The library at Genesis Academy wasn't what Hermes expected.
He'd pictured something grand—towering shelves, ancient tomes, that whole aesthetic. What he got was a massive space that was half traditional archive and half digital repository. Holographic displays floated between physical books, data streams flowing across transparent screens like luminescent rivers. It was beautiful in a weird, anachronistic way. Medieval architecture housing technology that wouldn't exist for another three centuries in human space.
Or what used to be human space. Before he died.
Hermes had been avoiding the library for three days since the evaluation. Laying low, attending basic classes, trying to be invisible. It wasn't working great—people kept staring at him in the hallways, whispering about the Rank 3 who'd demolished those training constructs—but he was managing.
Now, though, he needed information. The kind that didn't come from sitting quietly in the back of History of Core Development lectures.
He needed to know what really happened fifteen years ago.
The archive section was quieter than the main floor. Fewer students, more serious scholars. Hermes navigated between shelves, pretending to browse while actually scanning for anything related to Alexander Smith, The Excalibur, or major incidents from fifteen years back.
Nothing. At least nothing obvious.
Of course it wouldn't be obvious. The Demon Supremes wouldn't leave detailed accounts of their political assassinations just lying around for students to find.
"Looking for something specific?" The librarian appeared beside him without sound—an old demon with silver hair and too many rings on her fingers. Each ring pulsed with faint power. Artifacts, probably.
"Historical records," Hermes said. Casual. Curious student voice. "About human-demon conflicts. For a class assignment."
"Which class?"
"Contemporary Warfare Studies."
She raised an eyebrow. "That class doesn't have assignments until next semester."
Damn.
"Extra credit?" He tried a hopeful smile. "I'm really into military history."
The librarian studied him for a long moment. Then she pointed toward a section in the far corner. "Pre-Integration conflicts are archived there. Don't damage anything. Some of those records are older than this moon."
"Thank you."
He waited until she'd drifted away—literally, she floated somehow—before heading to the indicated section. The shelves here were actual wood, not the metal and crystal of the modern areas. Books bound in leather, scrolls in protective cases, data crystals from before current technology. Historical stuff.
Hermes ran his fingers along spines, reading titles. Most were dry academic texts about border disputes and trade negotiations. Boring but useful for context. He needed to understand the political landscape that had led to his assassination.
Something caught his eye. A leather journal, worn and unmarked, wedged between two larger volumes. It looked out of place. Wrong somehow.
He pulled it free carefully. The cover was blank. Inside, handwritten text in script that took him a moment to decipher—old dialect, maybe a century old. A personal account, not an official record.
*Day 47 of the Siege of Karthan Station. The humans fight like demons, ironic as that is. Their Knight-Commander Smith refuses all surrender terms. His Core signature reads Rank 0, confirmed by all our sensors. At twenty-eight years old. How is that possible?*
Hermes's heart stopped.
*The Supremes are worried. I can see it even though they'd never admit it. Humans aren't supposed to produce Rank 0s. Their physiology, their Core development—everything says it's impossible. But Smith exists. And he's winning.*
*Lord Azrath suggested assassination. Lady Vex called him a coward. They argued for three hours. Nothing was resolved.*
The entry ended there. The next page was torn out. Then several more pages gone, leaving gaps in the timeline.
Hermes flipped forward. Found another intact entry.
*The Knight-Commander's ship was destroyed today. The Excalibur. All hands lost. Official report will cite mechanical failure during a test flight. Only the six of them know the truth.*
*I'm burying this journal after tonight. If anyone finds it, I'm dead. But someone needs to know. History can't just be what the powerful say it is.*
The rest was blank.
Hermes stood there, hands shaking slightly, staring at words written by someone who'd witnessed his death. Someone who'd known it was murder but stayed silent.
He wanted to be angry. Should be angry. But mostly he felt cold. Confirmation was supposed to help, wasn't it? Knowing for certain that his suspicions were right?
It just made everything worse.
"Interesting reading?"
Hermes nearly jumped. Aerith stood three paces away, silent as shadows. How long had she been there?
"Historical journal," he said, closing it carefully. "Pre-Integration period."
"Mm." She moved closer, eyes on the book. "Finding anything useful for your research?"
"What research?"
"The one where you figure out who you really are." Aerith's expression was unreadable. "Don't look so shocked. I told you I'm good at reading people. You've been distracted in every class, watching doors like you expect assassins, and you spent twenty minutes yesterday staring at a memorial plaque for dead human soldiers."
She was too observant. Way too observant.
"Maybe I'm just interested in history."
"Maybe." Aerith leaned against the shelf. "Or maybe you're looking for something specific. Something about what happened to Alexander Smith."
The world tilted.
Hermes forced his expression to remain neutral, but his Core flared involuntarily. Just for a microsecond. Aerith's eyes widened slightly.
"What did you just—"
"Nothing." He locked his power down. Hard. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your Core signature changed. Just now. Felt like..." She paused, searching for words. "Like black lightning. That's not normal for demons. Actually, that's not normal for anyone except—"
"Except who?" His voice came out sharper than intended.
Aerith met his gaze. "Except Alexander Smith. The Knight of Light. Who supposedly died fifteen years ago but whose Core technique was never recovered. Black lightning that could pierce any defense." She tilted her head. "Interesting coincidence."
This was bad. This was very bad.
Hermes set the journal back on the shelf with deliberate calm. "You have an active imagination."
"I have excellent pattern recognition." Aerith crossed her arms. "Smith dies mysteriously. Fifteen years later, a demon kid survives an impossible Core awakening and shows up with combat skills decades beyond his age, using techniques that match historical accounts of the Knight of Light's fighting style."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" She stepped closer, voice dropping. "Because I've been researching reincarnation theories since I got here. It's rare, but it happens. Usually the reincarnated person doesn't remember their past life. But traumatic deaths—murder, especially—sometimes the consciousness survives. Finds a new vessel."
Hermes's mind raced. Deny everything? Attack her credibility? Run?
Before he could decide, Aerith held up a hand. "I'm not going to expose you. If you even are what I think you are."
"Why not?"
"Because the people who killed Smith are the same people running this academy. And if they did it once, they'd do it again." Something hard entered her expression. "I have my own reasons for hating the Supremes. Enemy of my enemy, and all that."
This had to be a trap. Too convenient, too perfect. But Hermes's instincts—both Alexander's and Hermes's—said she was telling the truth. Or at least believed she was.
"Hypothetically," he said carefully, "if someone were in the situation you described, what would you suggest they do?"
Aerith smiled slightly. "Keep a low profile. Gather information. Find allies. And definitely learn more about the person they used to be." She tapped the journal he'd been reading. "That's a good start. But the really interesting stuff is in the restricted archives. Third sublevel, eastern vault. You need special clearance to access it."
"Do you have special clearance?"
"No. But I know someone who can get us in." She pushed off the shelf. "Meet me at the eastern stairwell tonight. Two hours after curfew. Bring something dark to wear."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because you're interesting. Because I'm curious. Because..." She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Because I'm tired of the Supremes controlling everything. Deciding who lives, who dies, who gets to know the truth." Her jaw set. "Smith was murdered for being too powerful. My sister was killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If there's even a chance you're who I think you are, then maybe—just maybe—someone can finally make them pay."
She left before he could respond.
Hermes stood alone in the archives, surrounded by centuries of recorded history, holding confirmation of his assassination in a worn leather journal. The familiar anger sparked in his chest. Black lightning wanted to surface, wanted to burn, wanted to destroy.
Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
He tucked the journal back into place and headed toward the exit. Made it three steps before someone else appeared.
The old demon from the evaluation. The Rank 0 with eyes that saw too much.
"Mr. Selenarch. Fancy meeting you here."
Hermes's heart hammered. "Professor... I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Malthus. Professor Malthus." He glanced at the shelves. "Researching history?"
"Yes, sir. Just curious about the academy's background."
"Curious." Malthus smiled thinly. "You know what they say about curiosity."
"That it's essential for learning?"
"That it killed the cat." Malthus moved closer, studying Hermes like a specimen under glass. "You've been making quite an impression since arrival. Exceptional combat skills, unusual Core control, surprising tactical awareness. All very impressive for a seventeen-year-old with no formal training."
"I had a good awakening, sir. Got lucky."
"Lucky." Malthus nodded slowly. "Do you believe in reincarnation, Mr. Selenarch?"
The question hit like a physical blow.
Hermes kept his expression carefully neutral. "I've never thought about it, sir."
"You should. It's a fascinating subject. Particularly the cases where violent death preserves consciousness." Those too-keen eyes never blinked. "Theoretically, a powerful enough individual—say, a Rank 0—might survive death if their Core's energy had nowhere else to go. Find a new vessel. Start over."
"That sounds like fantasy, sir."
"Does it?" Malthus smiled. "Fifteen years ago, the strongest human alive died under mysterious circumstances. His Core was never recovered. His technique—black lightning manipulation—was lost to history. Or so everyone thought."
Hermes's hands clenched. "What does this have to do with me?"
"Probably nothing. Just thinking aloud." Malthus stepped back. "But if such a person did exist, if they were hiding among us, they should know something important. The Supremes fear nothing more than Rank 0s they can't control. They killed Smith because he refused to serve them. And they'd kill anyone else who posed that same threat."
He paused at the archive entrance.
"Be careful who you trust, Mr. Selenarch. And be very careful what secrets you keep. This academy has eyes everywhere."
Then he was gone.
Hermes stood frozen for a full minute, trying to process. Malthus knew. Had to know. That whole conversation was a warning. But warning him against what? Being discovered? Or against the Supremes themselves?
This was getting complicated.
He left the library, mind spinning with new information and new questions. The journal confirmed his assassination was planned by the Supremes. Aerith had figured out too much but offered to help. And Professor Malthus had basically told him he knew exactly what Hermes was.
Three days at Genesis Academy and his cover was already compromised.
Back in his room, Hermes paced. Tried to think through scenarios. Meeting Aerith tonight was risky—could be a trap, could be genuine. Trusting Malthus was probably stupid. But doing nothing meant staying ignorant, and ignorance got people killed.
He needed to know more. About the Supremes, about why they'd killed him, about what they feared.
The restricted archives might have answers.
Two hours after curfew. Eastern stairwell.
Hermes changed into dark clothes, simple and non-descript. Hid his Core signature behind the mental walls he'd been reinforcing constantly. Waited.
The academy grew quiet as night deepened. Patrols moved through hallways on predictable schedules—security golems mostly, with occasional faculty supervision. Easy to avoid if you knew where to look.
Hermes slipped out of his room like smoke. Alexander's stealth training translated perfectly to his new body. He moved between shadows, timed his movements to patrol gaps, and reached the eastern stairwell without being seen.
Aerith was already there. She'd ditched her uniform for black tactical gear that looked military-grade. A sword hung at her hip—her real sword, not the practice blade.
"You came," she said quietly.
"You expected me not to?"
"I expected you to be smart and suspicious." A slight smile. "Glad you're both."
They descended. Three flights, then four, going deeper into the academy's substructure. The air grew colder, heavier. Ancient power thrummed through the walls—defensive arrays, probably, or preservation spells.
"My contact is a dwarf," Aerith whispered. "Works maintenance. Has access to everything."
"Can we trust him?"
"As much as we can trust anyone here. Which is not much."
The third sublevel was different from the upper levels. More industrial. Pipes and conduits visible in the walls, lighting provided by glowing crystals rather than modern fixtures. Old construction, from when the academy was first built.
A figure waited by a massive vault door—short, broad, with a beard that reached his belt. Definitely a dwarf.
"You're late," he growled.
"We're careful," Aerith countered. "Garrin, this is the one I told you about."
Garrin looked Hermes up and down. "He doesn't look like much."
"Neither do you, and yet here we are trusting you with our lives."
The dwarf snorted. "Fair point." He turned to the vault, produced a ring of crystalline keys, and began working through locks. "You've got thirty minutes. Any longer and the rotation patrol will notice the security gap."
"What do you want in return?" Hermes asked. Everyone wanted something.
Garrin paused, glanced back. "Information about what happened to my brother. He was part of a joint military operation with humans fifteen years ago. Came back different. Broken. Killed himself six months later." His expression hardened. "Official reports say it was combat stress. I think it was something else."
Fifteen years ago. Around the time of Hermes's death.
"I'll find out what I can," Hermes promised.
The dwarf nodded. The vault door swung open with a groan of ancient hinges.
Inside was darkness and dust and rows upon rows of sealed containers. Records that someone had decided were too dangerous for general access.
"Clock's ticking," Garrin said.
Hermes and Aerith entered. The vault door closed behind them with ominous finality, leaving only their Core-powered light to see by.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Aerith asked.
"Anything about Alexander Smith. The Excalibur. Why the Supremes wanted him dead."
They split up, moving quickly through the containers. Most were sealed with preservation spells, contents listed on index cards in faded script. Military reports, mostly. Casualty lists. Strategic assessments.
Then Hermes found it.
A container marked "EXCALIBUR INCIDENT - CLASSIFIED - SUPREME ACCESS ONLY."
His hands shook as he broke the seal. Inside were data crystals, physical reports, and—unexpectedly—personal effects. A piece of hull plating. A damaged rank insignia. A holographic drive that probably contained The Excalibur's final moments.
And a single sheet, handwritten, stamped with six different seals.
*Authorization for Termination: Knight-Commander Alexander Smith*
*Reason: Subject has achieved Rank 0 status while refusing integration into Supreme Council oversight structure. Represents existential threat to established order. All six Supremes concur: elimination required before subject's influence destabilizes faction balance.*
*Method: Ambush during scheduled patrol. Destroy vessel and all witnesses. Attribute to mechanical failure or enemy action.*
*Signatures:*
*[Six names, each accompanied by an elaborate seal]*
Hermes stared at those signatures. The six demons who'd decided he needed to die. Who'd ambushed him, murdered his crew, and erased him from existence.
Their names burned into his memory like brands.
"Find something?" Aerith appeared beside him.
He showed her the document. Watched her expression shift from curiosity to horror to cold anger.
"They killed him for refusing to submit," she said quietly. "That's it. That's the only reason."
"That's enough reason for them." Hermes carefully folded the document and tucked it into his jacket. "Power they can't control is power that threatens them."
"What are you going to do?"
Good question.
What was he going to do? The smart move was keep hiding, keep gathering strength, wait for the perfect moment. The angry move was storm out of here and challenge all six Supremes to single combat.
Alexander would've chosen the smart option. But Alexander was dead.
Hermes didn't know what he'd choose yet.
"Learn," he said finally. "Get stronger. Find out everything I can about them—their weaknesses, their fears, their secrets." He met Aerith's gaze. "And when I'm ready, I'm going to make them regret ever hearing the name Alexander Smith."
Black lightning crackled briefly across his fingers. Just for a moment. Then gone.
Aerith's eyes widened. "So it's true. You really are him."
"I'm Hermes Selenarch," he said carefully. "Who happens to remember being someone else. Whether that makes me Alexander Smith or just a demon with borrowed memories..." He shrugged. "I honestly don't know anymore."
"Does it matter?"
"Probably not."
They gathered what they could carry—documents, data crystals, anything that looked important. Twenty-eight minutes had passed when they emerged. Garrin resealed the vault, and they ascended back to the residential levels without incident.
"Tomorrow, we start planning," Aerith said at the stairwell where they'd met. "You need allies. Training. Information."
"Why are you really doing this?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Because my sister didn't deserve to die. Because the Supremes need to answer for what they've done. And because..." She smiled slightly. "Because someone needs to prove they're not untouchable. Might as well be us."
They parted ways. Hermes returned to his room, locked the door, and spread out the stolen documents.
Evidence. Confirmation. Names.
The six Demon Supremes who'd killed him were still in power, still running their factions, still deciding who lived and who died. They thought they were safe. Thought they'd eliminated the threat.
They were wrong.
Hermes touched the authorization document, traced the signatures. Felt his Core pulse with barely contained power.
"I'm coming for you," he whispered to the empty room. To the six names on the paper. To the memory of The Excalibur dying in fire and void. "All of you. And this time, I'm ready."
Black lightning danced between his fingers, casting strange shadows on the walls.
Outside, the academy slept. Unaware that Alexander Smith—or whatever he was now—had just declared war.