The operations room occupied the administrative complex's western wing, smaller than the command hall but designed for tactical specificity rather than council deliberations. A single table dominated the space—three meters long, constructed from salvaged timber, its surface marked with water stains and knife scratches from years of mission planning. Maps covered one wall, hand-drawn cartography updated weekly as intelligence reports arrived from field operations. The opposite wall held equipment manifests, supply inventories, personnel rosters—the administrative architecture that transformed ideological resistance into functional military organization.
Amari stood at attention near the room's entrance, his posture maintained through conscious effort rather than natural comfort. Ninety-four days of training had improved his physical conditioning significantly—his frame had filled out with proper nutrition, his muscles had developed definition from constant exercise, his cardiovascular capacity had increased to levels that would have been impossible three months prior. But standing still somehow felt harder than combat drills, required different kind of discipline that his body hadn't fully internalized.
Four others occupied the room: Commander Voss seated at the table's head, Bjorn leaning against the western wall with his characteristic casual disregard for formal military bearing, and two individuals Amari recognized but hadn't directly worked with—Zara, who'd led the mine extraction operation, and a man in his thirties named Erik whose file Amari had seen during architectural studies. Erik's specialty was barrier manipulation, defensive Uncos that could create force fields capable of stopping projectiles and energy attacks.
The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough that even without enhanced sensory abilities Amari could have identified the disagreement preceding his arrival.
Bjorn broke the silence first, his voice carrying the irritation of someone whose professional opinion had been overruled. "This is mistake. I said he's ready for field deployment—I stand by that assessment—but this specific operation isn't appropriate introduction. Too many variables, too much that can go catastrophically wrong."
"Your objection is noted," Voss said, his tone suggesting this argument had already occurred multiple times. "The decision stands. Amari participates in tomorrow's depot operation as primary scout. Team composition is four-person: Zara as operation lead, Erik providing defensive support, Thane handling heavy engagement if required—" he gestured at a fourth person Amari hadn't noticed initially, a large man standing in the room's far corner with the kind of stillness that made him blend into background, "—and Amari in reconnaissance role."
Zara's arms were crossed, her body language broadcasting skepticism. "He's exceptional for his age and training duration. But he's twelve years old with zero field experience against a military target staffed by adults with combat training and probable Uncos capabilities. First missions should be controlled-risk scenarios—supply intercepts, surveillance operations, situations where contact is unlikely. Not infiltrating an active military depot."
"Which is precisely why team composition is weighted toward protection," Voss countered. "Erik's barriers can shield the entire team if situation deteriorates. Thane's combat capability exceeds any reasonable threat we'll encounter at the target facility. And Zara's field experience means she can make real-time tactical adjustments. Amari's role is limited: enter first, map guard positions, identify optimal entry vectors, relay information back. He doesn't engage unless absolutely necessary."
"And if engagement becomes necessary?" Zara asked. "If a guard surprises him, if his route clearance fails, if any of the thousand things that go wrong during operations actually go wrong?"
"Then he adapts using the training Bjorn has spent three months drilling into him," Voss said. "Or he retreats to defensive position and lets the experienced operators handle the situation. We're not asking him to solo infiltrate. We're leveraging his specific capabilities—sensory awareness and pattern recognition that exceed most of our veteran scouts—while minimizing his exposure to direct combat."
Bjorn made a sound somewhere between agreement and continued objection. "His capabilities do exceed veteran performance in controlled environments. But controlled environments and live operations are different contexts. There's psychological weight to actual combat that training can't fully replicate. First time someone tries to genuinely kill you, brain chemistry changes in ways that affect decision-making."
"Which is why we're sending him with three veterans who can compensate if he freezes," Voss said. His attention shifted to Amari, who'd been standing silent throughout the exchange. "Amari. You've been listening to adults debate your readiness for approximately ten minutes. What's your assessment?"
The question surprised Amari—not because Commander Voss had never solicited his opinion before, but because doing so in front of subordinates who'd just argued against his deployment felt like test of something beyond tactical capability.
Amari considered his response carefully, assembling thoughts into structure before speaking. "I understand the concern about age and experience. Both are legitimate factors in capability assessment. But capability isn't determined solely by chronological metrics or training duration. It's determined by whether someone can execute required tasks under actual operational conditions." He paused, maintaining eye contact with Voss. "I can't prove I'm capable until I'm tested in real context. But I can articulate why I believe I'll perform adequately: my sensory processing allows threat detection before visual confirmation, my pattern recognition identifies optimal movement paths faster than conscious calculation, and my combat training has emphasized adaptability rather than rigid technique memorization. Those capabilities translate to field operations regardless of age."
Zara's expression shifted slightly—not quite approval, but perhaps recognition that Amari's self-assessment demonstrated appropriate understanding of his strengths and limitations rather than adolescent overconfidence.
"Adequate answer," Voss said. "Here's the mission profile." He unrolled a map across the table's surface, its edges held down by stones serving as improvised weights. "Military depot, southeastern territories, two days' travel from Sanctuary. Facility stores equipment for regional Order operations—primarily small arms, ammunition, some explosive ordnance. Intelligence indicates current inventory includes recent shipment from central manufacturing: forty rifles, approximately ten thousand rounds of ammunition, unspecified quantity of grenades and demolition charges."
His finger traced route on the map from Sanctuary to the depot's marked location. "Standard protocol is monthly inventory conducted by administrative oversight from regional command. That inventory occurred six days ago, which means we have approximately twenty-four days before next review. Any discrepancies in equipment counts won't be discovered until then, giving us operational window to utilize acquired materials before Order response can organize."
Thane spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly soft given his size. "Guard strength?"
"Twenty-two personnel on-site per last surveillance report," Voss replied. "Twelve active guards rotating through three shifts, eight administrative staff maintaining inventory and logistics, two command officers coordinating with regional hierarchy. Guard Uncos capabilities are unknown—assume at least half possess some manifestation, probably combat-enhancement or sensory types given facility's security function."
"Shift rotations?" Zara asked.
"Eight-hour cycles. Shift change occurs at six in morning, two in afternoon, ten at night. Changeover creates ten-minute window where attention is divided between departing and arriving personnel—optimal entry point if timing aligns properly."
Erik moved to the table, studying the depot's layout sketch that occupied the map's corner. "Building structure?"
"Primary storage is underground bunker, reinforced construction, single entry point through above-ground administrative building. Administrative building is two-story wood and stone, standard military architecture. Guards patrol external perimeter on thirty-minute loops, internal corridors on fifteen-minute intervals. Camera surveillance is limited—four external positions covering approach vectors, no internal monitoring beyond visual confirmation by roving patrols."
Voss's finger tapped the administrative building's marked entrance. "Mission objective: infiltrate during morning shift change, access underground storage, extract maximum portable equipment—priority is rifles and ammunition over explosives given weight constraints—and extract before next patrol cycle completes. Time budget is approximately thirty minutes from entry to extraction. Longer than that, probability of detection increases exponentially."
Amari was processing the layout, committing spatial relationships to memory. The administrative building had three entry points marked—main entrance facing north, service entrance on western wall, emergency exit on southern side. The underground storage accessed through interior stairwell positioned central to first floor layout. Guard patrol routes created gaps in coverage, but the gaps were narrow—five minutes maximum where specific positions weren't under direct observation.
"Transport?" Zara asked.
"Cart positioned one kilometer west of facility, maintained by support team. You extract to that position, they handle the equipment transit back to Sanctuary while your team continues to secondary rally point for twenty-four hour observation before return. Standard exfiltration protocol."
Bjorn pushed off from the wall, his posture suggesting he'd accepted that arguing further was pointless. "When do they deploy?"
"Tomorrow, pre-dawn. Travel time is approximately ten hours on foot through forest routes, arriving at staging position by late afternoon. You observe the facility through evening, confirm guard rotation schedule matches intelligence, execute infiltration at tomorrow morning's shift change." Voss rolled up the map. "Zara has operational command. Her tactical decisions are final during mission execution. Amari, you report directly to her—no independent action without authorization. Clear?"
"Clear," Amari confirmed.
"Then you're dismissed to equipment preparation. Bjorn will take you to the armory for weapon selection. Briefing continues in one hour for final tactical review."
Amari followed Bjorn out of the operations room, through Sanctuary's central area where late afternoon training sessions were concluding, toward the northern quadrant where the armory occupied a reinforced structure built partially into the valley wall. The building's entrance was guarded—not because Liberators didn't trust their own people, but because weapons represented critical resources that required inventory control.
The guard recognized Bjorn, stepped aside without verbal exchange. Inside, the armory was organized chaos—weapon racks along three walls holding everything from simple clubs to sophisticated compound bows, shelves containing ammunition sorted by caliber, workbenches where Forgers maintained and modified equipment. The smell was distinctive: metal, oil, leather, the particular combination that defined spaces dedicated to organized violence.
"First field deployment means first weapon selection," Bjorn said, gesturing at the available arsenal. "Some people treat this like ceremony—elaborate decision-making, testing different options, consulting with veterans about optimal choices. You can do that if you want. Or you can just pick what feels right and learn to use it properly through experience."
Amari's eyes tracked across the available options. Swords of various lengths and styles, designed for different combat applications. Daggers that could serve as both weapons and tools. Spears offering reach advantage. Bows requiring strength and practice but providing ranged capability. Clubs that relied entirely on user's physical power. Everything a pre-industrial resistance movement could manufacture or acquire through raids on Order facilities.
His attention caught on something sitting on a workbench in the armory's far corner, partially obscured by other equipment. Not prominently displayed like the weapons on the racks, but present nonetheless—two items that looked almost identical in size and shape, their positioning suggesting they were a matched pair.
Amari moved toward the workbench, his focus narrowing to exclude everything else. The weapons revealed themselves as he approached: twin daggers, each approximately forty centimeters total length, blades maybe twenty-five centimeters with wrapped handles accounting for the remainder. The metal was dark—not painted but treated somehow to reduce reflectivity—and the edges showed the particular sharpness that came from recent professional maintenance.
He picked up one dagger, testing its weight. Perfectly balanced—the center of mass positioned at the junction between blade and handle, making it equally effective for slashing or throwing if necessary. The handle wrapping was worn leather, conforming to grip through previous use, suggesting these weren't new manufacture but acquired equipment.
"Interesting choice," Bjorn said from behind him. His tone carried something that might have been approval. "Most people avoid those. Twin daggers require ambidextrous capability—using both hands equally well in combat—which is harder to develop than single-weapon focus. They're also close-range specialists, which means you need to get inside opponent's guard rather than maintaining distance. Higher risk, higher technical requirement."
Amari picked up the second dagger, now holding one in each hand. The positioning felt natural, felt right in ways he couldn't articulate but recognized instinctively. His hands knew how to hold these weapons. His body understood their combat applications without conscious instruction.
"They're also quiet," Bjorn continued. "No mechanical components to fail, no projectiles requiring reload, no sound generation beyond impact. Good reconnaissance weapons. Good assassination weapons, though we don't use that terminology because it makes moral philosophy complicated." He moved beside Amari, examining the daggers with professional assessment. "These were taken from Order officer three years ago. He was skilled with them—killed two of our people during the engagement before we brought him down. They've been sitting here since then because nobody wants to carry weapons that killed comrades. Superstition, mostly. Metal doesn't remember violence."
Amari's grip tightened on the handles. The daggers felt like extensions of his arms, felt like tools his hands had been shaped to use. "These," he said simply. "I want these."
Bjorn studied him for three seconds, his functional eye tracking across Amari's posture and grip positioning. "You ever train with twin daggers before?"
"No."
"Then you're either naturally talented or about to learn painful lessons about weapon selection during your first field operation." Bjorn pulled two sheaths from storage beneath the workbench—leather construction with metal reinforcement, designed to mount on thighs for quick draw accessibility. "These are paired with the daggers. You'll wear them here—" he indicated positioning on his own legs, "—angled for cross-draw. Right hand draws left blade, left hand draws right blade. Crossing your arms during draw looks dramatic but also prevents body blockage that would slow the motion."
He handed the sheaths to Amari. "You have twenty-three hours before deployment. I recommend spending at least ten of those hours practicing draw, basic cuts, movement patterns with dual weapons. Twin daggers change your combat geometry—you can attack from two vectors simultaneously, can defend while striking, can use one blade to control opponent's weapon while the other exploits opening. But all of that requires coordination most people don't develop quickly."
Amari secured the sheaths to his thighs, adjusting the straps for proper fit. The daggers slid into their homes with satisfying precision, the retention mechanisms holding them securely while allowing smooth draw. He tested the motion—right hand crossing to left blade, pulling it free in single fluid movement—and felt correctness in the action that transcended technical instruction.
"I'll practice," Amari said. He meant it. Weapon selection was commitment, was acknowledgment that tomorrow he'd be in situation where these tools might determine survival. That weight deserved respect.
"See that you do." Bjorn gestured toward the armory exit. "Get food, get rest. Meet at the northern gate at four in the morning for departure. Everything you need beyond weapons—water, rations, rope, medical supplies—Zara's team will have prepared. Your only responsibility is showing up ready to move."
Deep Forest Territory - Kiran's Shelter, Same Day
The structure Kiran called home was less building and more organized collection of natural materials arranged to provide weather protection. A fallen tree, massive oak that had died decades ago and toppled during some forgotten storm, served as the foundation. The trunk was hollow—rot had consumed the interior wood while the exterior bark remained relatively intact—creating natural tunnel approximately two meters in diameter and six meters long. Kiran had modified one end with woven branches and packed clay to create wall with small entrance, while the opposite end remained open for ventilation and emergency exit.
Inside, the space was barely adequate for one person, cramped for two. But it was dry, defensible from a tactical perspective—only one entrance that could be monitored—and sufficiently camouflaged that casual observation wouldn't identify it as occupied shelter.
John sat near the entrance, his enhanced spatial awareness mapping the interior structure through acoustic reflection and tactile contact with the wooden floor. His right hand was still wrapped in Vitalis leaves, the infection arrested but healing slowly. Kiran had changed the leaf dressing that morning, his small fingers working with competence that spoke to extensive practice treating injuries.
The boy was currently outside, gathering additional medicinal plants Kiran insisted John needed for optimal recovery. Which left John alone with his thoughts, processing everything that had occurred in the four days since his escape.
Four days. That's how long he'd been free. That's how long this body had existed without being property of someone who could hurt it without consequence.
It felt longer. Felt like the mine and the grain sorting and the casual violence of slavery had existed in different lifetime, though intellectually John knew it was barely a week since he'd executed his escape plan.
Kiran returned through the entrance, his arms full of various plants John's enhanced smell could identify by their chemical signatures—more Vitalis leaves, some kind of root vegetable that was edible after cooking, berries that carried slight toxicity when raw but became nutritious after heat treatment.
"Found everything," Kiran announced with satisfaction. He began organizing his collection, separating items by category with systematic precision. "The root vegetables will need cooking, but they're good calories. High in whatever nutrient helps with blood regeneration. My par—" he stopped himself, corrected the terminology, "—the people who kept me, they made me gather these after injuries."
John was learning to recognize when Kiran's statements contained useful information beyond their surface content. The boy had accumulated extensive practical knowledge through his years of forced servitude—which plants had what properties, which animals were dangerous, how to navigate forest terrain. Information John needed desperately given his complete unfamiliarity with this region and time period.
"Tell me about the world," John said. Not a question, exactly—more like opening for conversation he'd been planning since Kiran had first agreed to stay. "The political structure. The Order, the kingdoms, how governance functions. I've been isolated—" true enough, from certain perspective, "—and my understanding is incomplete."
Kiran looked up from his plant sorting, expression showing surprise at the topic shift. "You really don't know? I thought everyone knew about The Order, even in remote areas."
"Isolated," John repeated. "Very isolated. Assume I know nothing and explain accordingly."
Kiran settled into teaching mode, his posture shifting to accommodate what was apparently going to be extended explanation. "Okay. So, The Order rules everything. Three continents, all the kingdoms, all the major territories. They were established five hundred years ago after the God Wars ended, when the Supreme Eight defeated the fallen god and created unified governance system to prevent future conflicts."
The terminology made John's stomach tighten. "Fallen god."
"Van Hellsin," Kiran said, his tone carrying the particular quality of someone reciting learned history. "He tried to overthrow the Supreme Eight, claimed he deserved to sit among them as equal. When they refused, he attacked. Started a war that lasted thirty years, killed millions of people across all three continents, nearly destroyed civilization entirely. The Supreme Eight eventually defeated him, cast him down, and sealed him at the bottom of the ocean to prevent his return."
John maintained carefully neutral expression while processing this distorted version of his own history. "And after that?"
"After that, the Supreme Eight created The Order. Five great kingdoms—Algoria, Breshen, Korenth, Talvos, and Westmarch—each ruling specific territories but all swearing allegiance to the Eight. The kingdoms coordinate through central council that manages military forces, economic systems, resource distribution. It's supposed to ensure peace and stability."
"Supposed to," John echoed. "But the Liberators exist, which suggests the system isn't universally accepted."
"The Liberators think The Order is oppressive," Kiran said. His tone suggested he didn't fully understand the ideological conflict but had heard enough rhetoric from various sources to recognize both sides existed. "They say the kingdoms exploit common people to benefit nobles and those with strong Uncos. They want to overthrow The Order and create different governance structure based on equality and freedom."
"And you?" John asked. "Which side do you believe?"
Kiran's expression became uncomfortable. "I don't know. The people who kept me were awful, but they weren't Order officials—just criminals living in forest. And The Order is supposed to protect people, supposed to ensure laws are enforced. But I've also seen Order soldiers burn villages for not meeting tax quotas, seen them take children as slaves when parents couldn't pay debts. So..." He trailed off, clearly uncertain how to reconcile competing observations.
John understood the confusion. Large-scale political systems were always more complex than simple good-versus-evil narratives, always contained contradictions that resisted easy moral categorization. The Order probably did provide stability and protection for many people while simultaneously exploiting and oppressing others. The Liberators probably fought for legitimate grievances while also causing collateral damage through their resistance operations.
But John's interest wasn't in moral philosophy. It was in understanding constraints—what rules governed power acquisition in this era, what methods were prohibited, what paths remained available for someone trying to ascend from powerlessness to capability that could challenge gods.
"Tell me about restrictions," John said. "Rules the Supreme Eight imposed after the God Wars. Prohibitions on specific practices or resources."
Kiran's expression showed confusion at the topic shift. "Restrictions on what?"
"Power development. Methods for becoming stronger. The Supreme Eight wouldn't have defeated Van Hellsin and then left the same paths open that allowed him to challenge them originally. They would have closed those paths, made them forbidden, ensured nobody could replicate his ascension."
Understanding dawned on Kiran's face. "Oh. Yes. There are lots of prohibitions. We studied them in basic education before—" he stopped himself from mentioning his capture, "—before I came to the forest. The Divine Prohibitions. Seven major categories."
"Explain them."
Kiran began counting on his fingers, reciting from memory. "First: Forbidden Artifacts. Certain weapons and tools that were used during the God Wars are now illegal to possess. The Chains of Binding that could suppress Uncos abilities, the Mirrors of Truth that revealed divine presence, the Swords of Sundering that could cut through anything including gods themselves. Anyone caught with these items faces execution."
John's mind catalogued the information. He'd used similar artifacts during his original ascension—not identical items, but tools with comparable functions. Knowing they were now prohibited was useful data.
"Second: Forbidden Techniques," Kiran continued. "Specific training methods that allow humans to cultivate power beyond normal Uncos limitations. Deity Breathing, which supposedly lets people absorb divine essence directly. Soul Forging, which merges multiple Uncos into hybrid abilities. Mana Corruption, which amplifies power by accepting permanent physical degradation. All of these are death-penalty violations if discovered."
More useful information. John hadn't known these techniques had formal names, but he recognized the concepts—advanced cultivation methods he'd researched and partially implemented during his previous existence.
"Third: Forbidden Consumables. Certain plants and materials that grant temporary or permanent power increases. Celestial Fruits that grow in high-altitude regions and enhance mana capacity. Essence Crystals harvested from mana-rich zones that can be absorbed to boost Uncos strength. Divine Ambrosia that supposedly grants immortality or at least extreme life extension. Possession or consumption means execution."
John's chest tightened. The Celestial Fruits had been instrumental in his original power development—he'd consumed dozens over the course of his ascension, each one incrementally increasing his mana capacity beyond what natural cultivation could achieve. Knowing they were now forbidden was frustrating but predictable.
"Fourth: Forbidden Locations," Kiran said. "Places where divine power concentrates or where ancient knowledge is preserved. The Peaks of Ascension where Van Hellsin supposedly trained before challenging the gods. The Libraries of the First Age that contain pre-Order knowledge about power cultivation. The Temples of Mother Nature that hold secrets about the world's original systems. Entry to these locations is prohibited, and they're guarded by Order military forces."
That was new information. John hadn't known specific locations were being actively protected. Though it made sense—if the Supreme Eight wanted to prevent anyone from replicating Van Hellsin's path, they'd need to control access to the resources and knowledge that had enabled it.
"Fifth: Forbidden Knowledge," Kiran continued. "Written texts or oral teachings about power cultivation beyond approved methods. Books about deity ascension, scrolls describing combat techniques that can threaten divine beings, even stories about Van Hellsin that portray him as anything other than villain. Possession of such materials is illegal, distribution is capital offense."
John processed that. The Supreme Eight weren't just prohibiting physical resources—they were controlling information itself, ensuring that knowledge about alternative power paths remained suppressed. Effective strategy, and difficult to circumvent without access to sources that predated the prohibitions.
"Sixth: Forbidden Associations," Kiran said. "Organized groups that study prohibited topics or practice restricted techniques. Secret societies that preserve pre-Order knowledge, martial schools that teach forbidden combat methods, research collectives investigating alternative power systems. Membership in such groups means execution, and The Order maintains extensive intelligence networks to identify and eliminate them."
That explained why John hadn't encountered any underground knowledge networks during his brief time in the slave estate—they'd been systematically suppressed for five centuries. Any that survived would be deeply hidden, paranoid about recruitment, unlikely to reveal themselves to random strangers.
"Seventh: Forbidden Aspirations," Kiran finished. "This one's more conceptual. It's illegal to openly declare intention to become a god or to challenge the Supreme Eight's authority. Even theoretical discussion of deity status or divine succession can be prosecuted. The idea is to prevent anyone from even conceptualizing the goal, let alone pursuing it."
John was quiet, his mind working through implications. The Supreme Eight had been comprehensive in their prohibition structure. They'd identified every method, resource, location, and knowledge source that had enabled Van Hellsin's ascension, and they'd systematically outlawed all of them. They'd made it effectively impossible for anyone to replicate the path through approved channels.
Which meant anyone trying to ascend to challenge them—anyone like John—would have to operate entirely outside approved systems. Would have to become criminal by definition, would have to accept that pursuing power meant automatic opposition from all of civilization's official structures.
John sucked his teeth, the gesture unconscious expression of frustration. Everything he'd used originally—the artifacts, the techniques, the consumables—all forbidden now. Every advantage he'd leveraged, every shortcut he'd exploited, systematically closed off.
How was he supposed to become strong enough to challenge gods when every path to that strength was prohibited?
Kiran was still talking, apparently not noticing John's internal crisis. "It's actually kind of amazing that Van Hellsin managed to do all of this. The Divine Prohibitions list everything he accomplished, everything he used, every method he pioneered. He must have been incredibly powerful and incredibly knowledgeable. Which makes sense, I guess, since he's—"
"Since he's what?" John asked, dragging his attention back to the conversation.
"Since he's still alive," Kiran said, his tone casual like he was mentioning obvious fact everyone knew. "I mean, the legends say he's imprisoned at the bottom of the ocean, but there are rumors he escaped somehow. Some people claim he's ruling a kingdom somewhere, others say he's building an army to challenge the Supreme Eight again. Nobody knows for certain, but there are enough reported sightings that it seems likely he survived."
John's thought processes stopped. Completely stopped. Every cognitive function redirected toward processing what Kiran had just said.
"Say that again," John said slowly. "Slowly."
Kiran looked confused by the request but complied. "Van Hellsin is still alive? Or at least people think he is. There are rumors about sightings, about kingdoms that might be under his control, about—"
"Van Hellsin," John interrupted, his voice barely above whisper, "is alive."
"Yes?" Kiran's confusion was deepening. "You really didn't know this? I thought everyone knew about the Van Hellsin sightings. They're part of why The Order maintains such strict prohibitions—they're trying to prevent people from joining him if he's actually building forces for another challenge against the Supreme Eight."
John's mind was racing through logical chains. If Van Hellsin—if another version of him, if someone claiming to be him—was alive and active, that changed everything. Either someone was impersonating him for political purposes, or the original Kami Van Hellsin's consciousness had manifested in different body, or the legends about his imprisonment were more complex than John had understood.
But regardless of mechanism, if a Van Hellsin existed in the world, if that persona was associated with power and threat to The Order, then John's situation was simultaneously more dangerous and more opportune. More dangerous because any suspicion of connection to Van Hellsin would bring immediate lethal response from Order forces. More opportune because if there was already an established Van Hellsin creating chaos, John's own eventual emergence wouldn't be unprecedented—would be interpreted as part of existing threat pattern rather than something entirely new.
"Where?" John asked. His hands were clenched, the right hand sending pain signals he ignored. "Where is he rumored to be?"
"Different places depending on who you ask," Kiran said. "Some say the eastern mountains, others claim the southern islands, a few insist he's hidden in the northern wastes. The Order investigates every rumor, but they never find anything conclusive. Either he's very good at hiding, or the sightings are false."
Or, John thought, the sightings were real but distributed because whoever was using the Van Hellsin identity was mobile, was operating across multiple regions rather than maintaining single base. Smart strategy if the goal was keeping Order forces dispersed and unable to concentrate against single target.
John needed information. Needed to understand who this other Van Hellsin was, what their goals were, whether they represented threat or potential resource. But gathering that information would require mobility he didn't currently possess, would require access to intelligence networks he didn't have connections to.
First priority remained unchanged: heal, strengthen, develop capability to move independently. But now his long-term planning had new factor to account for—somewhere in the world, someone was using his name, was operating under his historical identity, was apparently powerful enough that The Order took the threat seriously.
Whether that someone was ally, enemy, or irrelevant complication remained to be determined.
But John was certain of one thing: eventually, he would find this other Van Hellsin.
And then they would have very interesting conversation.