, decided against it.
With considerable effort, John hauled Kiran's limp body across his shoulders—fireman's carry that his twelve-year-old frame shouldn't have been able to manage but adrenaline and desperation made possible. The boy was heavy, dead weight that made each step an ordeal.
John began walking. Away from the estate. Back toward the temple. Three days of travel ahead while carrying another person and bleeding from multiple wounds.
He'd survived worse.
Probably.
Temple of the Promised - Three Days Later, Morning
The monastery's stone floors were immaculate—maintained daily by students whose meditation practice included physical cleaning as expression of mental discipline. The corridors smelled of incense and mountain air, sunlight filtered through high windows to create geometric patterns on pristine surfaces.
John's blood ruined that pristine quality with each step—dripping from his robes, leaving trail of crimson across clean stone as he walked through the eastern entrance toward the administrative wing where the elders maintained their private chambers.
Helena saw him first. She'd been organizing medical supplies in one of the recovery rooms when she heard footsteps in corridor—shuffling, uneven gait that suggested injury. She emerged to investigate and froze.
John looked like he'd walked out of battlefield rather than completed three-day journey. His robes were stiff with dried blood—brown and flaking in some places, still wet and red in others. His face was pale from blood loss, lips slightly blue from insufficient oxygenation. He carried Kiran's unconscious body across his shoulders with trembling arms, each step clearly costing him significant effort.
"John!" Helena rushed forward, hands already assessing injuries through visual examination. "What happened? You need immediate medical attention—let me help you to—"
"I'm fine," John interrupted, his voice hoarse from dehydration but steady. "Take Kiran. He needs treatment. Internal injuries, extensive lacerations, possible organ damage from sustained transformation. Prioritize him."
"You're bleeding—"
"I said I'm fine." John carefully transferred Kiran's weight to Helena and two other students who'd appeared at her call, supporting the boy between them. "Get him to Doctor Mercier. I have business with the elders first."
"John, you can barely stand—"
"That's my concern." He turned away, continuing his shuffling progress down the corridor toward the administrative wing, staff clicking against stone with each labored step.
Helena watched him go—torn between professional medical assessment that screamed he needed immediate treatment and recognition that arguing would waste time better spent treating Kiran. She made the practical choice, directing the other students toward the exit. "Get him to the clinic. Move fast but carefully—his internal injuries could worsen if we jostle him too much."
They left at quick pace, carrying Kiran between them. Helena paused, looking back at John's retreating figure one more time, then followed her patients toward the city.
John continued alone. Past the meditation halls. Past the library. Past the training grounds where students practiced forms under morning sun. None of them approached him—his appearance alone was enough to make people step back, give space, avoid interaction with whatever violence he clearly represented.
The elders' quarters occupied the monastery's highest level—symbolic positioning meant to suggest spiritual elevation as well as practical security. John climbed stairs that his wounded leg protested with each step, leaving blood trail that would require significant cleaning later.
Master Adaeze's chambers were first, door open as she conducted morning correspondence. She looked up as John passed, her expression shifting from concentration to shock to something harder to identify. Not quite disapproval. Not quite concern. Something between the two that suggested she'd known this was coming but hoped she'd been wrong.
She said nothing. Just watched him continue past her door toward the end of the corridor.
Grand Master Shen Wei's chambers occupied the final door—largest room in administrative wing, decorated with simplicity that bordered on ascetic: woven mat for sleeping, low table for meals and meditation, single bookshelf containing texts he'd accumulated over eighty years of study. The morning sun streamed through eastern window, illuminating dust motes and the elderly master kneeling in prayer position facing a small altar.
John entered without knocking—would have been rude under normal circumstances, but blood dripping from his robes and staff clicking against floor announced his presence more dramatically than courtesy would have.
Shen Wei didn't interrupt his prayer. Just continued the quiet murmured words in language older than the current kingdom, finishing the devotional sequence before acknowledging his visitor. When he finally turned from the altar, his weathered face showed no surprise at John's appearance.
"I killed them all," John said without preamble, his voice carrying satisfaction that bordered on celebration. "The hunters. The slave owner. Everyone involved. They're dead. The estate is destroyed. The threat is ended."
Shen Wei studied him for long moment—taking in the blood, the wounds, the exhausted triumph in John's posture. When he spoke, his voice carried calm that refused to match John's energy.
"I am not thankful for this."
The words landed like physical impact. John's satisfied expression faltered slightly.
"And I am not happy," Shen Wei continued, rising from kneeling position with the careful movement of elderly joints, crossing to face John directly. "You took lives. Multiple lives. You destroyed property and killed people—some guilty, some perhaps merely associated with guilt. You immersed yourself in violence until it became celebration. And now you stand in sacred space, dripping blood onto clean floors, expecting praise for becoming exactly what we teach against."
"They murdered your students," John said, anger beginning to cut through exhaustion. "They destroyed your temple. They would have come back, killed more people, continued hunting until—"
"Until you killed them. Yes. I understand the logic." Shen Wei's expression didn't shift—remained neutral, weathered features showing neither approval nor condemnation. "But understand this in return: the killing will not stop here. Violence begets violence. Those hunters had families, associates, people who will hear of their deaths and seek revenge. The slave owner had business partners, political connections, allies who will view his death as threat to their own interests. You have created enemies you don't yet know about, set in motion consequences that will pursue you for years."
He moved closer, close enough that even John's ki perception could map the minute details of his expression—the lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the gentle concern mixed with profound disappointment.
"I am afraid," Shen Wei said quietly, "that I cannot continue teaching you and Kiran if this path of violence continues. Our monastery is sanctuary for peace, refuge from conflict. If you bring war to our doorstep repeatedly—if you use what we teach as tools for killing rather than enlightenment—then you corrupt the knowledge itself. Make it weapon when it should be wisdom."
John's jaw tightened. His grip on the staff shifted slightly—not threatening, just frustrated tension seeking outlet. "Violence found me. I didn't seek it out. I defended myself and avenged people who couldn't avenge themselves."
"And where does it end?" Shen Wei asked. "When will enough blood satisfy your sense of justice? After you've killed everyone who wronged you? Everyone who might wrong you in future? Everyone associated with anyone who wronged someone you care about?" He shook his head slowly. "Violence has no natural stopping point. Only exhaustion. And I fear you have stamina that will carry you through more death than most could endure."
They stood in silence for several seconds—John breathing hard from exertion and emotion, Shen Wei waiting with patience earned through eight decades of meditation practice.
Finally, John spoke. "I want to continue learning. Under your guidance. Despite what happened."
"Why?" Simple question. No accusation. Just inquiry.
"Because..." John paused, organizing thoughts that mixed truth with tactical calculation. "Because I disagree with you about violence. I think sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes it's the only response that works. But I also recognize that I lack control—that my anger drives me toward excessive force, that I need discipline I don't currently possess." He met Shen Wei's eyes through his blindness, ki perception mapping the old master's face. "I don't want to become monster. I want to be person who can use violence when necessary but doesn't let it consume everything else. And I think... I think learning your way might help with that."
Shen Wei's expression shifted minutely—something that might have been approval or might have been recognition of honesty. "What I teach is the way of peace. The education I provide has no place being used to take life. If you learn our techniques, our meditation practices, our cultivation methods—you do so with understanding that they are meant to create harmony, not destruction. Using them for killing perverts their purpose."
"I understand," John said. Then, after brief hesitation: "I promise I will stop. While under your guidance, I won't commit violence. I'll follow your teaching without bringing conflict to the monastery."
The promise felt like ash in his mouth—necessary lie to secure what he needed. Because the truth, which he carefully kept from his expression and voice, was purely tactical:
The monks' teachings are powerful. More powerful than I initially recognized. Their cultivation methods draw on natural mana in ways the Supreme Gods' system has suppressed or forgotten. If I master what they know—truly master it, not just learn surface techniques—I might not need mythical artifacts or forbidden fruits to regain the power I lost. I'm only at first level of their cultivation system. There are clearly more levels, more refinement, more potential.
I'll promise whatever they need to hear. Learn everything they'll teach. And when I've extracted all the knowledge this place offers, I'll use it however serves my purposes. Peace or violence, enlightenment or destruction—the techniques themselves are neutral. Only the application matters.
Shen Wei studied John's face for long moment—searching for truth, for sincerity, for whatever internal calculation was happening behind the boy's blind eyes. His expression suggested he found something there, though perhaps not what John intended to show.
When he finally smiled, the gesture was gentle, almost sad. "Your desire to learn tells me that your heart wants what we practice, even if your mind doesn't yet understand why. And I can see in your face that you didn't mean that promise—not truly, not in the way I asked it. You're calculating. Planning. Treating this as transaction rather than transformation."
John's carefully controlled expression wavered—surprise breaking through despite his efforts. The old master had seen through him completely.
"But," Shen Wei continued, his smile widening slightly, "I will help you regardless. Because I believe you are the one the prophecy speaks of—Anaya, the Promised One who will restore what was lost. And whether you come to that destiny through genuine peace or through exhaustion after walking path of violence until it breaks you... either way, the world needs you to arrive there. So I will teach. You will learn. And we will see what emerges from that education."
He gestured toward door. "Go. Get medical treatment before you collapse from blood loss. Rest. Heal. When you're recovered, we resume training. Kiran as well, once he wakes. And we will see if knowledge meant for peace can somehow save person committed to war."
John stood there for moment—processing, reassessing, recognizing that he'd been granted exactly what he wanted despite the old master seeing through his deception. It should have felt like victory. Instead it felt complicated, weighted with implications he didn't have energy to fully examine.
"Thank you," he said finally, the gratitude genuine despite everything else being calculated. "For giving me chance I probably don't deserve."
"Everyone deserves chance to become better than they are," Shen Wei replied. "Whether they take that opportunity is their choice. Now go. You're bleeding on my floor and the cleaning staff will complain."
John turned and left—shuffling back down corridor, past Adaeze's chambers where she watched him pass with expression mixing concern and resignation, down stairs he'd climbed with such difficulty, toward medical attention he'd delayed too long already.
Behind him, Shen Wei returned to his altar and resumed praying—this time not morning devotions but specific supplication for guidance in teaching someone who might become world's salvation or its destruction, and hoping wisdom would provide clarity about which outcome was more likely.
Kingdom of Algoria - Royal Academy, Three Weeks After Enrollment
Conrad had discovered that regular school was significantly more difficult than he'd anticipated, though not in ways he'd expected.
The academic content was simple—perhaps even insultingly so compared to his private education under Master Aldous. History lessons covered material he'd already studied in depth. Mathematics problems that challenged his classmates felt trivial. Literature analysis of texts he'd read years ago. He could complete assignments in fraction of time other students required, leaving him sitting idle at his desk while they struggled with concepts he'd mastered at age nine.
The social aspects, however, were proving insurmountable.
"Must be nice," Petra said during morning break—girl maybe thirteen years old, baker's daughter, voice carrying edge that suggested genuine resentment rather than playful teasing. "Having entire palace library to study from. Meanwhile we're sharing three textbooks between thirty students."
Conrad looked up from the history book he'd been reading ahead in—trying to find something in curriculum that might actually challenge him. "The library is... yes, I suppose it's an advantage. But I still have to actually read the materials and—"
"And you probably have private tutors explaining everything before we even see it in class," Marco interrupted—blacksmith's son, arms already developing muscle from helping his father. "So when you answer questions perfectly, it's not because you're smart. It's because you already knew."
"I don't—" Conrad started, then stopped. Because they weren't entirely wrong. Master Aldous had covered this material years ago. The fact that Conrad had worked hard to learn it then didn't change that he was essentially reviewing rather than learning fresh.
"And the practical applications," Elise added—minor merchant's daughter, voice quieter but no less pointed. "When we practice Uncos manipulation, you get private coaching from your family's personal trainers. We get one instructor for thirty students, fifteen minutes of attention if we're lucky."
Conrad wanted to defend himself—to explain that he'd actually been terrible at his Uncos training, that his ice manipulation was embarrassingly weak despite private instruction, that having resources didn't automatically translate to competence. But the words died in his throat because he recognized the fundamental truth: explaining his struggles to people who'd never had his advantages would sound like complaining about being served wrong flavor of cake at a feast while they went hungry.
The Uncos training was the most humiliating part. Conrad's ice manipulation was weak—barely functional, really. He could create small amounts of frost, lower temperature in confined area, maybe generate enough ice to fill a cup if he concentrated for thirty seconds. Nothing useful. Nothing impressive. Certainly nothing that justified the private training his classmates assumed he'd received.
During practical exercises, he consistently performed in bottom third of class. Students with fire manipulation could create impressive displays—flames that reached ceiling, heat that warmed entire room. Earth users could raise walls, reshape terrain, demonstrate power that had clear practical applications. Even the weakest elemental users produced better results than Conrad managed with his pathetic frost.
"At least I'm good academically," he'd told himself after particularly poor showing where he'd failed to freeze water in demonstration bowl while everyone watched.
But that rang hollow too. Being good at academic work that felt too easy wasn't achievement. It was just... existing with advantages others lacked.
The isolation was wearing. Three weeks in, he'd made no genuine friends. People were polite—couldn't afford to be otherwise given his status—but the politeness was distant, performative. No one invited him to join their lunch groups. No one asked him to study together. No one treated him like normal peer.
He was the prince pretending to be common. Everyone knew it. Everyone resented it to varying degrees. And Conrad couldn't figure out how to bridge gap between his reality and theirs.
Royal Palace - Evening, Three Weeks After School Enrollment
Conrad found Godfrey in the servants' preparation area—large kitchen-adjacent room where palace staff organized morning routines before family woke. The old butler was reviewing next day's schedule with two younger servants, his posture impeccable despite age that should have curved his spine and weakened his frame.
Godfrey was seventy-three, had served the Ashford family for five decades, and looked perhaps fifty-five at most—back straight, movement fluid, silver hair tied precisely, wearing butler's uniform without single crease or stain. He'd been head of household staff through Conrad's grandfather's final years, through his father's ascension, through Hans's childhood and now Conrad's.
"Excuse me," Conrad said, hovering in doorway, uncertain whether interrupting work was appropriate. "Godfrey? May I speak with you?"
The butler looked up, assessed Conrad's presence, dismissed the younger servants with subtle gesture. "Master Conrad. How may I be of service?"
"I need—" Conrad paused, organizing his request. "Hans mentioned once that you trained him. Trained everyone in the family, actually. Combat training, Uncos development. Is that true?"
Godfrey's expression remained professionally neutral. "I have provided supplementary instruction to various family members over the years, yes. Though 'trained' might be generous description of my contributions."
"Could you train me?" The words came out rushed, desperate in way Conrad immediately regretted. "Please. I'm struggling. At school. With my Uncos specifically. I can barely create frost while students half my age are generating actual ice structures. And I thought—Hans said you were the one who taught him control, who helped him develop his abilities before he ever showed them publicly. So maybe you could—"
"Master Conrad," Godfrey interrupted gently, "I am seventy-three years old. While I maintain functionality adequate for household management, I am not suitable combat instructor. My training days are decades past."
The rejection hit harder than Conrad expected—possibly because it was another failure, another inadequacy, another confirmation that he wasn't worth the effort even elderly butler would provide to more worthy student.
"Oh. Of course. I'm sorry for—I shouldn't have asked. You're busy and I'm—" Conrad turned to leave.
"However," Godfrey continued, voice stopping Conrad mid-turn, "if you're willing to train at unusual hours and endure instruction from someone whose methods are perhaps outdated... I suppose I could teach you everything I know."
Conrad turned back—hope replacing disappointment so quickly he felt dizzy from emotional whiplash. "Really? You would?"
Godfrey smiled—rare expression that transformed his usually stern features into something warmer, more grandfatherly. "Master Hans was indeed difficult student—impatient, arrogant, convinced he already knew everything. Training him required creative methods and considerable patience. You, however, show humility he lacked at your age. Genuine desire to improve rather than simply wanting validation of existing ability."
He set down the schedule he'd been reviewing, giving Conrad his full attention. "Additionally, I made promise to your grandfather—that I would serve this family not merely as butler but as guardian in whatever capacity was needed. If you need combat instruction and Uncos development, then providing that serves my oath."
"Thank you," Conrad said, relief flooding through him with intensity that made his eyes sting. "Thank you, I'll work hard, I'll—"
"You will train every morning before dawn," Godfrey interrupted, voice returning to professional firmness. "You will follow instructions exactly. You will not complain about difficulty or suggest my methods are old-fashioned or inadequate. And you will tell no one—not your classmates, not your family—about our arrangement. Training remains private matter between us. Understood?"
"Understood," Conrad agreed immediately. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow. Four o'clock in morning. East courtyard. Wear clothing that can be ruined—we'll be working with ice, and frost tends to damage fabric." Godfrey's smile returned briefly. "Get rest tonight. Tomorrow begins difficult journey, and you'll need all the energy you can gather."
Conrad left feeling lighter than he had in weeks—finally, something going right, someone willing to help, path forward that didn't feel impossible.
Behind him, Godfrey returned to his schedule review, though his mind was already planning training regimen for young prince who'd finally shown enough sense to ask for help instead of pretending he didn't need it.
The palace settled into evening routines—Hans working late in his study, Father reviewing diplomatic correspondence, Mother reading to Elara before bed, servants completing final tasks before their own rest.
And in his quarters, Conrad set his alarm for three-thirty in morning, determined to arrive early, to show Godfrey he was serious about improving, about becoming someone who earned respect rather than just receiving it through birth.
Tomorrow would be difficult. Painful, probably. Humbling, certainly.
But it would be start.
And start was what Conrad desperately needed.