Callum held the torn page in his hand long after Harlan left the room.
Truth is the final language. The world listens, not to words, but to what we mean when we break them.
There was a weight in the sentence that didn't just come from its meaning. Something old. Something lived-in. Words that had been read too many times. Underlined. Whispered.
It didn't feel like a quote. It felt like a warning.
And Harlan had just handed it to him without context. No flourish. No explanation. Just slid it forward on a breakfast tray like an extra piece of bread.
Callum ran a thumb across the page's edge. The parchment was older than the school's founding, by the look of it. That meant the book had been preserved. Hidden. And torn.
He wanted to ask questions. To follow Harlan. Demand answers.
But he didn't.
Because if Harlan had torn out a page just to pass it off, it meant he wasn't ready to share the rest.
Or maybe Callum wasn't ready to hear it.
He spent the rest of the day reading things that had nothing to do with his curriculum.
He skipped his illusion lecture. Dodged a cursed object workshop. Elly texted him seven times through the arc-crystal—by the fourth message, the tone shifted from worried to vaguely impressed.
He replied only once:
Researching. Don't follow.
She didn't reply. Which meant she definitely followed.
But he needed space.
He found it in the north tower's locked archives.
Technically, only Class 1-A had clearance. But Callum had learned early that most locks at the Academy could be opened not by tools or mana, but with a strong enough lie.
He pressed a hand against the doorknob and whispered, "I've been granted access by Headmaster Quill."
[Lie] activated.
Target: Archive Door
Belief Level: Low
Effect: Temporary access override
Duration: 12 minutes
The door clicked open.
Inside, the shelves stretched too tall for reason. Dust coiled midair. Something whispered in a language he didn't know.
He ignored it.
He scanned shelf after shelf until he found it. An unmarked black ledger wrapped in a tight leather cord. Faint traces of memory-dye along the spine.
The pages were brittle and yellowed, ink faded to rust-red.
He read it seated on the floor, the way you read things that shouldn't be read standing up.
"We built the first Truthblade in the year of the Sable Eclipse. A weapon not forged but spoken. It does not slice. It does not cleave. It convinces the world it has already cut."
Callum's breath caught.
He read on.
"Its edge is belief. Its weight is intent. It cannot be held by those who waver. Those who doubt. It cannot be wielded without consequence. It remembers its lies."
"We called it Veritas. And it broke the third war in half."
There was no author name. No date. No closing words.
Just a mark at the bottom of the page. Not a signature.
An eye. Curved in three strokes.
The same mark that lived on Callum's hand.
By the time he returned to his dorm, the sky had cracked again.
This time, no one screamed.
Everyone just stood outside and watched the sun ripple like a dropped coin on water.
Callum stared too. But his mind was elsewhere.
A weapon not forged but spoken.
It convinces the world it has already cut.
He hadn't known what [Lie] could become. He still didn't.
But now he had a shape. A silhouette in the fog.
And it terrified him.
That night, he dreamed of a battlefield again.
Not ruined this time.
Waiting.
Fog hung over uneven hills. A single banner whipped in the wind—black cloth, stitched with the word DOUBT.
Across the field stood a man in robes of pale gold.
Not Osric. Not Callum.
Someone taller. Older. Eyes empty.
He raised a hand, and in it appeared a blade.
Not steel. Not light.
The sword shimmered like broken glass. Bent light like a lie bends trust.
And as it pointed toward him, Callum realized the truth.
The man across the battlefield didn't need to speak.
Because he believed Callum had already lost.
And in that moment—
Callum did.
He woke gasping.
There was blood on his lip. He must've bitten it.
The room was silent.
But something tugged at the edge of his senses.
A presence.
He sat up and turned toward the window.
There, perched silently on the sill, sat a bird made entirely of paper. Its wings fluttered once, then stilled.
Callum stood and opened the window. The bird didn't move.
It carried a scroll tied to its leg.
He untied it. The bird dissolved instantly, scattering into a thousand tiny words.
The scroll read:
Truthbleed detected. Hall of Shapes. Midnight. No instructors. Bring steel.
No signature.
Just the symbol again. The triple-curve eye.
The Hall of Shapes wasn't on any of the public maps.
Callum found it by accident the first month, chasing an illusion spell that had gotten away from him.
It was buried two floors below the old alchemy labs—through a trapdoor sealed by a riddle that only worked if you said the wrong answer with enough confidence.
He arrived just before midnight.
The corridor leading in flickered with soft crystal light, but the hall itself… the hall was dark.
Not empty.
Just blind.
Shapes floated overhead—geometric constructs of mana, held in place by anchors that hummed when you got too close. The walls were glass, but reflected nothing. Sound felt trapped. Like breathing in a bubble.
Someone waited at the far end.
A figure in gray robes. Not gold. Not black. Not any color at all.
They stood still, hands behind their back.
Callum approached.
The moment he crossed into the center, the hall shifted. Light changed. Reality thickened.
"Truthbleed," the figure said. "Level one. Psychological echo. Contained. Barely."
Callum stopped. "You sent the bird."
The figure nodded once. "You're fragmenting. Your Skill is stretching beyond intended bounds. Memories are starting to carry weight."
Callum swallowed. "Why tell me?"
"Because if you shatter, you take the lie with you. And if the lie dies while the world believes it…"
The figure turned.
A mask hid their face—polished obsidian etched with seven questions. None had answers.
"…then the lie doesn't know it's a lie anymore."
The figure lifted a hand.
And from their palm rose a shard of clear, singing glass.
"Do you want to shape it?" they asked.
Callum didn't move. "What is it?"
"The first truth. The blade that doesn't cut."
His heart pounded.
"It's too early."
"Perhaps."
He looked at the shard.
It didn't look like a weapon.
It looked like a memory that hadn't happened yet.
He stepped forward.
"I'm not ready."
"Good," the figure said. "Ready people are dangerous."
Callum reached out—
Touched the shard—
And the world blinked.
When he came back to himself, he was kneeling.
The hall was empty.
In his hand was no sword. No shard.
Just the mark on his palm.
And it burned.
Not with pain.
With potential.
He opened his hand.
Three curved lines. Still a smile.
But deeper now.
And beneath the skin, something whispered.
One day, they will believe you're a god.
Be careful what you say when they do.