The afternoon sun burned gold across the Highwarden training grounds, but Gareth barely noticed. His boots scuffed against the stone as he approached the empty sparring ring, muscles stiff, heart still pounding from last night's shadows.
Cassiel was already there, leaning lazily against a pillar, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The smirk he wore was the kind that promised pain disguised as amusement.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Cassiel drawled. "Thought you'd collapsed somewhere, half-digested by shadows or crying into your uniform. Guess I was wrong."
Gareth's jaw tightened. "I… I'm fine."
Cassiel laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Fine? Sure, kid. Let's pretend. You look like a ghost who just got lost in the kitchen." He pushed off the pillar, circling Gareth like a predator and a professor rolled into one. "Sit. I'm feeling generous. Today, we'll talk about the Veilbound Root system. The very thing you've been stumbling through like a newborn deer."
Gareth flinched at the words, a mix of irritation and curiosity stirring in his chest.
Cassiel crouched, tapping the stone with a finger. "Veil-Sense. Ever wonder why some people just… know things? Smell things in the air? Sense another's heartbeat like it's a drum in their chest? That's Veil-Sense. Everyone has it. Some barely enough to notice the wind. Others… well…" He flicked his hand, and a leaf trembled as if alive. "…others feel the pulse of reality itself. But most of you," he said, glancing at Gareth with mock disdain, "can barely smell your own dinner burning."
Gareth's fingers itched, an unconscious pull from Stage 1.5 stirring beneath his skin. He swallowed, pretending not to notice.
"Then there's Veil Capacity," Cassiel continued, pacing. "The Inner Root. Basically, how much Veil you can shove through your body before it fries your nerves or makes you bleed like a cheap caricature of power." He tapped the ground, and a small tendril of shadow quivered, obedient. "Some of you die. Some of you just end up screaming at your reflection for an hour before the doctors patch you up. Rare few… control it. But controlling it?" He smirked, eyes flicking to Gareth. "That's an art. Or a death sentence. Depends on how dumb you are."
Gareth felt the shadows in him pulse, reacting to the teasing, almost instinctively curling around his hands like a protective coil. He tightened his fists, trying not to show it.
"Veil Perception," Cassiel said, crouching now, tilting his head. "Ever walked into a room and felt every lie, every secret, every little heartbeat of fear bouncing off the walls? That's perception. Some people just smell power. Some taste it. Others…" He flicked a pebble, which spun midair like a top. "…others can see it, feel it, almost live inside it. Dangerous stuff. Most of you freak out and drop your knives. You, for instance, would probably cry."
Gareth's pulse quickened. He felt it—the flicker of his 1.5 shadows responding, merging just a fraction, brushing the world beyond the veil. He kept it contained.
Cassiel straightened, grinning. "Stage. The big one. 1.0 to 1.5. You start small, little nudges of reality, minor tricks. Bend a leaf, shift a pebble. Stage 1.5?" He made a dramatic gesture, shadows curling and folding like smoke in his hands. "Partial merging with the Veil itself. Ghost in the dark. Move unseen, unnoticed, unheard… barely. Push too far and the world pushes back. Snap. You're toast. And no, no one's coming to save you. Ever."
Gareth's blood hummed, shadows stirring with eager intelligence. He ignored them, forcing himself to breathe normally.
Cassiel crouched close, eyes gleaming. "But here's the kicker, kid. Most people learn the theory and die. Stage 1.5 isn't just power. It's instinct. Shadows don't obey you because you're smart. They obey because they like you—or because they're curious if you're meat. And most Stage 1.5s?" He leaned back, arms crossed, mockingly contemplative. "They're eaten before they even finish breakfast."
Gareth's heart thudded. Every word resonated too accurately, and he forced a grin. "Right. Got it. Noted."
Cassiel's smirk widened. "Oh, you got it, all right. But don't fool yourself. Knowing is one thing. Surviving? Different story. Shadows, roots, the Veil… they decide who lives and who dies. And trust me, they've been watching you."
Gareth felt a cold whisper brush the edge of his mind, the faint pull of shadow instincts. He clenched his fists, letting the energy simmer just beneath the surface.
Cassiel straightened, tossing a small pebble into the air. It spun, paused midair, and fell neatly into his palm. "So, lesson over. Theory, mockery, slight existential dread. Go practice. Or don't. Your choice. But remember…" His voice dropped, playful yet sharp. "…power isn't about being strong. It's about surviving. And most of you won't. Shadows always remember."
He snapped his fingers. The shadows flickered, dissipating like smoke, leaving Gareth alone in the training ring.
Gareth exhaled slowly, feeling the pulse of Stage 1.5 settle like a heartbeat under his skin. The shadows had not obeyed Cassiel's mockery—they had watched. Learned. Reacted.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet thrill ignited: the Veil was alive. And he was only beginning to understand it.
The next day.
Gareth blinked at the sunlight streaming through his window. Saturday. His throat was dry, his body still humming faintly from the shadows he had coaxed into obedience yesterday.
"Perfect day for… something," he muttered, stretching, the sharp lines of his Highwarden uniform brushing against his skin. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Time to see the world beyond these walls.
By mid-morning, he was walking the streets of Draemond City. Stone streets glinted wetly in the sunlight, merchants shouting over the clatter of carts, bells ringing from the distant towers. The city felt alive—a sprawling labyrinth of winding alleys, glimmering banners, and murmurs of intrigue.
He paused at the edge of a crowded square. Something was… off. A small group had gathered, huddled around an ornate black banner. A serpent coiled around a broken sun—the sigil of the Cult of Eradicate.
Gareth's heart thumped, a flicker of caution shooting through him. They stood on the steps of a marble platform, preaching loudly, voices sharp and biting against the warm air.
"…And so the Broken Sun's rot infects all," one man shouted, robes black and silver, arms raised to the heavens. "Every false dawn, every heretic, every bearer of corruption shall be purged! Where light first broke, let nothing rise again!"
Gareth's eyes narrowed. The words scraped against him, primal and cold, but he remained unseen among the crowd. Stage 1.5 hummed faintly beneath his skin, shadows curling around him like smoke.
A woman stepped forward, silver hair gleaming, a voice calm yet icy. "Beware those who worship corrupted light. Their false sanctuaries will crumble beneath true faith. Witness the cleansing. Witness the End."
The crowd murmured, swayed, some nodding in fervent agreement. Others looked uncertain, uneasy under the weight of the cult's conviction.
Gareth's gaze swept the area. Their power was subtle but real—emblems, gestures, small manipulations of fear and presence. Nothing that could crush him outright, yet enough to shape the minds of the crowd.
So this is Eradicate, he thought, eyes flicking between the banners, the robed figures, the whispers of awe and fear. Not just stories. Not just shadows. They exist… and they spread.
He lingered, hidden by Stage 1.5, observing as the sermon ended. The cultists bowed, chanted in low unison, and melted into the streets, leaving the square suddenly hollow and ordinary again.
Gareth let the shadows release their grip, blending back into the throng of merchants, street performers, and children chasing hoops. He walked slowly, digesting what he had seen.
So there's the threat beyond the academy, he thought, voice low. Not all shadows are mine… and not all monsters are obvious.
A small smile tugged at his lips. Perfect. Time to see how deep this game goes.
And as the afternoon sun dipped lower, spilling gold across Draemond City, Gareth walked on—one part curiosity, two parts defiance, every step shadowed with the knowledge that the world was larger, darker, and far more dangerous than the academy walls had ever suggested.
Gareth wound through the cobbled streets, his boots clicking softly against the stone. The market buzzed with merchants hawking fabrics, herbs, and mechanical trinkets. Sunlight glinted off polished shields stacked in a corner, and children darted between stalls, laughter carrying above the clamor.
He slowed near a fountain, eyes scanning. That's when he noticed them—three students from the academy, walking casually as if nothing were unusual. But something caught his attention: subtle signs in their posture, the way they avoided certain streets, whispered in turns that no ordinary student would.
One of them—a boy with dark hair and a slight limp—carried a small, black emblem pinned inside his cloak. A serpent coiled around a broken sun.
Gareth froze. That sigil…
The girl beside him, blonde, laughed softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Did you see the sermon earlier?" she asked, voice casual. "The words about the False Dawn? Powerful, wasn't it?"
The third, a pale boy with sharp eyes, nodded. "It's true. Corruption festers everywhere. Those who don't see it… well, they'll be cleansed eventually."
Gareth blinked. Cleansed…? Their words were calm, even friendly. The tone was ordinary, almost boring—but the meaning behind it was deadly.
He stepped closer, keeping to the shadows of a nearby alley, and watched. They laughed together, shared bread from a street vendor, even exchanged small hand signals—almost imperceptible, but deliberate. A language Gareth didn't know, yet instinct told him it was important.
"Are you new to the city?" the blonde asked the dark-haired boy. "Remember to keep your… faith in check while you're here. Not everyone understands."
He caught the subtle glance they shared—a fleeting acknowledgment of something deeper, a network hidden beneath the ordinary façade.
Gareth's mind raced. So, they're students… living here, attending classes… but part of Eradicate. Right under everyone's noses.
He let the shadow curl lightly around him, Stage 1.5 Veil response. The veil gave him distance, letting him observe without being seen. His pulse thumped against his ribs as he considered the implications.
Even in a place as seemingly mundane as the academy, the cult's tendrils stretched quietly. Invisible to most, perfectly normal to those in the know.
And now he had proof.
Gareth exhaled slowly, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk. This game isn't just outside the walls… it's inside them too.
He blended back into the throng, a shadow among ordinary students, the knowledge settling like steel in his gut.
Gareth's boots clacked against the cobblestones as he walked further into Draemond City, the noon sun glinting off the slick stones. The air carried the scent of bread, smoke, and something heavier—faith, devotion, the quiet tension of a city that believed it understood the world.
Ahead, a massive spire rose above the rooftops, black and gold, light glinting from the stained-glass windows. A crowd thronged the steps, pressing in, hanging on the words of the man standing at the pulpit: Father Alaric Veyne—or so the placard claimed. His voice boomed, perfectly modulated, carrying a rhythm that seemed to make even the most stubborn listener nod in assent.
Gareth slowed. Something about the scene felt… wrong. Not the worship itself, not the devotion—it was the scale, the precision. Hundreds of faces, all tense, all watching the same figure, as if a single unseen hand held the strings.
He edged closer, slipping into an alley, peering around the corner. The pulpit's steps were crowded, but one shadow moved differently. Larger. Broader. The way it shifted, the subtle sway of the cloak, the absolute stillness beneath the movements of others—it didn't belong.
Gareth's pulse ticked faster. The man was enormous, even taller than the tallest guard, muscles stretching the fabric of his priestly robes. Blindfolded? A visor gleamed beneath the hood. The aura around him made Gareth's teeth ache.
The Devil Viking.
And now, in plain daylight, under the guise of Father Alaric Veyne, he preached, letting the priestly cadence fool the city. The people around him nodded, murmured, some even wiped tears, but none noticed the monster in their midst.
He took a careful step closer. The pulpit's steps were crowded, the priest's voice rising, reciting phrases of cleansing, renewal, obedience. It sounded benign—pious, even—but Gareth's instincts screamed: this man did not preach for salvation. He preached for control. For dominance. For fear.
The Devil Viking's gaze, blindfolded yet piercing, swept across the crowd in a slow arc. Gareth felt it as a pressure, a pull in his chest. The crowd shivered ever so slightly, though none dared move against him.
Gareth froze at the edge of the plaza, the crowd flowing like a river toward the massive church. Father Alaric Veyne's voice rolled across the steps, measured, hypnotic—but Gareth didn't hear it in the ordinary way. Something beneath the city stirred. Threads of power, devotion, fear—all woven together—reacted to something far darker.
He whispered sharply under his breath:"Umbrael… who is this man?"
The reply came almost violently, a ripple of fear through her consciousness:"…Gareth… it's… the Devil Viking."
The name alone twisted his stomach. The Veil beneath him roared to life. A pressure, immense and suffocating, slammed into his chest as though invisible hands were gripping him from all sides. His head spun; the air itself felt thick, heavy, pressing against his lungs.
Yet his body remained still. Feet planted, shoulders relaxed. He forced a calm smile and lifted a hand, waving lightly to the crowd. To them, he was just another student admiring the church. But inside…
Inside, every sense was alight.
He could feel the Devil Viking's presence like a storm pressing down on the city itself.
Veil threads tangled around his mind, tugging at memories, at instinct, at survival.
Shadows and whispers pressed from all directions, each one a pulse of crushing intent.
It was unbearable—and yet, Gareth did not falter.
Step by step, he moved along the edges of the plaza, a ghost in plain sight. Every heartbeat, every breath, screamed the power suffocating him, but his outward composure never broke. He smiled, waved again—a mask of serenity over a storm of terror.
By the time he reached his dorm, the door clicked softly behind him. Only then did he allow himself to tremble. He sank onto the edge of his bed, hands pressing against the stone-cold floor for balance. His breath came shallow, rapid, yet he forced himself to slow it, to focus.
The Veil still pressed from within, an unrelenting weight crushing against his chest and mind. Each pulse of his own power felt like a hammer striking from the inside, the world threatening to bend under it. He could sense the Devil Viking, feel the threads of his Veil, hear the weight of his presence—not through eyes or ears, but through the raw, suffocating language of the Veil itself.
Gareth swallowed hard, whispering the name like a prayer, a curse, and a warning all at once:"…the Devil Viking."
And in the silence of his dorm room, he understood something he could never admit aloud: he had just glimpsed a power far beyond his own, and the city, the world—even he—was fragile beneath it.