[DISCLAIMER: The following events occur after the conclusion of ''The Grand Assembly'' side story, approximately two weeks following the final conference session.]
Kingdom of Algoria - Royal Palace, Days 14-21 Post-Assembly
The dining hall's architecture had been designed three generations ago to accommodate formal state dinners—vaulted ceilings rising twelve meters overhead, windows positioned to catch afternoon light, a table constructed from single piece of mahogany that could seat twenty-four guests comfortably. For family meals, they used only one end: Father at the head, Hans to his right in the traditional heir's position, Conrad and Elara on the left side, Mother at the opposite end where she could supervise serving staff.
Conrad pushed roasted pheasant around his plate with mechanical precision, cutting pieces he didn't eat, rearranging vegetables into patterns that served no purpose. The food was excellent—palace kitchens employed sixteen cooks who prepared meals that visiting dignitaries praised extensively—but it all tasted like ash in his mouth.
"—and the Breshen delegation has formally accepted the economic integration proposal," Hans was saying, his voice animated with the kind of intellectual excitement that made Father lean forward attentively. "Which means we've secured majority consensus across the western territories. The eastern kingdoms are still hesitant, but Jean-Pierre's support gives us leverage there."
"Remarkable work," Father said. His hand rested on the table near Hans's arm—not quite touching, but close enough to indicate approval. "The integration timeline?"
"Eighteen months for preliminary framework. Full implementation within three years if we maintain momentum."
"Your mother said you were up until dawn revising the trade agreements."
"The details matter. One poorly worded clause and we lose negotiating position."
Father smiled—the expression he reserved for moments of genuine pride, rare enough that Conrad had learned to recognize it immediately. "You're thinking like a king already."
Conrad's knife scraped against porcelain, louder than intended. Three pairs of adult eyes glanced his direction briefly before returning to the conversation. Elara, seated beside him, was focused entirely on cutting her own food into progressively smaller pieces, oblivious to everything else.
"The Montclaire situation requires careful handling," Hans continued. "Jean-Pierre's cooperation is strategic, not ideological. He's positioning himself for maximum advantage once integration occurs. We'll need to—"
"What about the farming territories?" Conrad heard himself speak before consciously deciding to. "The ones that provide food for the eastern provinces. Do they benefit from integration?"
A pause. Hans looked at him with the patient expression one might give a child asking about adult matters. "The agricultural regions will have access to better distribution networks. Increased market reach."
"But will they have more food? Or will distribution just mean their harvests get sent to cities while they—"
"Resource allocation follows economic efficiency," Hans said, voice still patient but with an edge that suggested the conversation was concluded. "The overall system benefits everyone when properly managed."
Conrad wanted to push further—to ask whether 'everyone' included the farmers Amélie had mentioned, the territories exploited to fund Algoria's prosperity—but Father was already turning back to Hans, asking about infrastructure development timelines, and the moment passed.
Conrad returned to moving food around his plate. After another minute, he set down his utensils. "May I be excused?"
Mother looked up from the far end of the table. "You've barely eaten."
"Not hungry."
"Conrad—"
"Please."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. Conrad stood, offered the required formal bow, and left. Behind him, the conversation resumed immediately—Hans explaining something about tariff structures, Father asking clarifying questions, their voices blending into background noise as Conrad walked the long corridor back toward his quarters.
The pattern repeated over the next week.
Conrad would find Father and Hans in the study—Father's private office where important documents were reviewed and decisions made. The door would be open, an implicit invitation for family to enter. Conrad would approach, would stand in the doorway watching them work together: Hans pointing to maps or contracts, Father nodding approvingly, both of them speaking the language of governance that Conrad barely understood.
Sometimes Father would notice him. "Yes, Conrad?"
"I was wondering if I could—"
"We're in the middle of something important. Perhaps later?"
Later never came. Or when it did, Father would be tired, distracted, offering Conrad perfunctory attention while clearly thinking about other matters. The conversation would last three minutes before Father made excuses—work to finish, meetings to prepare for, correspondence to review.
Conrad learned to read the pattern: when Hans was present, Father became animated, engaged, fully attentive. When Conrad approached alone, Father became someone different—distant, dutiful but uninterested, going through motions of parental obligation without genuine investment.
On the sixth day, Conrad stopped approaching. He would see them in the study and simply walk past, heading to the library or the gardens or his own quarters. They never called him back.
On the eighth day, during afternoon lessons with his tutors, Conrad answered a question about military history with information he'd overheard Hans discussing. His tutor—Master Aldous, who'd taught three generations of Ashford children—paused mid-sentence.
"That's... quite advanced analysis for your age, Conrad."
"Hans explained it to Father last week."
Aldous's expression shifted—something that might have been sympathy, quickly masked. "I see. Well, it's good that you're paying attention to your brother's work. Though remember that you're still young. You don't need to—"
"I'm the same age Hans was when he started studying governance."
"Hans is... exceptionally gifted."
The words hung there, polite and devastating. Exceptionally gifted meant not like you. Meant stop comparing yourself. Meant you'll never measure up.
Conrad stared at the textbook in front of him, seeing nothing. After a moment, Aldous cleared his throat and continued the lesson. Conrad didn't hear any of it.
That evening, Conrad skipped dinner entirely. He sat in his room, door closed, staring at the ceiling while the sun set and darkness filled the space around him. When servants knocked to ask if he wanted food brought up, he sent them away.
He lay on his bed, fully clothed, thinking about Amélie's words: "By the time you're his age, he'll have already gotten there. And you're not."
Thinking about Father's expression when Hans spoke versus when Conrad tried to contribute.
Thinking about how the space beside Father's right hand—the heir's position at the table, in the study, in every formal gathering—would always belong to Hans, and there was no equivalent position for a second son.
Thinking about how he'd spent twelve years wanting to be like his brother, and only now realizing that "like Hans" was an impossible target because Hans kept moving further ahead, achieving more, becoming greater, and Conrad was always going to be the one standing still, watching him go.
Day 21 Post-Assembly
Conrad's mother found him in the eastern library—smaller than the palace's main collection, used primarily by family rather than scholars or state officials. He was reading, or pretending to read, a history of the Kingdom's founding. The book lay open on his lap while he stared at nothing, not turning pages.
Queen Lyanna Ashford was forty-one, tall and elegant in the way that came from three decades of public presentation, with dark hair streaked gray and eyes that missed very little. She'd been politically arranged to Father twenty-three years ago—a marriage between powerful families meant to secure alliances—but had carved out her own influence through careful cultivation of humanitarian projects and diplomatic relationships that operated parallel to official state channels.
She entered the library quietly, dismissed the servant who'd been stationed near the door, and settled into the chair across from Conrad. For a long moment she said nothing, just watched him with the kind of patient attention he rarely received from anyone else.
"You've been very quiet lately," she said finally.
Conrad didn't look up from the book. "I'm reading."
"You haven't turned a page in fifteen minutes. I've been watching from the doorway."
He closed the book. Set it aside. Still didn't look at her.
"Your father mentioned you've been skipping meals. Your tutors say you're distracted during lessons. Elara asked me why you don't play with her anymore." Lyanna leaned forward slightly. "Talk to me, Conrad."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"That's transparently untrue."
Conrad's jaw tightened. He stared at his hands—twelve-year-old hands, not yet grown into the adult size they'd eventually become, still soft from a life that had never required physical labor. Useless hands attached to a useless person who would never be exceptional at anything that mattered.
"I want to be special," he said quietly. "Like Hans. Like Father. People who... who matter. Who do important things. But I'm not. I'm just—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "This."
Lyanna was silent for several seconds. When she spoke, her voice was careful. "You're twelve years old."
"Hans was leading council discussions at twelve. Father was already being prepared for kingship. I can't even get Father to listen when I ask questions."
"Your father is—" She paused, choosing words carefully. "Your father has a singular focus. When he identifies something—or someone—as valuable to his goals, he invests completely. Everything else becomes peripheral."
"So I'm peripheral."
"You're his son. But you're not his heir, and you're not yet proven useful to his political ambitions. That makes you... less visible to him."
The honesty was more painful than comfort would have been. Conrad finally looked at his mother, searching her face for some indication this was meant kindly rather than as simple statement of fact.
"Hans is brilliant," Lyanna continued. "Genuinely, remarkably intelligent. He understands systems—political, economic, social—in ways most people spend lifetimes failing to grasp. Your father recognizes that and cultivates it because Hans represents the future of everything your father has built."
"So I should just... what? Accept that I'll never be like them?"
"No." Lyanna reached across the space between their chairs, taking Conrad's hand. "You should recognize that being like them might not be what you actually want."
Conrad frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Can I tell you something? Something I've never told anyone else, including your father?"
He nodded.
Lyanna took a breath. "I expect more from you than I do from Hans or your father. Not the same things—different things. Better things, in some ways."
"That doesn't make sense. Hans is—"
"Hans is brilliant and ambitious and completely consumed by the pursuit of power. Your father is the same. They want to reshape the world, to control and organize and dominate. It's all they think about. All they value. And I—" She paused, something complicated crossing her face. "I hate it. The constant scheming, the manipulation, the way they view people as resources to be utilized or obstacles to be removed. The way power is the only metric that matters to them."
Conrad stared at her. He'd never heard his mother speak like this—never heard her criticize Father or Hans, never heard her express anything but supportive pride in their accomplishments.
"I married your father because my family arranged it," Lyanna said. "I've made peace with that. I've built a life that has meaning despite not loving my husband the way songs talk about love. But when I look at Hans—when I see him becoming exactly like your father, pursuing the same goals with the same ruthless focus—it breaks my heart a little. Because I know he'll be successful, and I know that success will be built on the suffering of people he'll never bother to see as human."
She squeezed Conrad's hand. "You're different. You ask questions about farmers. You worry about whether people benefit from the systems your brother builds. You see Elara as a person you love rather than as a political asset to be married off advantageously. You're kind, Conrad. You have empathy. And those traits are more valuable than you understand."
"They don't make me special. They don't make me matter."
"They make you someone who could pursue something that actually helps people rather than just accumulates power. You want to know what I hope for you? I hope you find a path that makes you happy. Not powerful, not influential, not historically significant—just genuinely happy. I hope you care about something that isn't control or dominance or glory. I hope you become someone who looks at the world and asks 'how can I make this better?' instead of 'how can I rule this?'"
Conrad pulled his hand back, looking away. "You're saying I should just... give up? Accept that I'll never be important?"
"I'm saying you should find your own definition of important. One that doesn't require becoming someone you're not." Lyanna stood, smoothing her dress. "Think about it. Ask yourself what actually makes you happy, not what you think should make you happy because it's what your father and brother value."
She walked to the door, paused with one hand on the frame. "You're twelve, Conrad. You have time to figure out who you want to be. Don't waste it trying to become a lesser version of someone else."
Then she was gone, leaving Conrad alone with questions he didn't know how to answer.
He lay on his bed that night, staring at ceiling shadows cast by moonlight through the window. What makes you happy?
Playing with Elara sometimes, when she laughed at his jokes or when they built elaborate stories with her toys. Reading history, especially accounts of common people rather than kings and battles. The gardens in early morning before anyone else was awake, when he could sit among flowers and just be without performance or expectation.
Small things. Private things. Nothing that would make him special or important or worthy of Father's attention.
But maybe—maybe that was the point? Maybe spending his life chasing Hans's shadow, trying to become someone Father would notice, meant abandoning the things that actually mattered to him?
Conrad rolled onto his side, pulling a pillow against his chest. The thought was terrifying and liberating simultaneously. Giving up on being special meant accepting obscurity. But it also meant freedom from constant comparison, constant inadequacy, constant failure to measure up to an impossible standard.
What makes you happy?
He didn't have an answer yet. But for the first time, he thought maybe finding one mattered more than becoming powerful.
Maybe.
Temple of the Promised - Mountain Monastery, Week Four
The staff had been carved from ironwood—dense, heavy, two meters long and thick as John's wrist at the center, tapering slightly toward both ends. Master Adaeze had presented it during morning training, explaining that many elemental practitioners used focus weapons to channel and direct their Uncos more precisely.
"Your light emission is improving," she'd said, "but it's still omnidirectional when you panic. The staff gives you a focal point—channel the light through the wood, emit from the ends rather than your whole body. More control, less wasted energy."
John had taken the weapon with something approaching relief. Combat without sight was manageable when he could use ki perception, but having a physical tool to strike with—something with reach and mass—felt infinitely better than relying solely on daggers or improvised clubs.
The past four weeks had transformed him systematically. His ki perception now extended nearly seventy meters with clear resolution—he could distinguish individual faces through spatial mapping, could track movement patterns, could even detect emotional states through subtle mana fluctuations in a person's field. The silhouettes he'd struggled to perceive during early escape had resolved into detailed mental imagery, his brain constructing visual analogues from acoustic reflection, air pressure differential, and mana signature analysis.
He could "see" as well now as most sighted people, just through completely different sensory channels.
His light Uncos had similarly evolved. He could create sustained illumination that lasted minutes without depleting his reserves, could focus beams in specific directions, could modulate intensity from dim glow to blinding flash, could even shift wavelength into ultraviolet or infrared spectrum. The weak, useless power had become versatile tool through disciplined training and theoretical understanding.
His body remained frustratingly weak—the years of malnutrition and the youth of his current form meant he lacked the strength and endurance he'd possessed before. But even that was improving. The monastery's training included physical conditioning: running mountain paths, climbing exercises, strength-building work that slowly built muscle and stamina.
In four weeks he'd progressed more than most students managed in six months. The monks whispered about it—how the blind boy learned faster than anyone, how Master Adaeze gave him private instruction usually reserved for advanced practitioners, how even Master Shen and Master Björn stopped to watch when John demonstrated techniques.
Only John understood why: he wasn't learning. He was remembering. Every technique Adaeze taught was something he'd pioneered or mastered centuries ago in his previous life. The theoretical framework was familiar, the mana manipulation patterns were ones he'd spent decades perfecting. He was just translating old knowledge into new applications, adapting to a different body and a weakened power system.
Still, some of the monks' techniques were genuinely novel—methods developed during the five hundred years since his fall, innovations that had occurred while he was gone. He absorbed those eagerly, filing them away for future use.
Kiran's progress was also notable, though for different reasons. The boy had natural talent for beast transformation, maintaining consciousness in wolf form better than most students twice his age. But more than that, he'd become genuinely scholarly—spending hours in the library, reading everything he could find about history and Uncos theory and the monastery's founding.
The masters had been gone for ten days now—all three had departed on what Father Matthias called "resource acquisition missions," traveling to distant settlements to procure medical supplies and rare materials unavailable in the mountains. They'd left senior students in charge of continuing training, and those students maintained the daily regimen: morning conditioning, afternoon Uncos practice, evening meditation.
John was in the main courtyard now, working through staff forms that Adaeze had taught him. The movements were similar to techniques he'd learned five centuries ago but adapted for channeling elemental Uncos rather than pure physical combat. Sweep low, channel light through the staff's lower end to blind opponents at ground level. Overhead strike, emit from the upper end to create disorienting flash above their heads. Rapid rotation, creating continuous light trail that mapped the surrounding space through reflection patterns.
Nineteen other students trained nearby—some practicing elemental control, others working on physical conditioning, a few engaged in supervised sparring. Kiran was across the courtyard with other beast practitioners, practicing rapid partial transformations: hand to claw, back to hand, building the muscle memory until the change became instantaneous.
The morning was cold—temperature maybe four degrees above freezing, thin mountain air carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. John's breath steamed as he moved through the forms, his spatial awareness tracking every person in the courtyard, every movement, every—
Impact.
Not sound exactly, but pressure—massive force hitting the monastery's outer walls from the south side, sending vibrations through stone that John felt through his feet and through the air itself. Students stopped training, heads turning toward the sound. Someone shouted alarm.
The second impact came three seconds later, followed by the sound of stone cracking.
Then smoke—acrid, chemical-smelling, pouring through the courtyard's southern entrance where the main gates had been. Through the smoke, four figures emerged.
John's ki perception identified them instantly even before they spoke, his enhanced senses mapping their mana signatures with perfect clarity.
Soren Blackwood stood at the center, sword drawn, his Bloodlust Uncos radiating like heat from a forge. To his left: Elara, the female tracker with feline Beast Uncos, her posture predatory and alert. To his right: Kael, massive and broad-shouldered, already showing partial beast transformation—scales forming along his arms, claws extending from his fingers. Behind them: Marcus, the disciplined military fighter, twin short blades held in ready position.
They'd found him.
Soren's gaze swept the courtyard, passing over frightened students before locking onto John with the kind of focus that made prey animals freeze in terror. His lips pulled back in something too vicious to be called a smile.
"There you are," Soren said, his voice carrying across the stunned silence. "Thought you could run forever, didn't you? Thought we'd give up?"
John stood perfectly still, staff held in neutral position, expression carefully blank. When he spoke, his voice was dry. "You really don't give up, do you? It's been a month. Don't you have other jobs? Hobbies? Literally anything else to do?"
Soren's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "I've been dreaming about you. Every night. Your face, your voice, the way you'll look when I finally cut you open and watch you bleed. You're all I think about now. All I want."
His Bloodlust Uncos flared—visible as crimson aura surrounding his body, feeding on his desire to kill, making him faster and stronger the more he wanted his target dead. And he wanted John dead more than anything else in the world.
John's fingers tightened slightly on the staff. Around him, monastery students were backing away, some moving toward weapons, others just frozen in fear. Kiran was across the courtyard, too far to help, his wolf form already manifesting as he prepared to fight.
Four experienced hunters. Dozens of inexperienced students. Masters gone for another week at minimum.
John's mind ran through tactical calculations with mechanical precision, analyzing options, assessing threats, planning responses.
Then he stopped.
Let the calculations fade.
Looked directly at Soren Blackwood with the spatial awareness that let him "see" every detail of the man's eager, vicious expression.
And smiled.
Not the polite smile of social interaction. The smile of someone who'd spent six centuries learning exactly how to kill people who thought they were predators.
"Alright," John said quietly. "Let's finish this."