Morro woke before dawn, the room still dark. He lay there for a moment, listening to the silence of the old man's house. Today was the day. Today, he would take the first step.
He rose from his bed, movements calm and measured. The morning air was still cool, the house quiet around him.
In the corner, hidden beneath his few belongings, was a chest. Simple, wooden, unremarkable. To anyone else, it would look like nothing more than storage. But to Morro, it held the only thing that truly mattered.
He knelt before it, his hands moving to the latch. The lock clicked open with a soft sound. He lifted the lid.
Inside, wrapped in dark cloth, lay his sword.
Morro reached in and carefully unwrapped it. The cloth fell away, revealing the blade.
The sword was beautiful in its simplicity. A white blade with black stripes running along its length, creating a striking contrast. The stripes looked like shadows or veins within the white steel, dark and purposeful. The blade was long, well-proportioned—not wide, not small. The cutting edge gleamed with a polished metallic sheen, sharp and ready.
The hilt was wrapped in black, traditional style, with vibrant red visible through diamond-shaped gaps in the wrapping. The red created a subtle but striking accent against the black. The guard was dark, almost black, with a complex geometric pattern—stepped layers and cut-outs forming a maze-like design. A thin golden accent strip ran vertically near where the guard met the blade.
Sleek. Minimalist. Refined.
But beneath that elegance lay something else. Something dangerous.
Morro's fingers wrapped around the hilt. The familiar weight settled into his hand, comfortable, like an extension of himself. It had been with him through everything.
He lifted it from the chest, the blade catching what little light filtered through the window. The white steel seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, the black stripes like scars across its surface.
Today, I'll need you.
The sword felt alive in his grip. Not in a mystical sense, but in the way a well-used tool becomes part of you. This was his weapon. His instrument. The thing that had kept him alive when everything else had failed.
Beneath his palm, he could feel it—the Core. The heart of the sword. It hummed with a familiar energy, always present, always connected. It had shaped the sword, and it operated it. It worked automatically, like a muscle responding to intent.
He'd learned more than just how to use a sword. He'd learned how sword cores really work—their structure, their mechanics, how they shaped the blade itself. More than that, he'd learned how to read them, how to understand them. How to reverse engineer the Core itself, to see what others couldn't. That knowledge was more valuable than any special ability.
He held it for a moment longer, feeling the weight, the balance, the promise of what it could do. Then he sheathed it, the blade sliding home with a soft click.
Time to go.
He left quietly, the old man still sleeping in his room. The house was silent as Morro stepped outside into the pre-dawn darkness.
---
The tavern was near the training grounds, just as Elder Kael had said. The training grounds weren't far from the old man's house—just down the path that ran near the property. Morro walked along it, his sword at his side. Normally, residents couldn't carry weapons when walking through the settlement, but Morro looked the part—confident, sword at his side, moving with purpose. He looked like a clan member, and nobody laid a finger on him.
The walk was short. By the time he arrived at the tavern, he was ten minutes early.
Aidan hadn't arrived yet.
Morro pushed open the door and stepped inside. The tavern was dimly lit, smelling of stale alcohol and old wood. A few patrons sat scattered around—mostly alcoholics nursing drinks at this early hour, their faces weathered and tired.
In one corner, two Military Police officers sat at a table, already drunk despite the early hour. They wore the distinctive uniforms of the Military Police, but their appearance was sloppy, their postures relaxed. Spoiled clan members, Morro thought. They laughed loudly, talking about women, their voices carrying across the room.
Morro found a table near the back, away from the noise. He sat and waited, his sword resting at his side. The officers didn't even glance in his direction. To them, he was just another resident, nothing worth noticing.
Ten minutes. Aidan would be here soon.
The door swung open again, and a group of men entered. Seven of them, all wearing Scout Corps uniforms. The one leading them was massive—towering at two meters tall, his presence filling the doorway.
Raven. A subdivision leader in the Scout Corps.
He was a tall, well-tanned man with black hair and a black goatee. An X-shaped scar cut across the skin above his right eye, and smaller scars marked his knuckles and the back of his hands—the kind that came from countless fights. He wore a dark crimson coat over a gray shirt, black trousers, and a golden necklace that caught the light. He had the look of someone dangerous, someone who didn't belong in any uniform.
"Liquor," Raven said, his voice carrying across the room. "For my men."
The tavern keeper shook his head nervously. "We're out. Ran out last night."
Raven's expression darkened. He moved toward the Military Police officers' table, his steps heavy, the crimson coat swaying with each step. The two officers looked up, and Morro saw it—one of them, the calmer one, was slightly terrified. The other, the angry one, tried to hide his fear but couldn't quite manage it.
"Here," the calmer officer said quickly, pushing a bottle across the table. "Take this. We don't need it."
Raven picked it up, examining it. Then his face twisted with disgust. "This is the cheap stuff. Low quality. You think my men drink this swill?"
Before anyone could react, Raven's fist came down on the bottle with powerful force. The glass shattered, spraying liquor everywhere. The floor, the table, the officer—all got wet. The officer's hand and forearm were cut by the glass, blood mixing with the spilled alcohol. He cried out, clutching his injured arm.
The angry officer shot to his feet instantly, his face red with rage. "You bastard! Do you know who we are? We're Military Police!"
Raven laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Military Police? You think that title means something? That it protects you?" He leaned closer, his scarred face inches from the officer's. "I have a twelve million bounty on my head—wanted by multiple clans for my crimes. But the Monogan clan keeps me because I provide something they need. Something they can't get elsewhere. I actually have balls, unlike you clan princesses. Your uniform, your status, your thinking that any of that matters—it doesn't protect you from consequences. Remember that."
The angry officer's face went pale. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
Raven's hand moved to his sword. In one fluid motion, he drew it and swung it powerfully through the air. Not at the officer—just a demonstration. But the force of it, the sound of it cutting through the air, was enough. The blade whistled past, close enough that the officer could feel the wind of it.
The angry officer stumbled backward, falling to the floor behind him, all the fight gone from him.
Raven sheathed his sword, still laughing. "That's what I thought. No way clan actually keeps these useless brats."
He turned to his men. "Let's go. This place is worthless anyway."
They left, the door swinging shut behind them. The tavern fell silent, the only sound the injured officer's pained breathing.
The angry officer was still shaking, his face pale. "That bastard... who does he think he is?"
Then, someone stood up from a table near the window. A man Morro hadn't noticed before. He started picking up the shattered glass, gathering the pieces carefully.
Raven. A known bandit, wanted for countless crimes in the Vage Desert. The rumors said he'd walked from village to village, robbing and destroying them. He'd managed to get his way into the clan military for his service and exchange of information.
The tavern girl moved to help. "Let me get that for you," she said, reaching for a broom.
The man smiled. "I'll help you with it. Two sets of hands work faster."
Together, they cleaned up the mess—the man gathering the larger pieces, the tavern girl sweeping up the smaller shards. He looked over at the officers while they worked, his expression still easy. "You were lucky he was just showing off. That one's dangerous."
The officers stared at him, but the man just smiled and went back to helping the tavern girl.
When they were done, the tavern girl thanked him. "Thank you for helping me."
"Of course. It's the least I could do."
The man looked over at the injured officer, who was still clutching his bleeding hand and forearm. "You should get that looked at. The cuts might need attention."
The injured officer nodded weakly, and the other officer helped him stand. They left the tavern, the injured one leaning on his companion.
The man returned to his table near the window and sat down.
Morro watched him. Short but well-built, with gray hair and a gray beard. He looked like he was in his forties, maybe fifties, though skilled Negacion users could live more than that with various methods. He had a well-groomed appearance and an easy smile. He looked experienced, relaxed, but there was something beneath the surface—something that suggested he was more than he appeared.
Morro recognized him immediately. This had to be Aidan. The clan elder who would recommend him.
Morro stood and approached the table. "Excuse me. Are you Aidan?"
The man looked up, his expression friendly. "That's me. And you must be Morro. Elder Kael told me about you. Sit, please."
Morro sat down across from him.
"So. You want to join the Fourth Division," Aidan said.
"Yes. I need a recommendation, and Elder Kael said you could help."
Aidan studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Elder Kael told me you lost your family. That you needed a place to stay. But he didn't tell me much else. What's your hometown, Morro? Where are you from?"
This is dangerous territory. I have a story prepared, but this man's eyes are sharp, observant. I need to be careful.
"A small settlement. Far from here. They kicked me out when I turned eighteen. They thought I was useless. Said I wasn't needed anymore."
Aidan nodded slowly. "I see. That must have been difficult."
"It was," Morro said, his voice carefully controlled.
Aidan's gaze drifted to the sword at Morro's side. His expression changed slightly—something subtle, almost imperceptible. But Morro caught it. The way Aidan's eyes focused, the slight shift in his posture. He had activated his Observation Negacion.
Aidan was trying to read the sword's Core. The Core was the heart of the sword—it contained all the information, all the history. The sword itself was just a byproduct, shaped by the Core's influence. Skilled swordsmen could use reverse engineering to extract that information, to see techniques used on it, even its complete history.
But the Prometheus Obfuscation resisted it. Aidan could sense the Core existed, but nothing more. The obfuscation blocked everything—the sword's history, its abilities, any techniques.
"That's an interesting blade you have there," Aidan said, his voice still casual. "There's something... I can sense the Core, but the details are obscured. Strong obfuscation. Most people don't bother protecting their Cores like that—they think reverse engineering is too advanced, that it won't happen to them. But you've taken precautions. Smart. Where did you get obfuscation like that?"
Aidan is using Observation Negacion, and the Prometheus Obfuscation is resisting it perfectly. But he doesn't seem worried or suspicious—just curious. That's good. If I play this right, he'll just think I got the obfuscation from somewhere, nothing more.
"I got it from my hometown," Morro said, his voice neutral. "Someone there knew about these things. Applied it for me."
Aidan nodded, accepting the answer easily. "I see. Well, it's working how it should be."
Aidan studied him for another moment, then smiled. "All right. The Fourth Division tryouts start in an hour. I'll give you your recommendation. But I want to see what you can do. I want to see if that sword of yours is as interesting as it looks."
He reached out, his hand hovering near the sword. "May I? I'd like to examine it more closely. Just to get a better sense of what we're working with."
Morro's hand moved slightly toward the hilt, but he didn't stop Aidan. He was confident. Even if Aidan touched the sword, even if he used some technique, all he'd be able to see was unreadable information. The Prometheus Obfuscation would protect everything. "Of course."