An awkward silence enveloped their table after the deal was made. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses in the Mercenary Guild bar seemed like noise from another world, a simple world that no longer belonged to Aris. He stared at his own hands—hands that had once held a sword as an honorable nobleman, hands that had been shattered and regrown with excruciating pain, and now, hands that would work in the shadows. A thin, bitter smile etched itself onto his lips.
"Don't just daydream, kid," Juro's hoarse voice broke his reverie. "We start now."
Juro stood up, tossing a few silver coins onto the table to pay for his drink, then gestured with his head. "Follow me. The Veritas headquarters isn't a place you can enter through the front door."
Aris nodded, finishing the rest of his juice in one gulp, then followed Juro's wide, steady strides. They left the bar through the back door, leaving the warmth and light behind them. Night had fallen on Varethra, swallowing the narrow streets between the wooden buildings in thick darkness. The air was cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and smoke from distant hearths.
They walked through alleys that ordinary citizens would never tread. The narrow paths twisted and turned like a labyrinth, lit only by the moonlight that slipped between the rooftops. Juro didn't say a word, but his movements were purposeful. He stopped in front of a dilapidated old warehouse at the end of a dead-end alley. Its walls were made of rotting wooden planks, and its large door was padlocked with a rusty chain.
"Here?" Aris asked, his eyebrows raised in doubt.
Juro didn't answer. He approached the side wall of the warehouse, where a stack of old wooden barrels leaned. With a practiced motion, he knocked on one of the barrels in a strange rhythm: two quick taps, a pause, then three slow taps. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a faint, almost inaudible creak, the section of the wall behind the barrels slid inward, revealing a dark opening.
"You'll get used to it," Juro muttered as he stepped inside.
Aris took a deep breath before following. Behind the wall was not a stuffy warehouse, but a stone staircase descending steeply into the bowels of the earth. Torches mounted on the walls lit their way, their flames dancing and creating long, seemingly living shadows. The deeper they went, the more Aris could hear sounds: the clang of metal on metal, murmured conversations, and low laughter.
The staircase ended in a large, bustling underground chamber. The place looked more like a training hall than a secret base. Several people were practicing with swords in one corner, their movements swift and deadly. In another corner, a dark-haired woman was meticulously cleaning her bow. Several others sat around a large table in the center of the room, studying maps and documents under the light of a lantern.
The moment Juro and Aris entered, all activity ceased. Dozens of sharp, suspicious pairs of eyes turned in unison towards them, or more precisely, towards Aris. The air, once full of energy, now felt heavy and cold. Aris could feel the unspoken hostility in their gazes. He straightened his back, refusing to show fear. He knew who they were—members of Veritas whose comrades he might have killed that night.
"Is he the kid?" a muscular man with a scar across his face spoke up. His voice was rough and filled with hatred. "You brought him here, Juro? After what he did?"
"Enough, Kael," Juro replied, his tone calm but carrying an undeniable authority. "He is here on direct orders. He's one of us now."
"One of us?" Kael laughed cynically. "The blood of our comrades is still on his sword!"
"And Lysandra's father's blood is on mine," Aris cut in, his voice cold and steady, startling the entire room. "We all have blood on our hands from that night. The difference is, I fought for someone I love. What did you fight for?"
A total silence fell over the room. Kael looked furious, his hand already gripping the hilt of his sword, but a sharp glare from Juro made him reconsider.
"He's right," Juro said, breaking the tension. "The past is done. Our focus is the future. Aris Cean has joined Veritas. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me."
No one dared to argue. Slowly, the members of Veritas returned to their activities, though occasional suspicious glances were still thrown Aris's way.
For the next week, Aris began his training to awaken his Origin Power. Juro took him to a quiet meditation room in the deepest part of the base. The room was empty, with only the cold stone floor beneath their feet.
"Forget everything you know about the Blessing," Juro said, sitting cross-legged. "The Blessing is a gift, a power borrowed from a god. You receive it like a beggar receives alms. Origin Power is different. It is a power born from the very essence of your own soul. You don't ask for it; you seize it."
Juro told Aris to sit and close his eyes. "Feel the flow of life within you. The blood flowing in your veins, the air filling your lungs, the beat of your heart. That is all energy. That is the source of your power. Now, draw that energy. Gather it at the center of your body."
Aris tried. He concentrated, trying to feel what Juro was describing. At first, there was nothing. But slowly, he began to feel a faint warmth inside him. He tried to pull it, to focus it as instructed. However, as he did, a sharp, searing pain suddenly exploded throughout his body, as if his veins were on fire from the inside.
"Argh!" Aris cried out and collapsed, gasping for breath. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
Juro looked at him without expression. "You're still thinking like a nobleman waiting to be served. You tried to 'ask' the power to come to you. Wrong. You must force it to submit to your will. That pain is the rejection from your body, which is used to being pampered by the Blessing. Fight the pain. Show it who is master."
Day after day, Aris tried again and again. Each attempt ended in agonizing pain. His body felt like it was about to shatter into pieces. But he did not give up. He remembered his father, Lysandra, and everything he had been through. His determination hardened like steel. He fought the pain relentlessly, focusing all his anger, sorrow, and hope into a single, unshakeable point of will.
Until, on the seventh day, something changed. When the pain came, he did not fight it, but accepted it. He let the fire burn him, and in the midst of that blaze, he found a center of calm. The warmth that was once faint now became a steady, strong current of energy, flowing obediently to his will. He opened his eyes. A small, fist-sized ball of light, pulsing gently with pure energy, floated above his palm. Its color was not blue like his old water magic, but a silvery-white, the color of his soul itself.
Juro allowed himself a small smile. "Good. That's just the beginning."