Moso flicked his fingers, and a white veil of spirit energy bloomed, walling Rod and the others off.
He turned back, gaze grave, and faced Manolobana.
"Lord Gula, you're not yourself today. As High Adjudicator of Internal Judgment, it's your job to doubt everything—that's fair. But your stance should be neutral. What I'm seeing is you singling this boy out to an unreasonable degree. I want you to be fair. Humanity's flame is flickering; we can't afford more infighting and fratricide."
Manolobana gave a mirthless laugh. "That's because you're too lenient. Too soft."
He rose. The chill in his eyes spread like icewater.
"The world is cold—and cruel. Fire doesn't just warm; it burns our enemies to ash. We should bind ourselves with harsher discipline, fight with colder methods. And that waste—"
He jabbed a thick finger at Rod's shadow.
"With suspicion this grave, I should've peeled open his soul long ago and dug out the truth. He shouldn't be breathing. Guardian Qingyu spared him for one ridiculous reason: 'Doom cultists wouldn't be this ridiculous.'"
"Listen to that!"
"Listen! Is that a reason?"
"She's that weak, that childish—on what grounds is she a candidate for the crown? If she becomes our king, the Trorian Kingdom will capsize and join the endless ruins swallowed by darkness, waiting ages for someone else to excavate—just like we've always been doing!"
His blade-edged stare even made the burly Kays lower his voice."Maybe the King and the Elders have their reasons. That's above our pay grade."
Moso's brow knit tight. "Lord Gula, the passing of the fire is rooted in tradition. Whether Lady Qingyu becomes the new monarch will be decided after the Council's review—"
"I'll ruin her reputation for sheltering him," Manolobana snapped. "I'll make her see how foolish, how childish, how outrageous this is. The King will see she's unfit for the candidacy."
The lines in Moso's face deepened with worry. "I don't know how much suspicion Rod bears in the incidents you mean, but in this case he has none—"
"How not?" Manolobana's voice was icy. "To my eyes the flaws in his story are everywhere."
He snapped Moso's barrier apart with a flick.
"For instance—he claims he struck the Black Priestess with thunderstones, grievously wounding her and giving Kalamon the chance to turn on her."
Kays rumbled, "What's wrong with that? Thunderstones pack a mean shock and paralysis, and their energy signature is tight—standard gear for city defense troops."
Manolobana sneered. "One thunderstone takes two thousand ke of energy to fully charge. He only just lit his soul-fire—Spark sequence—one useless little ember. Where did he get that kind of energy?"
Silence.By Rod's account, in less than a quarter-hour he'd thrown four stones, each charged to at least half.
Meaning roughly four thousand ke in fifteen minutes—more than most full combatants.
Moso asked, "Rod, what's your energy grade?"
"No need to ask," Manolobana said with a curl of his lip. "One. It's in the Academy records."
The two men traded a look. Hard to explain. Worry crept into their eyes.
Rod, meanwhile, was smiling inside.
The recovery from "Rime-Blue" was still rolling. Pushing his star-seed to overburn had worked. His soul felt bright again, his energy full.
If he didn't smash this tin-faced bastard's argument now, those eight hundred souls he'd burned would've died in vain.
"Hmph."
Rod snorted, pointing at the iron mask."Stupid. Narrow. Biased. Your shallow vision can't fathom the depth of my energy."
If that mask weren't hiding his face, Manolobana's expression would've been twisted. "What did you say?"
"Have you never seen a prodigy?" Rod smiled. "In all Troria's long years, you've never had outliers? I was born with deep reserves—unacceptable?"
"If you were Fire sequence with a high-amplitude trait, maybe," Manolobana roared. "But you're a Spark. One single seed. A black dud, a garbage core with no defined function. Why the hell would you have that much energy?"
"Then test me," Rod said lightly. "Don't you people have plenty of meters?"
Manolobana hesitated—bad feeling prickling—while Moso answered at once and had an appraiser bring in a black crystal.
A twelve-faced, neatly cut, lozenge-shaped stone.
"Channel into it. Time limit: one quarter-hour. Each cell is five hundred ke. Given what you allegedly spent, fill three cells and we'll accept you can do it."
"You agree, Lord Gula?"
Manolobana's silence was consent.
Rod set his palm on the crystal.
It was cool, with a strange pull—as if it wanted to drink his soul. The moment he bled a trickle of energy, it raced away into the stone.
Perfect. Saves me the effort.
He smiled, opened the floodgate. A hazy glow blossomed under his palm.
One cell lit quickly, breathing a soft, eerie light.He let his output ease; weakness brushed his mind—the glow under his hand dimmed.
Manolobana's voice turned faux-concerned. "If you're at your limit, take your hand off. Overdraw could damage your soul."
Rod ignored him, eyes shut, listening inward. When that fullness welled up again in the depths, he pushed.
The second cell flared alive.
This time Moso and Kays were the ones smiling.
Manolobana shut up.
Another pause. Then the third cell lit.
Kays sprang up. "Lord Gula, you're wrong again!"
The iron mask betrayed nothing. "Doubt is my prerogative. Without it, you'd never find the truth."
He stood, robe flaring. "You're all done being neutral. No point wasting time here. I'll go to the scene, gather evidence, catch the Black Priestess and her accomplices."
He fixed Rod with a long, cold look—like he was already seeing a conspirator who'd slipped judgment by trickery, someone he'd drag to the scaffold to face the fire.
"The Internal Adjudicators are taking over. No doomsday cultist escapes us."
He turned and strode out.
Rod didn't stop. He lit a fourth cell—and kept going.
Moso and Kays let him be. When the quarter-hour was up, they called him back.
Eight of the twelve faces were glowing.
Rod rubbed his nose, a touch unsatisfied. He wasn't at his limit. But standard tests ran fifteen minutes.
By his math, a quarter-hour here was about ten minutes. Reasonable—not too long, not too short.
Moso looked at the mostly-lit crystal; the furrows in his face eased, layer by layer. "Rod, your talent's excellent. Please work even harder. We'll be waiting for the day you bring hope."
Kays boomed, "We've already saved a squad leader spot for you—mmph—"
Moso clapped a hand over his mouth and tucked the black crystal into Rod's arms."Take it. A first-meeting gift."
"You can head back to the Academy. Don't discuss today with any students. We may contact you later—or not. Don't read into it."
…
…
After Rod left, Moso's face clouded over again. "Something's wrong. Gula was too aggressive. To declare his stance so baldly—is that truly what he thinks…"
"…or is he using it to hide something?"