That night, Aeren didn't sleep.
Long after the mansion had grown quiet, when every servant and noble was tucked away in bed, Aeren stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. The torches on the walls cast flickering shadows, and he moved silently like one of them. Clutched in his hand was his personal knife—nothing extravagant, just a simple, sharp blade he had kept since before entering Verdan territory.
Aeren made his way to the garden, the air cold and still under the vast night sky. There, hidden behind rows of manicured hedges and under the shade of old trees, he trained.
He practiced his knife movements with precise intent. Every slash, every stab, was calculated and fluid, like a dancer moving through a deadly rhythm. But this was not just about the blade—Aeren was pushing his limits again. He activated his mana absorption, drawing in the raw mana from the environment. It entered his body easily now, more so than when he first began. The flow was smoother, his control better.
But the cost remained.
Inside, his organs were still burning. The dense mana shredded his insides, invisible damage tearing through his tissues. Every breath stung. His heartbeat echoed like a drum inside his head. But he didn't stop. Pain was irrelevant. Progress was everything.
"Faster. Stronger. I need to become... uninjurable," he whispered to himself through gritted teeth.
By sunrise, his training ended. Sweat clung to his back, and blood trickled slightly from his lips. He wiped it away without emotion and returned to his room. After washing up, he changed into his servant's uniform. No one had seen him leave. No one had stopped him. But he wasn't arrogant enough to think he was alone.
"This isn't my territory," he thought. "Someone might be watching. I just can't sense them."
And he was right.
A shadow had been observing him silently for days now—an elite agent assigned by one of the higher members of the Verdan household. While the lord of the house lacked specific mana-detecting abilities, his strength and awareness over his estate were unmatched. He knew when people moved. He knew when someone, even a young newcomer, behaved differently. And so, a shadow was assigned.
For one week, that shadow followed Aeren, waiting to uncover something suspicious. But what he saw instead was a boy who worked diligently during the day, always punctual, always precise. Then, after finishing his tasks, the boy would sneak out—not to steal or conspire, but to bring food to the slums.
He gave food to children, spoke gently to the poor, and smiled when he left.
There was no outward malice, no signs of dark intent.
What the shadow didn't know was that Aeren had already made those children his allies—not out of kindness, but because they were useful. In Aeren's mind, friendship was a contract. He fed them; they would owe him. One day, they would be his ears. His informants. His material.
After a week of watching, the shadow left with ease. There was no danger in this boy—just a hardworking child with a kind heart. A child who, strangely, never slept.
"Maybe... not sleeping is just his gift," the shadow had said before departing.
---
Aeren's routine continued for three months.
Each day, he served diligently, performing every task from cleaning noble rooms to assisting with minor duties for higher-ranked staff. The head butler had taken notice of his commitment but didn't praise him openly. Aeren preferred it that way.
Each night, he returned to the slums with food, occasionally bandages or spare cloth. He learned the layout of the streets, the alleyways, the secret paths that thieves used, and the places criminals avoided. Slowly, without drawing attention, he gathered information.
Eventually, he found a place on the edge of the slum, partially ruined and long abandoned. The locals called it cursed and avoided it. For Aeren, it was perfect—a future lab for his experiments.
Now, he only needed loyal friends.
And he had them.
The children of the slums—dirty-faced, wide-eyed, hungry children—had grown to trust him. Some of them now greeted him by name. They asked when he'd return. Some told him stories. Others whispered things they heard in the streets.
"Aeren, they say there's a merchant dealing in fake potions on East Lane," one boy had said.
"Aeren, I saw a man digging something near the ruins," said another.
To them, it was just talking. To Aeren, it was intelligence.
They were his now.
---
Rumors of Aeren began spreading among the lower servants of the mansion.
In the servant's quarters, late at night, a pair of young maids whispered while folding laundry.
"He never talks much, does he?" said Maren, the maid who had met him on the first day. "Always working. Never complains."
"Roun said he never even saw him sleep," the other replied. "He finishes his work, disappears, and shows up again before sunrise."
"Creepy... but kind, I guess?" Maren said. "He even helped me carry that basket last week without a word."
"You think he's aiming to be the personal butler for the young miss?"
"Maybe... but he doesn't act like someone competing. I think he's just different."
They didn't know how right they were.
---
Back in his small servant room, Aeren sat on his bed, writing everything he had learned into a small notebook he kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
"Slum layout: 70% complete. Informants: 12 reliable, 3 potential. Lab location: found."
He closed the book and stared at the ceiling.
No one questioned him. No one followed him. No one had seen him sneaking out or returning. But even now, he wasn't completely sure. This world was vast. Power came in many forms. And he was still just a child, playing the part of a kind servant while building the foundation of something far darker beneath the surface.
"I just need more time," he whispered.
And time, he would take—silently, patiently, ruthlessly.