Time inside the Faceted Chamber did not tick; it flowed like syrup, thick and viscous. There was no sun to mark the day, only the rhythmic pulsing of Syntheia’s mana and the agonizing recovery cycles of my own body.

  For the first two years of the five-year cycle, Syntheia didn’t teach me how to fight. She taught me how to survive my own existence.

  “The Void is not a tunnel, Scion,” her voice boomed, omnipresent in the white infinite. “You treat it as a burglar treats a window — a way to bypass a wall. This is mortal thinking. To the Architect, the Void is not the gap between bricks. It is the clay.”

  I stood in the center of the training arena, a collection of black diamond platforms floating in zero-gravity. My body was drenched in sweat that refused to evaporate in the heavy, dilated air.

  “Again,” she commanded.

  She didn’t cast a spell. She didn’t throw a fireball. She simply re-wrote the local laws of physics for a ten-meter cube around me.

  Gravity didn’t just invert; it became subjective to my velocity. If I moved my arm left, gravity pulled right. If I stood still, I was crushed. It was a Mana Puzzle of terrifying complexity, forcing me to solve differential equations with my body while under physical duress.

  I moved, sensing the shift in the Lattice strings before the gravity wave hit. I dove through a gap in the pressure, turning my own density to zero to ride the wave rather than fight it.

  “Better,” Syntheia noted, floating cross-legged on a disc of pure starlight. “But you are still calculating. You are thinking. A Scion does not think about the rain; he simply becomes wet.”

  She snapped her fingers. The puzzle reset, adding a new variable: Time-lag. Now, my perception was a second ahead of my body.

  It was grueling. My brain felt like it was boiling in its skull, rewiring itself to process reality.

  But the resources she provided made the agony sustainable.

  “Recover,” she murmured when I collapsed after the thousandth repetition, her tone shifting instantly from stern instructor to devout servant.

  A table manifested beside me, laden with vials of shimmering violet liquid.

  “Nebular Nectar,” she explained, uncorking a bottle. “Harvested from the accretion disk of the local nebula. It forces cellular regeneration at the quantum level. Drink.”

  I downed the liquid. It tasted like cold fire and strawberries. The exhaustion in my muscles vanished instantly, replaced by a hum of terrifying energy.

  “And this,” she handed me a shard of crystal that looked like frozen smoke. “A memory-shard of a dying star. Consume it to harden the bone lattice.”

  “You spoil me with all these consumables, Syntheia,” I groaned, crunching the crystal. It snapped like glass but dissolved into warm, heavy mana in my throat.

  “One does not spoil the Crown,” she said, lowering her eyes reverently. “One merely ensures it can bear the weight of the jewels.”

  The curriculum was relentless.

  Mornings were for Soul Structure. Afternoons were for “The Onion.”

  Around the eighteen-month mark, we sat on the floor of the infinite room. Crysanthe was practicing shaping spatial daggers nearby, her tongue stuck out in concentration, while Syntheia drew complex schematics in the air.

  “You perceive the Void as the space between threads,” Syntheia explained, drawing a sphere of layered mana. “You see the Lattice strings, and the empty grey between them. Correct?”

  “It’s the silence between notes,” I agreed.

  “That is the Skin,” she shook her head, peeling away the outer layer of the sphere.

  “Reality is an onion, Scion. The material plane is the core. The Lattice — the strings of causality — is the first peel. It dictates cause and effect. But beneath that? There are deeper frequencies. Frequencies where logic does not apply.”

  She tapped the third layer deep within the schematic.

  “This is where the Entities swim. The Great Ones. Beings too vast for the geometry of the material world.”

  My mind immediately jumped to the battles we had fought outside Bastion.

  “The Bell,” I murmured. “Zareth calls it the Hunger.”

  Syntheia froze. Her faceted fingers paused in the air. The light in the room dimmed slightly in sympathy with her mood.

  “Who is Zareth?”

  “A Void Summoner,” I explained. “My newest Anima. He doesn't create constructs; he opens doors. He says he issues ‘invitations’ to the things in the dark. We fought a Ravager just before I came here. He calls the connection ‘The Bell’.”

  Syntheia stared at me. Her silence was heavy, charged with static. Then, she whispered something in a language that sounded like tectonic plates grinding together — a series of clicks and harmonics.

  “A Caller,” she translated softly, awe creeping into her faceted face. “A Caller bound to the Hybrid? Of course. It creates a perfect circuit.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “It validates the Prophecy,” she admitted, looking unsettled but deeply pleased. “The Lineage always traveled with Gatekeepers. If you have attracted a Caller... then the creatures in the Deep Dark already know you are here. They are likely waiting.”

  She leaned forward, her violet abyss eyes locking onto mine.

  “This changes the trajectory. If you are to lead the Deep, Scion, your Authority must be absolute. The beasts of the Core do not respect Lineage; they respect only Mass. If you open a door and your Authority is lighter than theirs... they will eat you.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Noted,” I said dryly. “Be heavier than the monsters.”

  While she helped me master the Void, she approached my affinity for Flame with a mixture of professional curiosity and religious terror.

  Every third “day”, I entered a purpose-built containment unit — a box of transparent hyper-glass floating in the expanse, reinforced with shields to prevent thermal leakage.

  Syntheia stood outside, watching through the barrier, her hands clasped tightly.

  “Show me the Paradox,” she whispered over the comms.

  I centered myself. I engaged [Void Walk], slipping into the conceptual space between atoms.

  I used the Flame to ignite the Void, feeding the fire with the Concept of ‘Nothing.’

  Inside the glass box, I transformed. My body became a silhouette of black static wreathed in white-gold flames that didn’t flicker outward, but curled inward. The fire was eating the space it occupied.

  I moved through a series of katas I had developed. I lashed out with a tendril of Flame.

  The fire didn't burn the air; it erased the coordinates. A streak of grey, dead emptiness lingered where the fire had passed, reality deleted.

  Outside, Syntheia fell to her knees.

  She ignored Crysanthe, who was watching with wide eyes, munching on a mana-fruit. Syntheia pressed her forehead to the floor of the chamber.

  “Magnificent,” she breathed over the link. “The Flame burning within the Void. It is... the Final Geometric Truth.”

  I deactivated the skill, the sudden drop in mana making me gasp. Even with Tier 7 reserves, sustaining the Flame while in the Void was exhausting.

  “It feels like it harms the Void pathways,” I grunted, stepping out as the containment field lowered.

  “It strengthens them,” Syntheia corrected, handing me a restoration crystal. She refused to touch my hand directly, dropping the crystal into my palm as if my skin were holy ground. “I cannot teach you this fire, Scion. To my kind, it is death. It cracks our matrix. But seeing you wield it... it confirms everything.”

  “Confirms what?” I asked, wiping sweat from my eyes. “Who I am?”

  “What you are,” she corrected cryptically.

  Later, during a rest cycle, Crysanthe finally gave me the context Syntheia refused to speak aloud.

  We sat on the edge of the floating platform while Syntheia meditated in a suspended animation trance, recharging her immense reserves.

  “She won’t say the names,” Crys said quietly, dangling her legs over the infinite white drop. “She believes names have Karmic weight. If she speaks the name of a specific Traitor Court, their Seers might feel the ripple.”

  “Traitor Courts?” I asked. “I thought you said you were just loners.”

  “It wasn’t always like this,” Crys picked at a scratch on her diamond knee-plate. “Back when some of the Void Emperors — our ancestors — disappeared, there was a schism. The House of Opal... our family... we believed they would return. We kept the Old Codes. We kept the reverence for their Authority.”

  She gestured vaguely to the nebulous concept of the galaxy outside.

  “But others... powerful families... they chose the new Laws. The Obsidian Conclave. The Emerald Stronghold. They integrated with the new Systems fully. They called the Old Allegiance a ‘glitch’. A fantasy.”

  She looked at me, her blue eyes sharp.

  “If they knew you were here... a Hybrid? A walking proof that some still follow the Old Ways? That some date to break the Laws. They wouldn’t bow, Eren. They’d fear you would restart the Last War. They’d send god-kings to shatter this planet just to erase the evidence of their betrayal.”

  “That’s why she hides me,” I realized. “That’s why she provided these resources herself instead of calling in specialists.”

  “We are alone,” Crys nodded. “It’s just us, the Golems, and Mom’s fanatical belief that you exist. And now that you do... well. She’s putting all her chips on the table.”

  The most brutal phase of training began in the second year.

  Syntheia had already decided my Soul was too loud.

  “You are a beacon,” she stated one morning, circling me like a shark. “To a mortal, you are hidden. To an observant Ascendant, you still scream. You displace too much metaphysical weight. We must compress the signal further.”

  She devised a method she called “The Anvil.”

  I sat in the center of the room. Syntheia projected her pure Authority — not as an attack, but as sheer, unadulterated mass.

  “Do not defend,” she ordered. “Do not push back. Compress. Take your Soul Palace and fold it inward. Make the walls thicker. Hide the insides.”

  I closed my eyes. I visualized my inner world — the black floor, the sun, the nebula ceiling. I grabbed the edges of my soul with my Will and pulled.

  The pain was instantaneous and absolute.

  It felt like gripping a live coal inside my chest cavity. My spiritual ribcage groaned under the pressure. It was the sensation of crushing a diamond with bare hands.

  “Push harder!” Syntheia commanded, increasing her external pressure.

  I screamed internally, sweating blood. I wrapped the Void around the Flame. I hid the light under layers of nothingness. I folded the spatial dimensions of my soul until a room became a point.

  For months, we did this.

  Cycles of agonizing, sweating, shaking effort, trying to turn my soul from a sun into a black hole. My stats didn’t increase, but it felt like the quality of my Spirit attribute skyrocketed.

  One day, deep into the second year, something clicked.

  I was sitting under the crushing weight of her Authority, feeling my bones creak. The pain was blinding. But suddenly, I sensed it.

  The Pocket.

  A deeper layer of the Void Onion she had spoken of. A frequency of “No.”

  I didn’t push against her pressure. I slipped underneath it.

  I folded my soul not just inward, but sideways, tucking it into the Shadow of the Lattice itself. I enacted a shroud — not of mana, but of Causality.

  I am not here.

  The pressure vanished.

  I opened my eyes.

  Syntheia was standing over me, blinking rapidly. Her abyss eyes were darting around the room, scanning. She reached out a hand, waving it through the air inches from my face.

  “Gone,” she whispered.

  She checked her Domain. She spun around, looking at Crysanthe.

  “Where did he go? Did he somehow...”

  “I’m right here, Syntheia,” I said softly.

  She jumped. Literally jumped.

  She looked down at me, seated directly in front of her. Her mouth opened in a perfect, faceted ‘O’.

  “I sensed nothing…” she breathed, touching my shoulder to confirm I was solid. “Even my Karmic sight saw nothing. No past. No future. Just a Void.”

  She pulled back, her face glowing with intense, fanatical pride.

  “You have achieved the False Null. To think you could achieve this so quickly… Even to an Ascendant scanning the world... you can now become just background radiation. A rock. A breeze. Nothing.”

  “Does it hurt less?” I asked hoarsely, rubbing my chest where the phantom ache of compression lingered.

  “Eventually,” she smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made her look less like a goddess and more like a mother watching her child walk. “But pain is structure, Scion. You have built a fortress that the Traitors cannot see.”

  She clapped her hands. The room reset.

  The agonizing pressure lifted, leaving me feeling light as a feather, yet dense as a star.

  “Now,” she announced, her voice filled with anticipation. “Since you have learned to Hide... let us see if you can fight while hiding your Soul.”

  She summoned a massive array of mana constructs, mimicking the signatures of the Void Beasts we had discussed.

  “Prepare yourself, Lord,” she said, summoning her combat avatar once more. “The hiding is over. Now, we break things.”

  I stood up, cracking my neck. My soul was hidden. My body was dense. My reserves were overflowing.

  “I like breaking things,” I agreed.