Kael limped slowly through the morning streets of Lasthold. The city was only just waking up: the few passersby hurried about their business, some shopkeepers opened their shutters, and a low mist hovered above the tiled roofs, lit faintly by the first rays of the rising sun.

  Every breath carried the bitterness of last night’s wine, and every exhale came out thick with stale fumes.

  Kael winced, covering his eyes with his palm. It felt as though the sunlight pierced straight into his skull, igniting a headache.

  “Awful evening…” he muttered, feeling the dull pain throbbing inside his skull. “My young body handles alcohol far too badly…”

  He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the lingering heaviness. A chill ran down his spine, and he held his breath for a moment to steady the nausea.

  “But the hangover isn’t the worst of it,” he noted darkly as he continued down the stone street. “Aiden learned my level of advancement…”

  The thought was cold and unpleasant, leaving behind a sense of foreboding. Aiden wasn’t someone who overlooked oddities—especially ones like that.

  Kael turned the corner, stepping more cautiously so as not to trigger another flash of pain. The mist parted, revealing the familiar sign of the family restaurant—modest, worn, with carved patterns along its edge.

  He immediately noticed the wooden door standing ajar, swaying slightly in the draft.

  “Mother left the door open…” he whispered, wincing. “I hope she doesn’t realize I’m only getting back now…”

  Carefully, using only two fingers, he pushed the door open just enough to slip inside. The bell above the entrance quivered faintly but gave no sound.

  Sliding in, he removed his shoes, trying not to make the floorboards creak. The house still smelled of last night’s broth, meat, and ale the regulars drank by the barrel.

  The scent made his stomach clench unpleasantly.

  On his toes, almost noiselessly, he climbed the stairs. The light tingling in his feet told him his body still hadn’t recovered—his hands trembled, his breathing uneven.

  Each step felt far too heavy, but Kael gritted his teeth and pushed on, intent on vanishing onto the second floor before anyone heard him.

  As soon as he reached the second floor, he heard his father’s snoring and his mother’s quiet breathing. A wave of relief spread across Kael’s face, and he thought:

  “If they’re sleeping peacefully, then no one noticed I was gone. Otherwise—Mother wouldn’t have slept until morning…”

  He nearly sprinted to his room, slipped inside, and immediately turned the key in the lock, sealing himself within.

  The first thing he did was throw the window wide open. Cold morning air rushed into the room, cutting through the stifling reek of his hangover.

  “Can’t let the room reek of alcohol…” he muttered with a grimace. “I’m not one of those young lords who can get away with anything. If he smells it on me, Father will tan my hide.”

  Trying not to make noise, he quickly stripped off the wine-soaked clothes and changed into clean ones. The fabric chilled his skin as usual—his body still shivered slightly, especially his hands.

  Kael sank heavily onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped softly beneath him, his balance tilting for a moment. His head ached, his temples throbbed, and a faint numbness spread through his limbs.

  Fatigue seeped into every joint, every muscle, all the way down to the bone.

  But he wasn’t in a hurry to lie down.

  Kael exhaled slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. His amber eyes flashed coldly—far too clear for someone barely holding himself upright.

  “The situation is far from ideal…” Kael said quietly. “I don’t think the news about my advancement will influence the actions of the Three Families. But…”

  He ran his fingers along his temple, suppressing another pulse of pain.

  “…I’d better hurry and break through to the Steel Mage stage.”

  The thought brought a sharp clarity. For a moment, even the pain receded.

  “As soon as I finish growing my mana channels…” he breathed out softly, “I’ll be able to form a contract with a spirit.”

  Kael clasped his hands together, fingers interlacing, and rested his elbows on his knees. His back curved slightly as he leaned forward, fixing his gaze on the floor—as though the answers that had tormented him lately lay hidden there.

  “I still haven’t decided which Spirit Realm to approach…” he thought, exhaling slowly.

  “My soul lets me merge with any spirit and fully unlock its potential… but which spirit could unlock me?”

  This thought arose in his mind regularly, yet he could never reach a conclusion. Even now, with a pounding hangover, the question refused to let him go.

  He took a deep breath—the cold air struck his chest, sharpening his mind.

  “I have no overwhelming power…” he murmured quietly, almost soundlessly. “Nor speed… nor an affinity for any element or specific attribute…”

  His words flowed evenly, without emotion—he was merely thinking aloud.

  “I have no pull toward chaos, nor toward bloodshed… nor, least of all, toward virtue.” The corner of his mouth twitched into a crooked smirk. “No wonder my soul is the Formless Void.”

  The thought of his own soul form still felt strange. He ran his fingers thoughtfully across his lips.

  Void—an absence of form, of direction, of nature itself. But within that absence lay strength: the absence of limits.

  An image surfaced on its own—Kael recalled the Void Hermit. The one who had created the Canon of Primordial Void. The one whose Soul Form was identical to his own.

  “No wonder…” Kael said softly. “He chose an abstract spirit from the Spirit Realm of Space.”

  As he fell onto his back on the bed, Kael felt the mattress sink gently beneath him, and an unpleasant tingling ran across his skin. A sharp prickling stabbed at the back of his head as a heavy wave of nausea rose in his throat. He inhaled deeply and, staring at the ceiling through a blurred gaze, said quietly:

  “But there’s no chance I could withstand the power of a spirit capable of influencing time right now… Even locally. Even on the smallest scale.” He grimaced. “And it wouldn’t be of any use to me anyway…”

  He lay there for several seconds until he felt the nausea intensify and the ceiling begin to spin. Kael jerked upright—his head swam, the room tilted, but he managed to stay upright. Swaying, he rose to his feet and slowly hobbled toward the table.

  Sitting down, he felt around for a sheet of parchment and unfolded it, and—dipping his quill into the ink—began quickly writing out a list:

  The Spirit Realm of Space

  The Spirit Realm of Chaos

  The Spirit Realm of Life

  The Spirit Realm of Death

  The Spirit Realm of Mind

  The Spirit Realm of Flesh

  The Spirit Realm of Elements

  He paused for a moment, staring at the last one.

  “Fire, Water, Earth, Lightning, Wind, Light, and Darkness…” he murmured thoughtfully. “None of that would suit me. Even related spirits—ice, magma, metal…” He snorted briefly. “Still wrong.”

  With a precise motion, he crossed out “Spirit Realm of Elements,” striking through the line as if discarding something useless.

  Shifting his gaze farther down the list, Kael narrowed his eyes and immediately reached for the next line—“Spirit Realm of Flesh.”

  “Spirits of blood, bone, beasts…” he muttered, crossing it out with a single, clean stroke. “All pointless.”

  He had little doubt: any spirits tied to physical might or manipulation of flesh were useless to him. His weak body wouldn’t withstand their amplification, and he had neither inclination nor interest in such transformations.

  Squinting, Kael lingered on two entries: “Spirit Realm of Life” and “Spirit Realm of Death.”

  He unconsciously ran the tip of the quill beneath the first, then beneath the second, underlining both.

  “To work with them, one ideally needs the right temperament and character…” Kael said quietly.

  He tapped the table thoughtfully with his nail.

  “Healing spirits, restoration… or corrosion, decay… They could be useful…” His voice grew duller. “But would they be good for me in the long run?”

  The answer wasn’t obvious, so he deliberately refrained from crossing out either realm—marking them only as options requiring further analysis.

  Moving the quill farther, he spotted the next entry: “Spirit Realm of Mind.”

  Kael exhaled heavily.

  “Spirits of illusion, dream, emotion, and madness…” he muttered. “All wrong.”

  He rubbed his chin, frowning.

  “And spirits that enhance the mind… pointless for me.” He smirked faintly. “I already possess flawless, boundless memory.”

  The quill touched the parchment again, and the line “Spirit Realm of Mind” was crossed out as decisively as the ones before it.

  Leaning back in his chair, Kael closed his eyes wearily and murmured:

  Stolen story; please report.

  “The Spirit Realm of Chaos and the Spirit Realm of Space… those are all that remain.”

  He leaned forward again, looked at the word “Chaos,” and said quietly:

  “Shadow, corruption, blight… Plenty of useful aspects… but far too many I wouldn’t be able to endure at my current strength…”

  His fingers tightened around the quill instinctively. His thoughts returned once more to his Soul Form—the Formless Void, neutral in its very nature.

  “I need something just as neutral as I am,” he breathed. “And something that will strengthen my combat style… and that I can withstand even now.”

  He frowned, sinking deeper into thought.

  Several seconds dragged on, thick and sluggish, and the fog in his head began to condense again. Kael shook his head as if to drive the excess away, and muttered dully:

  “Alright… Right now, breaking through is what matters most. There’s still time to make the final choice.”

  He lowered the quill, feeling his hand tremble slightly.

  “Moreover…” He cast a grim look at the parchment. “I need to figure out whether I can even obtain the ingredients for the summoning rituals.”

  He exhaled tiredly and reread the remaining lines:

  “Chaos, Space, Life, and Death…”

  “The summoning ritual for each of these Realms is anything but simple,” he muttered, running his fingers along his temple. “I might not be able to acquire the ingredients even for their simplest variants…”

  ? ? ?

  At that same moment, while Kael sat at his desk, fighting off nausea and clinging to his thoughts just to keep the dizziness at bay, something entirely different was taking place in another part of Lasthold.

  Deep underground, in a hall where stone walls were covered in runes and magic circles, an old man sat. Around him swirled a dense vortex of red mist—coarse, cutting, as though each particle could strip the skin from a weak mage with a single touch. The mist thrashed about the room, slamming into the walls; each impact was met with a flash of a barrier that muted the force of the blow.

  The old man sat motionless in the center of the magic circle, focused entirely inward.

  This was Magister Duran.

  In a single instant, his eyes flew open.

  The narrow pupils trembled, the red irises gleamed—and in the next heartbeat:

  THU-DUM!

  The vortex exploded, crashing against the walls in waves. The red mist curled into spirals and surged back into the old man’s body, dispersing so swiftly it could have been mistaken for an illusion or a dream.

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the vortex itself.

  Duran parted his lips. His chest rose quickly, his gaze darted—he touched his palm to his heart, as if checking whether the changes he felt were truly real.

  “I don’t believe it…” he rasped. “I’ve been at a standstill for so long, but with this…”

  He flicked his hand.

  Several plain sheets of parchment flared into the air—thin pages covered in uneven handwriting, containing a mantra and a set of strict training recommendations. Rows of marks, corrections, a few ink smudges—nothing remarkable at first glance, yet at this moment Duran looked at them with an expression bordering on reverence.

  As though before him lay a treasure capable of changing destinies.

  And it had already changed his own.

  “The Canon of Pulsing Thought…” Duran whispered, brushing his fingers against the parchment. “How did its creator guide me… and slip this into my study without my noticing? Who could perform something like that without me sensing a thing?”

  The old man’s hands trembled. His eyelids fluttered, his pupils narrowed, as though his mind was finally assembling the details into a complete picture.

  And suddenly, heat flooded his heart.

  “I… will truly be able to break through to the Jade Mage stage…” he breathed, unable to believe his own words. “Whoever this hidden ally is… he hasn’t misled me!”

  A strange, half-mad grin slowly spread across the old man’s face. It had nothing in common with the Duran his students knew: kind, calm, always confident in the proper measure of strength.

  But now, something else was rising from the depths of his being. Old ambitions, and visions of future plans taking shape.

  He swept his hand sharply, and from his spatial ring slid a long flask filled with a thick silvery elixir.

  “I used to hesitate…” Duran muttered, snapping the cap off in one swift motion. “But now… it’s time to combine the training of the Canon of Pulsing Thought with this mana elixir.”

  With those words, he raised the flask to his lips and drank it in one gulp. His throat jerked as the elixir surged inside him in a dense, hot wave.

  With a flick, the empty flask clattered across the floor, rolling until it struck the wall.

  Duran closed his eyes at once.

  His face grew astonishingly calm—as though he had finally made the decision he’d longed for his entire life. Before, he hadn’t known whether it would succeed, but now he was certain. And all thanks to his hidden ally.

  ? ? ?

  Meanwhile, in the main manor of the Vengeful Thunder Family, a different scene was unfolding.

  Aiden stood on one knee before an old man with a calm face—Elder Zeiran. The air in the hall was heavy, saturated with incense and the faint pressure of power that always accompanied Zeiran’s presence.

  Aiden had just finished reporting about the previous evening.

  The elder examined his grandson with narrowed eyes, as though weighing every movement, every nuance in his voice.

  “Go sleep it off,” he said at last, dryly. “And clear your stomach. You reek of alcohol.”

  Aiden instinctively straightened.

  “Yes, Grandfather,” he replied, bowing slightly. His voice still held a faint rasp, his movements were carefully steady, even though the wine still lingered in his blood.

  Aiden turned and headed for the exit, trying to walk straight, without swaying. He did not manage it very well.

  But even so, when Aiden was already at the doors, Zeiran added, without changing his expression:

  “You are a grandson worthy of our line.”

  Aiden froze for a moment. The corners of his lips trembled—unable to hide the delighted smile that broke through. He bowed and left, closing the doors gently behind him.

  A heavy silence settled over the hall.

  Zeiran exhaled slowly, his gaze sharpening as he focused. He stared at a single point before him—as though he were not looking at a stone wall but at lines of ancient text, memories, and patterns rising before his mind’s eye.

  “The boy has already begun growing his mana channels?” a quiet, tense voice echoed in his mind.

  “An incredible mana awakening I can understand… But such progress in so little time…? That lies beyond our knowledge.”

  He rose from his seat, adjusting his violet hair, tied back into a tail. A thoughtful frown appeared on his face.

  “But the knowledge preserved in Lasthold is far from perfect…” he murmured aloud, taking several steps across the hall. “Could Kael be one of those gifted mages mentioned in the ancient texts? One of those… sought by the gods?”

  With those words, Zeiran approached the far wall of the hall—a section seemingly indistinguishable from the rest.

  He lifted his hand and pressed a finger to a single brick marked with an almost invisible sigil.

  A thin thread of lightning flickered across his palm, and Zeiran fed a wisp of mana into the marked brick.

  CLACK!

  KRAAAAGH…

  The wall let out a long, low groan, as if awakening from a deep slumber. The mechanism within was clearly ancient—and exceedingly complex. The stones began sinking downward, slowly revealing a dark passageway, from which drifted the scent of parchment and ink.

  Zeiran raised his hand, and above it flared a small sphere of lightning. It crackled softly, casting a sharp blue glow across the passage.

  Beyond the threshold, a narrow spiral staircase led deep underground.

  “If this is truly the case…” Zeiran whispered, and a foxlike grin slowly spread across his face—predatory, confident, brimming with anticipation.

  Without wasting a second, he began his descent. And when he stepped onto the third step, the wall behind him began rising again, sealing the entrance.

  A hollow scrape of stone echoed through the hall…

  And the secret passage disappeared once more, as if it had never existed.

  ? ? ?

  Zeiran descended quickly, step after step, until the spiral staircase ended in a sudden drop. The moment his foot touched the ground, as if responding to the presence of its master, dozens of magical crystals along the walls and ceiling lit up one after another, casting a soft golden glow.

  The underground hall unfolded before him.

  The chamber was vast: along the walls stretched ancient shelves of dark wood, holding books, scrolls, neatly bound records, and even stone tablets. On separate pedestals stood sealed display cases containing artifacts: amulets, spheres, crystals, weapons, and a few objects of unknown origin, covered in runes that quivered faintly in the crystal light.

  But Zeiran did not spare them even a glance.

  His steps turned confidently to the left—toward the beginning of the smaller section of the underground archive.

  This part was meticulously organized: scrolls sorted, texts translated by modern mages, and small plaques beside them bearing notes and commentary. Here was stored everything the Vengeful Thunder Family had managed to decipher over the past centuries.

  Yet the archive itself was divided into two sections.

  To the left—the section with already translated texts.

  To the right—a sealed one, behind a massive metal door covered in layers of seals and rune-locks.

  There were stored the ancient texts whose time had not yet come. Texts that no one in the Vengeful Thunder Family had been able to read, or even remotely comprehend.

  Zeiran approached one of the shelves in the open section and immediately began sorting through the book spines, his fingers gliding swiftly across the covers. A trace of dissatisfaction flickered across his face—too much work, too few to shoulder it.

  “In this generation, we have far too few scholars of antiquity…” he muttered, pushing aside one book after another. “I must issue an order for the children of the third-tier branches of the family to be sent to the Hall of Ancient Research…”

  His hand suddenly froze.

  His fingers came to rest on a thick, dark binding.

  A sharp gleam lit Zeiran’s eyes—without hesitation, he pulled the book from the shelf and looked at the cover.

  “Fragments of the Gods…”

  Speaking the title aloud, he opened the book at once and, without truly looking at the pages, flipped rapidly through them. He ignored most of the text—he sought the notes he had written himself decades ago.

  Page after page after page.

  Until at last his eyes caught the familiar underlined lines and a complex inscribed circle on the facing page.

  Zeiran stopped. His heartbeat quickened slightly.

  “Here it is…” he whispered.

  He lowered his gaze to the page and read silently:

  “I have managed to discern the meaning of this inscribed circle. Since ancient times, among mages and even mortals, unique beings occasionally appeared. These individuals possessed abilities far surpassing others in certain aspects. In the texts, they were called ‘Fragments,’ ‘Relics,’ or ‘Shards.’”

  “One of the primary signs of a potential Fragment is an unnatural surge in power. Such beings often appear to be ordinary mortals—until their abilities awaken. Afterward, they begin to rapidly outpace those around them. Moreover, their power may manifest not only as raw strength, but through other talents as well. They are anomalies—capable of remaining hidden, so long as no one is truly watching.”

  Zeiran shifted his gaze, tapping a finger lightly along the edge of the page. He read on slowly, the voice in his mind growing more suspicious:

  “The meaning of the ritual is difficult to comprehend, but in the Abyssal Shadow Empire such Fragments were sacrificed to the Gods. Specifically—to the God of Shadow. Their texts stated that the God of Shadow claimed such beings and, in exchange, lavishly blessed the Abyssal Shadow Empire. Some sources say these sacrifices occurred extremely rarely—once in a hundred years or even less. Yet with each one, the Abyssal Shadow Empire grew stronger still.”

  At these words, Zeiran’s eyes glimmered faintly—the glimmer of someone glimpsing an extraordinary advantage. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to the right-hand page.

  There, beneath a complex inscribed circle composed of various runes and symbols, it read:

  “This diagram can be activated only by the blood of Fragments. For they are inherently connected to a certain Divine Dimension, and only their blood can serve as the catalyst for this ritual. Only they can commune with the Gods.”

  Zeiran slowly closed the book, his expression turning cold and focused. With a single motion, he slipped the tome into his spatial ring, as though storing away not a mere book, but a key to his future power.

  “What if Kael is one of these Fragments?” he murmured softly, almost tenderly, as a foxlike grin curled his lips. “What if I take his blood… and offer him as a sacrifice to the God of Shadow?”

  The thought struck him—bright and painfully sweet.

  In Zeiran’s imagination, scenes flared one after another: he stood in the center of a hall, bathed in divine light; the voice of the God of Shadow whispered secrets to him; the elders of Lasthold bowed their heads, and any decision he made became law.

  He already saw how easily he could reshape Lasthold’s politics, whole sectors of authority, the destinies of families. A world in which no one could oppose him.

  Zeiran narrowed his eyes.

  “If he turns out to be a Fragment…” he thought, clenching his fist, “then a sacrifice would bring far greater benefit than any deciphering skill.”

  He took a few steps toward the exit, weighing every risk and reward.

  “And if his blood doesn’t work… and the ritual doesn’t activate…” He brushed his fingers thoughtfully along his chin. “I can simply take him captive. Force him to work. One way or another, Kael is a goldmine.”

  Zeiran shook his head, discarding excess emotion, and murmured to himself:

  “I must think this through carefully… For actions of this magnitude, everything must be double-checked. And most importantly—the right moment must be created. A moment when no one can lay blame on my family…”

  He summoned another sphere of lightning to light his path and confidently began ascending the spiral stairs.

  As soon as he disappeared around the bend, all the crystals went dark, and the archives plunged back into darkness.

  ? Author’s Note ?

  Thanks for reading! I’m sharing this story on RoyalRoad in my spare time, while most of my focus goes to Book 3 of The Greatest Heretic. Unfortunately, only a few chapters of that series are on RR — the full story is on Amazon.

  This story about Kael is different: I don’t plan to publish it on Amazon and will be slowly developing it here. If you enjoy it, your ratings and reviews will let me know the story is connecting with readers, and I’ll do my best to put in more time and release chapters more regularly!

  So yeah… drop those stars, reviews and comments — it’s basically the SPAM2WIN code to spawn extra chapters and keep this author-NPC grinding at the keyboard. ?????