Timeless AssassinC471: Unleash The Beast
Chapter 471: Unleash The Beast
For the rest of the day, wherever Aegon went, Valterri followed him like a shadow, constantly scanning for threats, as he acted with a level of caution that was somewhere between paranoia and purpose.
He never questioned Veyr's schedule, never commented on the mundane nature of the meetings he took, nor complained about the repetitive rituals that came with the early days of guarding a newly crowned Dragon.
He simply observed… quiet, composed, and alert in a way that made even the seasoned manor guards feel uneasy.
He watched every servant who approached with food or documents.
He eyed every Cult administrative official who entered the discussion halls.
And he memorized the routes through every hallway, corner, and courtyard that Aegon passed through—marking down sightlines, choke points, and possible ambush locations, even in places that were already protected by layers of Cult security.
When a group of the biggest merchant leaders within the Cult arrived with gifts and smiles stretched too wide, Valterri stood close behind Veyr, not blinking once as he scrutinized their gait, their eyes, their mana flow, their hand movements… as though he were preparing to fight every last one of them should even one move oddly.
As regardless of friend or foe, Valterri treated them all with the same suspicion.
Eventually, as Aegon retired to the northern wing for his first private meeting with the First Elder, Valterri arrived five minutes early, personally inspecting the room—checking under the long council table, behind every curtain, inside every mana duct vent, and even having a brief, hushed exchange with the stationed guards just to verify their identity and clearance.
Not once did he let his attention slip.
Even when Aegon made an unscheduled detour to his own bedroom mid-afternoon to change into a less ceremonial attire, Valterri still entered first, scanned the room like it was enemy territory, and only then stepped back to allow the Dragon to enter.
As although Aegon raised an eyebrow at that gesture, Valterri clarified nothing, as he simply stood at the doorframe, arms folded, eyes still tracking every shadow across the floor.
He did not breathe unless necessary.
He did not relax, not even for a second.
Because that was his oath.
To ensure the Dragons safety no matter the cost.
And if that meant being the first to walk into every room, the last to leave every corridor, and the only one on full alert even during mealtime, then so be it.
Aegon, for his part, didn't say anything about it.
He wanted to.
He felt awkward at being constantly watched, constantly protected, constantly guarded in a way that made him feel less like a man and more like a sacred scroll kept under lock and seal.
But every time he glanced back at Valterri… he couldn't bring himself to ask the man to ease up.
There was something in Valterri's presence, an unspoken loyalty, an unwavering sincerity, that made Veyr feel as though asking him to relax would be a betrayal in itself.
And so, he let him be.
Let the Shield do his work.
Because deep down, even if he never admitted it aloud…
Having such a dedicated servant around did make him feel a lot safer.
——————
(Meanwhile, Back On Planet Granoda)
Once Mauriss returned from his meeting with Kaelith and Helmuth, he couldn't help but chuckle upon seeing Dupravel still tied to the same stone where he had left him earlier that day.
It was amusing, almost absurd, considering that the thread binding Dupravel was no stronger than the kind used to sew a button onto a shirt.
Not a divine shackle. Not a mana-infused rope.
Just a simple string.
A mortal child could have snapped it without effort, let alone someone like Dupravel, whose strength could probably tear apart half the ocean around him.
And yet, he remained still. Obedient. Silent.
Not because he lacked the power to break free, but because he feared what might follow if he did.
The consequences of defiance were etched too deeply in his mind, as he sat tethered to a powerless thread, waiting faithfully for Mauriss to return, like a mutt trained to know better than to tug against his leash.
"Good boy, Dupravel… I'm pleased with your behaviour," Mauriss said, his voice smooth, his smile unnervingly genuine, as he stepped past the stone and crouched beside the kneeling figure.
Dupravel said nothing. He simply bowed his head lower, hiding the silent storm in his eyes.
He had no pride left to protest with. Not here. Not before the great deceiver.
*Pat*
*Pat*
Mauriss gently patted his shoulder like one might do to a dog that finally stopped biting.
"I have a special mission for you," Mauriss said, standing tall once more as he snapped his fingers once to turn the raindrops into soft mist.
"Complete it for me… and you may walk as a free man again." He offered, as Dupravel lifted his head just a little, eyes flickering with sudden hope.
"Free?" Dupravel asked, as "Yes," Mauriss replied, clasping his hands behind his back.
"You will no longer be wanted by the Universal Government.
There will be no more bounty on your head, no more chains.
Just you, the stars, and whichever corner of the galaxy you wish to crawl into."
Dupravel's lips parted, the words stumbling out before caution could restrain them. "What's the mission?"
Mauriss smiled wider, then reached into his storage ring and pulled out a small metallic vial the size of a finger.
"I'm going to restrict your strength using my magic," he said, almost casually. "Seal your power to the Transcendent Tier. That way, you'll slip into Cult territory unnoticed…. For I don't think Soron should bother tracking Transcendents."
"This here in my hands is the reversion potion. Once consumed, it will lift the restriction and restore you to your Monarch-level strength instantly. So you better drink it wisely. Because a few seconds after you restore your strength to normal, you may be detected by Soron, who may or may not intervene."
Dupravel swallowed, already feeling the noose tightening. "And what's the objective?"
Mauriss turned his gaze toward the horizon, his smile slowly fading, as it became replaced by something far colder.
"Kill the new Dragon. Aegon Veyr. Strike at the heart of the Cult. Leave their followers lost, leaderless, and trembling."
The words took a second to settle.
Dupravel's jaw clenched.
"Kill the new Dragon? That too within Cult land? That's suicide!" he blurted, unable to hide the spike of panic in his voice. "They'll bury me alive before I even get close to the new Dragon."
Mauriss only clicked his tongue in mild disappointment, like a teacher hearing a slow student speak out of turn.
"You've done it once with Noah… or have you already forgotten your own legacy, Dupravel?" he said softly, turning to meet his eyes.
"Now it's time to do it again."
"Think of all the things you can achieve once you're a free man again…. Think of how you can try to save your son!
Or perhaps, if you've learnt your lesson by now, create a hundred new sons.
You can even start a new guild of your own, and with the prestige of being a double dragon slayer, you will surely become a hot prospect for many to follow once again.
The opportunities are endless.
All you need to do is kill Aegon Veyr and return alive!" Mauriss encouraged, slicing the fragile thread with a flick of his finger, as if severing the leash of a beast he expected to unleash once more.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC472: Frog In A Well
Chapter 472: Frog In A Well
(2 days later, Planet Juxta)
Compared to the newly crowned Dragon Aegon, who now lived under an avalanche of ceremonial duties and diplomatic obligations, Leo's days post the historic match were spent in relative calm.
He spent a couple of days with family before returning to Planet Juxta, where Charles greeted him with a firm handshake and a familiar smirk.
"Well done, boy. You did not embarrass me out there," the old monarch said, as applause erupted across the Juxta Military Base.
Whistles, cheers, claps.... They all welcomed Leo back like a returning war hero.
Secretly, many on the base had hoped that Leo would rise to become the next Dragon, and were therefore left disappointed when he willingly chose to cast the title aside.
However, once Charles took the time to explain the immense responsibilities that came with bearing the mantle of Dragon, and how Leo might have genuinely felt, deep within, that he was not yet ready to shoulder such a burden, a shift began to take place.
The initial reactions, which may have leaned toward quiet judgment or confusion, gradually gave way to a more empathetic view.
And in time, what might once have been criticism transformed into a quiet understanding... and for some, even admiration.
"I broke through," Leo said, grinning. "Next time we fight, I'll be able to hold my own."
He meant it. After unlocking intent, Leo felt like he had finally found the cheat code.
The clarity he'd experienced during his fight with Aegon had been nothing short of revelatory.
For the first time, he could see it.
See the direction of an opponent's killing intent.
Where they wanted to strike. When they were about to strike.
It felt like seeing into the future.
Charles, however, just laughed—a full-bellied, knee-slapping laugh that echoed across the courtyard.
"HAHAHA! Oh, son..." he exhaled, wiping a small tear off his eye.
"Just because you've unlocked intent doesn't mean you've mastered it. Hell, it doesn't even mean you understand what it is."
Leo blinked, thrown off.
"What do you mean? My odds of taking you on in a fight should mathematically be better now, than they were before I unlocked intent, right?" He asked, as Charles took out a cigarette and lit it with a flick of his thumb.
"Mathematically? Your odds haven't improved at all," He said, as Leo frowned.
"That makes no sense. I fought Aegon. I saw the thread of intent before every one of his attacks. That's how I blocked him. If I can do the same with you, I should be a better fighter, at least on paper, yeah?" Leo asked, as Charles nodded in agreement.
"Right. And how many threads did you see?" Charles asked, as Leo hesitated.
"Just... one." He said, as listening to that response Charles smirked yet again.
Seeing a single thread of intent was the limit of Leo's current capability.
Whether he was on the offense or defense, there was only ever a single crimson thread.
If he aimed for his opponent's elbow since he saw a weak spot there, then the thread extended from his body and pointed there.
Conversely, if Veyr aimed for his neck, the thread would glow from Veyr's blade to his throat.
It was simple.
Direct.
A guiding line from point A to B.
"That's your problem," Charles said. "You're still seeing intent as a line. One thread. One attack. One weakness."
Then, without warning, Charles let loose a pulse of killing intent.
Leo's breath caught.
Suddenly, hundreds—no, thousands of red threads exploded from Charles's body, like tendrils of death latching onto every inch of Leo's skin.
His chest, throat, knees, armpits, ribs.... even the soles of his feet were tethered.
And this was his situation when Charles wasn't even holding a weapon.
"Wha—?" Leo staggered back instinctively.
This wasn't just a show of force. It was visual confirmation of how thoroughly outmatched he was.
His entire body was a weak spot in front of Charles. Every square inch.
Panicked, Leo drew a dagger and tried to scan Charles for weak points, thinking that surely there'd be some flaw within the monarch's defence that he could exploit now that he had unlocked intent.....
However, to his disappointment, nothing appeared.
Not a single thread.
Charles stood relaxed, cigarette between his fingers, not even in a combat stance... and yet Leo couldn't find even one opening to strike.
"Why don't you have any weak points?" Leo asked. "Why can't I hurt you?"
Charles exhaled smoke slowly, lips curling in amusement.
"Because you're still just peeking through a keyhole, boy."
He let the words settle.
"Intent isn't about seeing one thread. True mastery means seeing every possibility... and hiding your own. You're still at the beginner's level, reacting to one intent at a time. But the deeper you go, the more you'll realize—real fighters don't fight with one thread. They fight with millions"
Leo lowered his blade, sobered.
The illusions of strength that had buoyed within him since his duel with Aegon now seemed childish..... Laughable, even.
He wasn't strong.
He wasn't close.
He was still just a frog in the well.
And now... he finally understood just how deep the ocean above him really was.
"HAHAHAHAHA—-" Charles chuckled, as he pointed at Leo's face and laughed.
"You think what you're seeing is terrifying?" Charles asked, his voice unusually grim, as his pupils narrowed, likely from dredging up a memory buried deep in time.
A memory not just of violence, but of witnessing a presence so overwhelming that even recalling it seemed to weigh down the air around them.
"If this meagre display of strength is enough to frighten you, boy, then you're nowhere near ready to stand in front of Soron."
He paused for just a moment, letting the silence stretch.
"Because when Soron unleashes his killing intent, it's not just you that gets caught in it. It's the entire third dimension. Every inch of space. Every molecule of air. Every single atom within reach is tethered to his will in a web of red so dense, it makes the concept of escape laughable."
He lifted his eyes and met Leo's gaze without blinking.
"Not just your body, but the entire fabric of space around you becomes laced with his presence. Up, down, sideways, forward, backward... it doesn't matter. There is no direction you can move in that does not already belong to him. It's as if, the moment he decides you're his target... you're already dead. You just haven't realized it yet."
As Charles's words settled, Leo felt an involuntary chill climb up his spine, crawling through every nerve like icewater.
His earlier discomfort he felt when Charles unleashed his killing intent, now paled in comparison to the raw dread taking root within him, as despite all his training, despite all he had endured to reach this point, he realized just how far he still remained from touching the realm of true power.
If standing before Charles had made him feel helpless, then standing before Soron.... someone who could drown an entire dimension in murderous will was a concept that remained still inconceivable to him.
Yet even so, Charles's words had offered him a slight glimpse into the brutal truth of the power scale of the universe.
And that truth was that when a God moved... the entire third dimension became a part of the battlefield.
And everything within it, whether living or not, became a part of the kill.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC473: Warnings and Advice
Chapter 473: Warnings and Advice
Once Charles had shattered Leo's illusions, he led him to a private office tucked away from the bustle of the base, as there were matters of significance regarding Leo's future that required a quieter setting, details that couldn't be shared in the open.
"Boy… how do you feel about being named the Shadow Dragon?" Charles asked once the door was shut behind them, as Leo immediately let out a deep, resigned sigh.
"To be fair, I never really wanted the responsibility," he admitted, his voice calm yet honest, "but I don't mind learning the Cult's secret techniques. I mean, you were the one who said they're the best in the universe, right?"
Charles gave a slow nod in agreement, his expression unreadable.
"They are. The techniques you'll inherit are unrivaled, refined over several millennia and capable of cementing your foundation as one of the greatest warriors alive. But don't get cocky just yet… learning them won't be nearly as easy as you think."
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, clearly frustrated before continuing.
"These Elders… Most of them have devoted decades, sometimes an entire century, to mastering just one of the twelve signature techniques. That's one move, perfected over a lifetime.
And you? You're expected to master all twelve, and that too at the Grandmaster level, when the techniques themselves are designed for higher tiered warriors."
Leo frowned slightly, sensing the gravity in Charles's voice.
"Some of the techniques they'll teach you aren't meant for a Grandmaster's body. The internal strain alone will shred your muscles, rupture your organs, and corrode your circuits if you're not careful. If Veyr, standing beside you, can manage ten or twelve repetitions while training a technique, you might only be able to pull off one. Maybe two. That's the level of damage we're talking about."
Leo's frown deepened. He didn't mind training or pain, but the idea of limitations, of starting each day at a disadvantage, gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
"And it won't stop there," Charles added, his voice firm. "Your life, from this point on, will be consumed by training. When you're not honing those techniques, you'll be grinding under me, learning what it truly means to be a military leader. And don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're juggling both paths."
He looked Leo square in the eyes, not with cruelty, but with the hardened clarity of someone who had carried these weights before.
"You will learn everything I have to offer about commanding. Because anyone with a dagger can call themselves a warrior, boy, but very few have the capacity to become true commanders."
He started listing the burdens one by one.
"You'll learn how to build and maintain planetary defenses. How to assess the capabilities of your soldiers and the limits of your ground to air weapons.
You'll understand supply chains, resourcing, and how to restock ammunition mid-conflict.
You'll grasp tactical formation, remote troop deployments, and the delicate art of maintaining morale when your men are on the brink of breaking.
And while you do all this, you'll also be expected to understand the Cult itself, its inner workings, its politics, its fractures, because you haven't just been named as the Shadow Dragon, but also the future Vice Sect Master."
Leo exhaled slowly, his chest rising with the weight of what had just been laid out.
This wasn't the life he had hoped for, not even close.
He had never dreamed of command, of politics, of leading men into war or managing bureaucratic nonsense. He only ever cared about one thing, his own strength. His own growth. His own survival. If he had truly wanted to lead the Cult, he wouldn't have turned down the title of Dragon to begin with.
"And boy…" Charles said, his tone dipping slightly lower, more serious than before. "I probably don't even need to say this, but I'll say it anyway….. beware the Elders Council.
No matter how warm they act. No matter how much they seem to care. No matter how much rapport you build. Never trust them."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"You can trust your worst enemy and it'll probably still work out. But never trust a snaky politician. Never. There's no telling what those robed bastards are plotting in the shadows."
Leo nodded, the warning etching itself clearly into his mind.
If nothing else, that at least he already understood.
"The only individuals within the Cult who are allowed to have contact with the righteous faction are the Elders…..
They're the only bastards who occasionally sit down with the enemy, negotiate peace deals or perhaps plot the downfall of the Cult.
So if there's anyone within the Cult who may sell you out to the enemy…. It's them, you understand?" Charles warned, as although he did not mention Noah and the controversial circumstances surrounding his death, Leo got a good grasp of what he wanted to convey.
"Don't worry old man, I'm not the easily trusting type.
Matter of fact…. I barely even trust you," Leo said jokingly, as Charles smiled at his words.
The smile on Charles's face this time wasn't one of amusement, but rather a quiet, melancholic curve that tugged at the edge of his lips.
As he looked into Leo's eyes—clear, sharp, and untouched by the heavy toll of leadership, he couldn't help but see glimpses of his own youth.
A time when he too had been wild and free, a stallion that hadn't yet tasted the reins of duty or the bite of sacrifice.
'You joke now, boy, but life has a way of breaking that spirit in more ways than you can count. And by the time it's finished with you, you won't have the luxury of emotion left to spare.'
'If it were up to me, I'd never place such a heavy burden on a pair of shoulders so young, but fate doesn't ask for permission. It simply drops its weight and walks away.'
'The naming of a new Dragon is more than a ceremony. It is a declaration. It is the beating of war drums beneath a silk curtain. The Cult of Ascension will not remain silent forever.'
'We weren't built to simply defend our current borders and watch time pass. Sooner or later, the Elders will approve a counteroffensive, and when that happens, it will be you and Veyr who are thrown into the storm's eye.'
'Whether you go as a Dragon or as a Commander makes no difference in the end. Either way, war is coming for you. And it will not knock gently.'
'I will try my best to teach you how to stay alive…. But in the end, it will be up to you to find a way to stay alive.'
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC474: Drums Of War
Chapter 474: Drums Of War
(Meanwhile, across all Cult territories)
A few days after Veyr was named Dragon, recruitment offices enrolling soldiers for the Dragon's private army opened up across all Cult-controlled planets.
There was no grand announcement.
There were no fliers posted to inform the citizens that the recruitment process had begun, yet even without any announcement, everyone had already been expecting it.
The tradition of the Dragon's army being raised once a new Dragon was named was as old as the Cult itself.
It was a tradition that passed through the bloodstream of every citizen born under the Cult's banners.
A tradition that signified that a new chapter had begun, and with it, the call to arms had returned.
Crimson flags bearing the sigil of the Cult were hoisted above public squares and City halls, and beneath them, lines began to form.
Long, winding, feverish lines, stretching through dusty marketplaces, dark-lit alleys, and even the front steps of police stations.
The dream was alive again.
For nearly three decades, the Cult Of Ascension had quietly prepared for the day they would stop defending their fractured territories and begin reclaiming what was once theirs.
Regardless of the time period, every generation of children within the Cult were raised on tales of conquest. Of the glory of joining the Dragon's army. Of their divine right to expand.
As after generations of that dream being passed down from father to son, from lineage to lineage, it was now less a dream and more a birthright, etched into the minds of the faithful before they could even walk.
And now, with the ascension of a new Dragon, that dream felt within reach once more.
"I'm telling you," a young man whispered to the one beside him as they inched forward in the queue, "once we break the frontline planets, we'll be inside the Valtros Solar System by winter. The righteous faction won't even know what hit them."
"They've grown soft," the other replied, eyes gleaming. "Their fleets are bloated with bureaucracy. Their captains trained in academies, not war. We'll gut them."
The words carried the edge of confidence, but beneath them was something far more dangerous…. righteous conviction.
They had no idea about the consequences of the actions they so casually discussed.
As while to them war seemed like a glorious prospect, in truth it was anything but.
The planets they hoped to capture from the grips of the righteous faction were planets inhabited by tens of millions of inhabitants…. Sometimes even billions.
And capturing one meant displacing many, and killing many more.
"Vorthas fell in just six days, and Juxta barely lasted nine. That was under Dragon Noah," one muttered, tapping the metal end of his staff against the ground.
He was an old veteran from the Juxta raid, his uniform faded but his eyes still bright.
"You should've seen the sky when Juxta's defense grid collapsed. It turned red. Redder than blood. I'll never forget it."
The younger ones listened in awe, their imaginations already aflame. They weren't thinking about the bodies. The screams. The orphans left behind on planets scorched by orbital fire.
No, they were thinking about the loot.
The glory.
The pride of returning home with medals and scars and stories to tell.
Because here, killing was not murder. Not if it was for the Cult.
Here, conquest wasn't seen as aggression. It was justice. It was destiny. It was payback for the centuries of betrayal, exile, and humiliation suffered at the hands of the so-called righteous.
"They call us the Evil Cult," a woman scoffed, arms crossed as she waited. "But they don't know what true Evil is…. They haven't come face to face with it yet.
No worries though, they'll know Evil when I show it to them."
And just like that, hatred turned holy.
Across every outpost, every moonbase, every capital city under the Cult's domain, the lines continued to grow. Some came for revenge, some for glory, some for a sense of purpose they could not find anywhere else. But regardless of their reasons, they all shared the same oath, the same fire in their veins.
To march beneath the Dragon's banner.
To turn the dream of counteroffensive into reality.
To expand the Cult's reach not through diplomacy or dialogue, but through ash, fire, and blood.
————-
(Meanwhile within the Forge District of Tithia)
Far away from the cheers and enlistment lines, buried deep within the molten heart of the Forge District on Planet Tithia, the hammers had already begun to ring.
Massive furnaces lined the district in rows that stretched beyond sight, each belching smoke and sparks into the morning sky as roaring fires cast the whole sector in a hellish glow.
*CLANG*
Within the command hall of Forge Sector Alpha, Chief Blacksmith Tharn struck a heavy blow across the worktable with his iron scepter, the clang echoing through the walls as dozens of apprentices froze mid-action.
"No more idling. No more excuses. The Dragon has been named, which means the next war has already begun. Whether it starts tomorrow or next year, our duty starts now."
All around him, the senior blacksmiths nodded in solemn agreement, their soot-covered faces lit by the firelight, eyes reflecting only purpose.
"The supply division has already sent us the list," another smith growled, holding up a scroll with itemized quantities that read like a declaration of madness. "Blades. Space Cannons. Railguns. Power armor. Mana conduits. They want everything. And they want it mass-produced."
"We don't rest until the first million weapons are done," Tharn barked, slamming the scroll down. "Every sword we forge is a life spared. Every plate of armor, a future protected. The Dragon's army will not march into battle with scraps. They will march with fire in their hands and steel at their backs."
Sparks flew as hammers returned to rhythm, dozens of anvils ringing like war drums in unison. Molten ore poured into molds. Mana-infused alloys cooled in water tanks laced with arcane sigils. Chain-link armor clattered from conveyor hooks, still steaming as workers passed them down the lines.
The forges had awakened.
And though no blood had yet been spilled, and no borders had yet shifted, everyone in Tithia understood what this meant.
The weapons of war were rising.
The Cult was preparing.
And the Dragon's army would need them soon.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC475 475: Arrival
A full week had passed since Aegon was officially named the Dragon, and now the time had come for both him and Leo to report to Planet Vorthas for their initial round of skill training under the Twelfth Elder's guidance.
For Veyr, this development came as a welcome reprieve, since he had spent the last several days doing nothing except hold endless meetings with strangers, merchants and bureaucrats…. each more tiresome than the last.
Leo, however, found the timing far from ideal.
He had only just begun to familiarize himself with the internal workings of the Juxta Military Base, slowly peeling back its layers and beginning to understand the tip of the iceberg behind its operation, when he was abruptly pulled away and thrust into the Twelfth Elder's training program.
—--
(Planet Vorthas, the hangar bay)
When Leo stepped off the transport ship and onto the soil of Planet Vorthas, the first thing he noticed wasn't the Hangar Bay's imposing structure or the elite guards stationed at every corner, but rather the tall figure standing at the edge of the arrival platform, seemingly waiting for him to step-off.
'No way…. Surely he doesn't want to start a rematch here… does he?' Leo wondered for a second, as he was surprised to see the newly crowned Dragon, Aegon Veyr, waiting for him to descend with his arms folded and his expression serious.
'The fuck? Why is he looking this way? And who is that intense guy behind Veyr?' Leo wondered, as behind Veyr stood a middle aged man with specs of gray in his beard who also scanned him with an intensity that was just as strong as that of Veyr.
*Step*
*Step*
After descending, he locked eyes with Veyr across the crowd of security personnel and Cult officials, and for a moment expected the usual from his fallen opponent— resentment, pride, maybe a trace of competitive tension still lingering from their last duel.
But instead, Veyr looked at him with something entirely different.
Conviction.
Not anger. Not smugness. Just a strange, unwavering resolve in his eyes, as if there was something he desperately wanted to say but couldn't quite figure out how.
Leo tried to ignore it at first, walking past him with nothing more than a nod. But Veyr didn't move. He just kept looking at him, eyes burning with unspoken thought.
And even when a considerable amount of time passed, that damn stare didn't go away.
Even when they were being guided through Hangar Bay and onto a private Hovercraft... even when the Twelfth Elder's aides explained to them their upcoming schedules and where the Twelfth Elder would be meeting up with them, Leo could feel that same look clinging to the back of his neck like a constant weight.
As eventually, once they were onboard the hovercraft and heading securely towards the training site, Leo turned toward him with a raised brow and an expression halfway between amusement and exhaustion.
"Everything alright, cuz?" he asked casually, folding his arms as he leaned against the nearest seat mount.
Veyr hesitated for a moment, then exhaled slowly, like the words had been lodged in his throat for days.
"I don't know what made you think that I'd be a better candidate to become Dragon than you," he began, voice steady but low, "but… I won't let you down."
Leo blinked, the sentence catching him off guard.
"I'm not perfect. Clearly not the strongest. But I'll earn this title. I'll fight, I'll improve, I'll lead… even if it kills me. Even if it takes everything I have. I'll grow into the role. I promise. I'll become someone worthy of the trust you showed me."
His voice didn't waver.
And technically, he never once said thank you in his speech.
But Leo understood it all the same, even if it left him unexpectedly tongue-tied.
This wasn't an outcome he had anticipated, because in truth, he hadn't intended to pass the torch with any sort of confidence or belief in Veyr.
His words that day….. about not being ready, about wanting to focus on growth— were more of a convenient excuse to not become Dragon himself than anything profound.
His excuse about Veyr being more worthy nothing more than a smokescreen for a decision that was actually driven by selfish interests.
But somehow, Veyr had interpreted it as something else entirely…..
The boy misguidedly had started to see that forfeit as a vote of faith.
As a gesture of recognition.
And Leo felt like it was best not to break that illusion now, considering how big of a change that small vote of confidence seemed to have on his personality.
His cousin had somehow gone from a snotty, brash warrior to whatever transitional gentleman he was today, all because of that one tiny misunderstanding—making it feel almost criminal to tell him the truth now.
"Alright then," Leo hence said simply, patting him on the shoulder as he turned away.
"Guess I'll be expecting some big things from you, O great Dragon."
Veyr didn't reply, but his intense nod said everything.
The man clearly did not hold any resentment over losing the fight anymore.
Which, while it did little to ease any of Leo's other concerns, at least reassured him that sabotage from Veyr was one thing he probably wouldn't have to worry about while training…..
Thankfully, the hovercraft ride didn't last long, as within the hour, they arrived at the outskirts of an unmarked zone on Vorthas, far removed from any city or base.
And as the door hissed open, Leo was shocked to see a field full of twisted metal constructs laying ahead.
It wasn't a training ground.
It was a torture yard.
Dozens of rusted contraptions stood anchored to the earth— spiked coils, weighted suits, leather harnesses, and compression bands designed to squeeze, pull, and contort the body through prolonged strain.
Each device looked like it had been built not to train warriors, but to reshape them from the inside out, as Leo's brow twitched while he took it all in.
'This place reminds me of how master Ben used to train me back in the day, only a hundred times more intense.' He thought, as he recalled how his journey of becoming an Assassin and gaining unreal flexibility in his joints started in a torture park just like this one.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC476: The First Secret Technique
Chapter 476: The First Secret Technique
(An unknown training facility, Planet Vorthas)
While Leo found himself oddly nostalgic at the sight of all the twisted torture equipment scattered around the field, Veyr stood frozen, his brow furrowed with disbelief as he looked from one contraption to another, unable to understand what kind of place they had been brought to.
Unlike Leo, whose Assassin training had begun in a torture park not too different from this one, Veyr had grown up learning street combat, crude dueling routines, and simple body strengthening drills, none of which prepared him for what he now saw before him.
"What… is this place?" he asked slowly, voice laced with unease as he took a cautious step toward one of the larger metal rigs. "Why is there a contraption here that's literally designed to hang someone to death?"
He gestured toward the rope-bound gallows-like structure beside him, eyes widening as he glanced towards the neck loop and adjustable crank at the base.
"Agh, that?" a deep voice cut through the silence, causing both him and Leo to snap their heads around.
The Twelfth Elder had appeared from seemingly nowhere, his robes fluttering slightly despite the still air.
"That is one of our more 'refined' tools," the Elder said, voice calm and instructional, as though he were pointing out items in a museum. "It's used to strengthen the neck muscles, decompress the spine, and improve overall lung capacity."
He stepped closer and gave the contraption a light tap with his knuckles.
"You adjust the height so that you're forced to balance on your toes, stretching upward just enough to catch a desperate breath. Then, you let yourself hang for a few minutes. Then up again. Then down. Over and over. Hours at a time."
Veyr's face contorted in horror. "You're telling me… that's training?"
"Yes," the Twelfth Elder said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It teaches your brain to stay functional even under extreme oxygen deprivation. It trains your neck to handle trauma, and your spine to bear unnatural pressure without snapping."
He walked past another metal frame, this one lined with thin spikes across its interior surface. "Each contraption you see around you has one purpose—pain. But not senseless pain. Calibrated pain. Focused pain. Pain that builds the kind of control you'll need for what comes next."
Veyr blinked rapidly, trying to piece together the logic behind this setup.
"So all these machines… all this stuff… is built for actual training?"
"Correct," the Twelfth Elder said without hesitation. "Every last piece. Each is designed to isolate a particular muscle group or joint cluster and push it to its breaking point. If you want to learn the first of the Cult's twelve secret techniques, then you must first reshape your body to obey your will—not your instincts."
He turned slightly and gestured toward the older man standing quietly behind Veyr.
"Shield Of The Dragon, you're dismissed. You're not cleared to hear what I'm about to say next."
Valterri, understanding the gravity of the situation, immediately gave a silent bow to Veyr, then turned on his heel and disappeared behind a metallic gate, his footsteps echoing away.
As only once he was gone did the Elder continue.
"The spell I'm about to introduce is known as [Shapeshift]."
Leo's gaze sharpened at the name, while Veyr's expression shifted from concern to curiosity.
"As you've likely guessed, its main purpose is disguise and infiltration," the Elder continued. "But this isn't something as simple as illusion magic. It's something far deeper."
Without further warning, the Elder's form began to distort. His shoulders curved downward, his chest receded, and his skin shifted tone. Within moments, he stood as an almost-perfect mirror image of Veyr…. down to the angular jawline and the faint scar under his left eye.
Only the hair color and beard tone remained slightly off.
But that, too, changed moments later, with a second wave of refinement smoothing out the remaining differences.
"So, Skyshard," the Elder said, now fully wearing Veyr's appearance, "can you tell which of us is real?"
Leo narrowed his eyes. The only clear giveaway was the robe: Veyr's garments were maroon, while the Elder was wearing white.
But everything else, from the way their chests rose and fell as they breathed to the way their aura felt in the air, was nearly indistinguishable.
'If I ran into him in public like this, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Not unless I was watching for something extremely specific,' Leo thought, as he stepped forward, scanning them both again.
"No… not really," he admitted. "You're not wearing the frown Veyr always carries when he's overthinking, but that's the only real tell. Aside from that… it's a flawless disguise."
The Elder gave a small, satisfied smile, then transformed back into his original form.
"The brilliance of [Shapeshift] lies not just in how well it mimics someone's look, but in its stability. Once you shift into a form, it doesn't require active mana flow to maintain. It becomes your default state until you will yourself back into your true form."
He gave them both a pointed look.
"That means you can fight, sleep, eat, and carry out your mission without fear of accidentally breaking the disguise. Unlike illusion spells that can be shattered by perception, this one is practically untouchable—unless someone knows you intimately enough to spot behavioral patterns."
Leo nodded slowly, already understanding how powerful that made the technique.
"And the reason this is your first assignment," the Elder continued, "is because you'll need to use this skill in nearly every major operation inside the righteous faction's borders. Whether it's sneaking into a raid party to recover a forbidden relic, carrying out an assassination in broad daylight, or stealing intel from the Universal Government's restricted databases… [Shapeshift] will be your first line of defense and your greatest advantage."
Veyr took a slow breath, glancing around once more at the dozens of brutal training tools surrounding them.
"And all this," he asked quietly, "is just so we can learn that one skill?"
The Elder smiled faintly.
"This skill, Veyr, is not merely about disguise. It's about learning how to control every bone, every joint, every muscle and tendon in your body with surgical precision. The pain you will feel here will teach your nerves to obey your will. The strain will forge discipline into your flesh. And the control you gain will become the foundation upon which every technique after this one shall rest."
He folded his arms behind his back.
"If you cannot learn [Shapeshift], you have no right to learn what comes next."
Leo let out a soft breath, eyes scanning the rusted metal again.
'Looks like it's going to be one of those months,' he thought, already preparing himself for what came next.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC477: Demonstration
Chapter 477: Demonstration
By the time the Twelfth Elder began his actual demonstration on how to slowly master the technique, both Leo and Veyr had already accepted the fact that this wasn't going to be a conventional lesson.
There would be no practice dummies or training gear to learn with…. Only metal, straps, and pain.
"You can theoretically start learning this technique using any contraption present here, but for the sake of simplicity, let's start with this one, which should arguably be the easiest muscle group for you to learn—" The elder said, as he stopped in front of a large, barrel-shaped machine, its outer surface covered with flexible steel bands and embedded copper coils.
He motioned for their attention, then rolled up the sleeves of his robe and placed his dominant arm into the rig.
"This contraption targets the brachialis, brachioradialis, and the surrounding connective tissue in your dominant arm…."
"Since your arm might be the tissue you're already well used to using in isolation, let's start with training that first."
The machine hissed. The bands clamped down. Muscles twitched beneath the Elder's skin as the coils activated, creating a vacuum seal around his forearm that began to apply pressure.
At first, it looked like he was just clenching. But within seconds, Leo and Veyr saw something shift.
The Elder's arm expanded, not grotesquely, not in some exaggerated cartoonish way, but with an extreme precision.
Veins thickened.
Fibers realigned.
What had once looked like a trained but average arm now resembled that of a top-tier bodybuilder, right down to the natural striations in the muscle.
"What I'm doing here is not just inflating muscle with mana," he explained, voice composed even as the machine buzzed with strain. "I am reconstructing it naturally.
I am pooling mana into the desired region and then allowing my muscles to quickly absorb water from my body to gain size
To ensure that they don't deform, I'm also reinforcing the muscle fibers with mana, and then slowly, I am allowing them to settle down in my frame before reconnecting them to my nerves."
With his free hand, he tapped his own bicep. It didn't jiggle. It barely even moved.
"This is not an illusion. This is structural transformation. The muscle has learned how to expand, contract, and hold form on command."
He then reversed the process.
In under three seconds, the same arm that had ballooned into something worthy of a genetic champion was back to its original build….. looking tight, lean and ordinary.
"This," he said, withdrawing his arm and walking over to a set of data slates, "is your next task."
The slates activated automatically as the two boys stepped forward, screens lighting up with a grid of high-resolution images.
Hundreds of human physiques. Every shape, size, density, and tone imaginable were displayed on the slate, as the twelfth elder handpicked about 25 different images from them.
"These are some of the arm types I want you to learn how to copy. And once you can copy all 25 to perfection, we move to the next muscle group—" He said, as Leo and Veyr browsed through the images he had selected.
Some of the arms were long and wiry.
Some were short and thick.
Some arms had exaggerated delts, minimalist triceps, or asymmetrical veins.
Some looked completely natural. Others, subtly enhanced through years of bio-engineering or magical augmentation.
"How close does the replication have to be?" Leo asked, already calculating the process in his head.
"Perfect," the Elder replied without hesitation. "No sagging. No unnatural taper. No visual mismatch with your current body proportions. If you wish to take the form of a soldier with twenty-inch arms, then you must become that soldier. Not just look like him."
Leo clicked his tongue but nodded, the challenge already stirring something competitive inside him.
Veyr, meanwhile, looked overwhelmed. He scrolled through the images, fingers twitching as he viewed muscle after muscle, size after size. There was no rhyme or rhythm to the gallery. Each one looked completely different from the other.
"This is insane," he muttered.
"No," the Twelfth Elder corrected him. "Insane would be me expecting you to recreate the physique of an Orc or Demon…. This is easy."
He gestured back toward the machine.
"Now, both of you, insert your dominant arms into the contraption. We begin with the first training cycle. Your job will be to isolate the brachialis, pump mana into the fibers without letting it overflow into adjacent tissue, and then attempt your first controlled expansion."
Leo moved first. He slid his arm into the coils and felt the cold grip wrap around his skin like a hungry snake.
Veyr followed, albeit hesitantly.
Once both were secured, the Elder activated the machine.
*CLANK*
The internal vacuum triggered. The copper bands tightened. Heat surged through the metal as a soft electric pulse buzzed to life, stimulating the muscles with precision.
"Focus on control," the Elder instructed. "Not brute force. It's not about pouring mana like you're inflating a balloon. You need to trace every thread of muscle from insertion to origin. Target, isolate, expand, sustain."
Leo narrowed his eyes, already visualizing his inner circulation. He channeled mana into his right arm, carefully guiding it past the deltoid, ignoring the twitch in his shoulder, and directing it down into the brachialis.
He could feel the fibers stretching, resisting, trembling, then slowly, responding, as they absorbed water cells from his bloodstream to grow in size.
Veyr winced beside him. His mana was leaking into his elbow joint, causing a jolt of pain to shoot up his arm.
"Too wide," the Elder said flatly. "Your focus is scattered. Pull the energy inward, behind the elbow, not through it."
Veyr gritted his teeth and adjusted.
Sweat began to bead on both their foreheads. Every second felt like a minute. The machine didn't ease up. If anything, the pressure was only increasing.
"This is the first of 108 contraptions," the Elder announced coldly, as the humming noise around them grew louder.
"Each one targets a unique part of the body. Some will work your jaw. Some will work your toes. Others your ribcage, your earlobes, your tongue, your diaphragm, your spine."
Veyr felt his stomach twist. Training his earlobes? His damn tongue? What kind of monsters designed this program?
"Your task is to master every last one. Only then will your body be malleable enough for full-scale Shapeshift. Until then," the Elder paused, voice dropping an octave, "until then, consider this as just isolated muscle training."
Leo didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
Because deep down, he already knew,
This was going to be a hell of a training cycle, and it had only just begun.
However, while Leo remained unnervingly calm even as the machine's pressure steadily climbed, Veyr couldn't hide his discomfort. He winced, groaned, and shifted against the restraints, clearly unused to this kind of prolonged, targeted pain.
"The hell, Skyshard? You're only a Grandmaster… how are you not flinching under this?" Veyr asked between clenched teeth, a few minutes into the cycle.
Leo gave a faint smile and shook his head.
"Pain and I go way back, Cuz. This? This isn't enough to make me blink."
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC478 478: Finally Awake
(Planet Vorthas, remote ocean, 180 miles from the nearest civilization)
While Leo and Veyr were still struggling to grasp the fundamentals of [Shapeshift], Dupravel had already managed to infiltrate Planet Vorthas by slipping through its weakest point in planetary defense — a vast, unguarded stretch of ocean in the middle of nowhere.
*Swim*
*Swim*
Cutting through the water in a steady southwest trajectory, Dupravel knew he would have to swim nonstop for at least two full days before he'd reach land. But the distance didn't bother him in the slightest.
"I've endured far worse," he muttered, his strokes unbroken as he sliced through the waves. "The only real nuisance is how heavy and slow everything feels now..."
His tone soured slightly as he glanced down at his limbs — once effortless, now sluggish.
"Being reduced to a mere Transcendent... I'd forgotten how limiting this tier feels."
With Mauriss's restriction sealing away his Monarch-level power, Dupravel felt the dull ache of restraint for the first time in decades — every movement reminding him that his strength was now human again.
"If I manage to kill the new Dragon, I'll regain my freedom.
And perhaps, just perhaps, with my newfound freedom I'll be able to build an organisation powerful enough to attack The Cult and save my son," he murmured, as the resolve in his eyes hardened.
Despite Mauriss advising him to forget about his son.
Despite the universe calling him foolish for loving him so much.
Dupravel never gave up on the idea of rescuing his only child.
Because regardless of what people said…. In the end, he was a father who yearned to protect his own flesh and blood.
"Fear not Darnell… your father is here!"
—---------------
(Meanwhile, the Skyshard Residence, Luke's room, Planet Vorthas)
Alia sat beside the bed, her fingers gently tracing circles into Luke's frail palm, while her other hand stayed curled around his wrist, holding it close to her cheek as a silent tear slid down her face.
She did not speak.
Did not sob out loud.
Just sat there, breathing softly, whispering prayers under her breath.
It had been months now.
Months since the love of her life had fallen into this state and become an unmoving, silent doll, as the toll on his body kept worsening every day.
His ribs were visible beneath the blanket now.
His arms, once strong enough to lift her effortlessly, had withered to the point that even the tubes seemed to weigh them down.
And yet… she hadn't left his side.
Not for a day.
Not even once.
'Please wake up babe, I can't see you so weak everyday–' She prayed with all her heart, as suddenly at that moment.
"Mhm—"
A low groan, hoarse and dry, rumbled from Luke's throat.
His eyelids twitched and a slight shuffle of his fingers followed.
"What?" Alia's eyes widened, as she froze.
Luke's lashes fluttered, the whites of his eyes showing for just a second before they opened properly… slow, confused, unfocused.
He blinked twice, gaze shifting around the room before settling on her face—pale, teary, and trembling in disbelief.
For a second, he wondered if he had died.
If this was heaven.
Because if it was, and Alia was here too, then maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
But then the pain hit.
It came like a wave: deep, raw, and aching.
His entire body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder and left to dry.
Even breathing hurt bad, as it was the pain that told him that this was definitely not heaven.
"…Hey… beautiful…" he rasped, barely audible.
Alia gasped.
Her tears, already balanced at the edge, tumbled down in full force as she leaned forward and gently hugged his chest, careful not to put any weight on him.
"Luke… Luke… you're awake," she whispered in disbelief, the words breaking apart with emotion.
He smiled weakly.
'That's her voice… I remember that voice…'
Alia quickly pulled back, wiping at her cheeks as she stumbled toward the door, nearly tripping over her own feet in the rush.
"Doctor! Mom! Dad! Amanda! Luke is awake! He's awake!"
Her voice echoed down the corridor like a spark in dry grass.
Within moments, footsteps thundered closer.
A team of doctors rushed in, followed seconds later by Elena, Jacob, Amanda, and Ben, all panting, all wide-eyed.
"My baby…" Elena whispered upon seeing his open eyes, as she rushed to his side and gently brushed his hair back. "Oh thank the stars…"
Luke looked at her, too weak to speak much, but the small smile that tugged at his cracked lips said it all.
"Mom…"
He did not remember how he got here.
Did not remember how he collapsed or the journey that followed.
But he did not mind having lost consciousness, now that he woke up with his girlfriend and his family beside him.
Amanda crouched near the edge of the bed, squeezing his fingers while Jacob placed a hand over his ankle.
The old man, stern and guarded as ever, looked visibly shaken, his jaw clenched tightly as he stood at the foot of the bed.
"Leo…" Luke croaked, looking around slowly. "Where's Leo?"
"He's safe," Elena answered softly, brushing his hair again. "He's here too, on this planet. He's doing some stuff of his own. But I promise, he's okay."
Luke let out a soft sigh, relaxing slightly against the pillows.
'Thank god…'
For a few more moments, the room was filled with warm silence, with quiet reassurances, and whispered words of welcome.
It was the kind of reunion none of them had dared hope for.
Until—
Jacob stepped forward.
His voice, still calm, dropping to a deeper tone.
"I know you just woke up," he said, eyes hardening, "but can you remember who did this to you?"
The question pierced through the moment.
The room froze.
Even the chief doctor, who had just finished taking vitals, went still.
His hands pausing mid-air, as a bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.
Technically, Luke's memories should've already been altered…. sealed beneath the effects of the memory suppression spell cast during his extraction.
But if the magic hadn't taken hold completely…
Then the ruckus that could follow was not going to be pretty at all.
Thankfully though, as Luke recalled who did this to him, he did not seem to remember what actually transpired.
"The Red Army," he said slowly, voice still hoarse but clear. "The Righteous Faction… they hunted me down, like animals. Just because I'm supposedly a carrier of some ancient bloodline…"
The lead doctor exhaled, finally allowing himself to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The spell had held.
"He needs rest," the doctor said firmly, stepping between the bed and the crowd. "This conversation ends here. He's stable, but nowhere near full recovery. I'll permit brief visits, but no stress. No questioning. No memory pushing."
Jacob gave a curt nod but didn't look away from Luke.
Everyone else slowly began to step back.
Alia sat down again, holding Luke's hand once more as if to make sure he wouldn't slip away again.
Luke turned his gaze toward her and smiled faintly.
'I'm back now, don't worry,' he said with his eyes, as Alia nodded in affirmation.
"Leo….. someone find a way to contact Leo, even if we don't know how to, I'm sure the bulky soldiers around the house know how to get a hold of him.
The boy needs to know that his brother has woken up!" Elena said once she was outside Luke's room and into the hall, as Amanda nodded at her instructions, and rushed to talk to a guard at once.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC479: Elder Brother
Chapter 479: Elder Brother
(Planet Vorthas, Twelfth Elder's Training Facility)
Two full days had passed since the Shapeshift training began.
Two days of searing pain, sleepless nights, and relentless trial-and-error under the hum of copper coils and the hiss of vacuum seals.
But despite it all, Leo made progress.
His body, long accustomed to stress and micro-adjustments, had begun responding to the training in subtle but tangible ways.
He had learned how to isolate the brachialis without letting his mana bleed into his tricep, how to increase water retention in his forearm fibers without distorting proportion, and how to restructure the visual symmetry of a bicep without breaking circulation flow.
And now, standing before the Twelfth Elder once again, Leo held his right arm at a perfect angle, its shape a near-flawless replica of the first image on the data slate.
His muscles didn't bulge unnaturally. The veins rested in the same positions as the reference. Even the curvature of the delt and the angle of the elbow joint matched exactly.
The Twelfth Elder stepped forward and examined it without speaking.
His eyes scanned every inch with brutal scrutiny…. checking the tone, density, shape, nerve connectivity, and mana flow.
He tapped the slate once. The screen blinked.
"Accepted," he said flatly, before flicking the screen to the next image. "Now do this one."
Leo narrowed his eyes. The next arm was different, it looked longer, wirier, with a more pronounced radial vein and a tighter fiber density near the wrist.
But he didn't complain.
He simply turned to the machine and began loosening his arm for the reset, as the Elder then shifted his gaze to the other side of the facility.
"Veyr."
The younger cousin flinched, sweat still dripping down his brow as he massaged his right forearm, which was now swollen and uneven from a failed attempt a few minutes prior.
"You're behind," the Elder said. "Catch up."
"I'm trying," Veyr muttered through clenched teeth, rotating his arm slowly as he winced. "But it's like the moment I get the taper right, the density shifts, or the veins disappear, or the damn nerves lock up…"
"That's because you're forcing the visual outcome," the Elder replied. "Shapeshift is not a costume…. It is anatomical mimicry. You must understand the function before the form."
Leo kept his head down, not saying a word, as he mentally rewound the process and prepared for the next transformation.
But for the first time since the training began, he found himself glancing sideways—watching as Veyr sat down beside the machine, grumbling quietly to himself as he reviewed the diagrams again and again, clearly frustrated, clearly lost.
Leo exhaled slowly.
They weren't rivals anymore. That had already been decided.
Now, they were partners bound by the same legacy.
And even if being an elder brother didn't come naturally to him, something about Veyr's sincerity during the past two days of training stayed with him, enough to stir a quiet sense of obligation, or perhaps even the beginning of camaraderie.
"You're doing it wrong," Leo finally said, his voice calm but direct.
Veyr looked up, blinking in confusion. "What?"
"I don't think you understand human anatomy on a fundamental level," Leo continued, his gaze flicking toward the distorted muscle shape Veyr had formed. "Were you ever formally taught this stuff?"
Veyr let out a dry snort. "I was raised an orphan. The only education I got is what I scraped together myself."
Leo nodded, not with pity, but understanding. "Alright then. Pick up your data slate and come here. There's something important I want to show you."
Veyr hesitated for a second, slightly thrown off. He hadn't expected Leo to help him. But since the man was offering, he wasn't proud enough to refuse, as without a word, he walked over and stood beside Leo, slate in hand.
Leo leaned in and guided Veyr through the interface, opening up a detailed anatomical diagram of the human arm. He began pointing out the brachialis, the brachioradialis, and several minor muscle groups that Veyr hadn't even known the names of.
"These are the ones you're meant to isolate," Leo explained. "You're not just pumping mana into your arm randomly. Each fiber has a function. Some create bulk. Some provide control. Others support shape. If you don't know which is which, you'll never replicate the image properly."
Veyr squinted at the diagram, brows furrowed. At first, it all looked like a blur of unknown names and muscle fibers. But Leo was patient. He zoomed in, rotated the models, and even showed a layered breakdown of what each muscle did when tensed or relaxed.
"Try flexing this part," Leo said, tapping a region just below the bicep. "Feel that? Now, look at the diagram. That's the part you're flooding too early. Pull back. Target here instead."
Bit by bit, Veyr began to catch on. His confusion gave way to clarity as he finally understood which muscle did what, and how each one responded to specific mana commands.
"Ohh… so that's the muscle I was supposed to channel mana into," he muttered in realization, eyes wide as the pieces clicked into place.
Leo gave a small nod. "Exactly."
With renewed focus, Veyr returned to his machine and tried again. This time, guided by both visual reference and Leo's corrections, he managed to mimic the first reference image almost perfectly within two hours.
The Twelfth Elder inspected his work, then gave a short nod of approval before switching the screen to the second image. "Next."
Veyr looked over at Leo, his breathing still heavy from the strain, but his eyes lit with something new.
Gratitude. Sincere and unguarded.
This moment had further elevated Leo's position in his mind, as even though Leo didn't have to, he still gave real, useful pointers.
As for the first time since arriving on Vorthas, Veyr began to feel a genuine connection with Leo.
It wasn't quite friendship yet.
But it was a start.
His cousin did not seem like a bad man afterall.
Contact - ToS
Timeless AssassinC480: The Assassination Plan
Chapter 480: The Assassination Plan
It took Leo five more days of rigorous training to master all twenty-five arm replications, by the end of which his control over the [Shapeshift] technique had improved by leaps and bounds.
"I think I've finally got the hang of it," he said, rotating his shoulder with a relaxed ease he hadn't felt all week. "Hopefully, it won't take me this long to morph the other body parts."
The Twelfth Elder gave a slight nod of approval.
"Once you've fully mastered one section, the rest of the body tends to follow more easily. Most parts are simpler in comparison… though you will still struggle when it comes to the face."
He paused for emphasis.
"That's the most difficult. But the rest, you should be fine."
The elder's words weren't particularly warm, but the subtle note of validation in his tone was enough to reaffirm Leo's progress.
Compared to him, Veyr was still lagging behind slightly, having completed only eighteen of the twenty-five arm configurations. Still, he had made steady progress of his own, with each day bringing sharper control and clearer understanding of the technique.
"You boys have been training nonstop for a full week," the Twelfth Elder said, finally setting the slate aside. "Tomorrow will be a rest day for you both."
Leo exhaled, relieved at the thought of a brief pause.
"Skyshard, you're scheduled to return to Juxta for the day….. Commander Charles wants you.
And as for you, Veyr… you'll accompany me to the capital to attend the annual Autumn Festival."
"The commoners are excited to celebrate with the new Dragon," he added, his tone softening slightly. "And they've prepared a few special events in your honor."
Leo glanced at Veyr, one brow raised.
The younger cousin seemed caught off guard at first, his expression tightening for a moment, clearly uncomfortable by the idea of attending a public festival where he was the centre of attraction.
However, he soon nodded in acceptance.
"If I finish early at the festival," Veyr asked, "can I come back here to train? I don't want to fall too far behind cousin."
The Twelfth Elder shrugged.
"If you want to spend your only rest day training, you're free to do as you please."
——————–
(Meanwhile, Planet Vorthas, Capital City, The Merchant District)
Dupravel moved like a shadow through the cobbled lanes of the capital, his pace unhurried, his hood drawn low over his brow.
Having reached the heart of a Cult City, he changed his appearance to mimic that of a common traveller, with a sun-touched skin, streaks of gray in his beard, and the faint smell of saltwater still clinging to his clothes, despite him having reached shore three days ago.
Every step he took was measured, every glance purposeful.
He passed by fruit stalls, incense vendors, and smithy workshops, absorbing the city's rhythm, feeling its pulse, gauging how tightly it clung to its routines and how easily it might fracture.
Tomorrow, they said, was the Autumn Day Festival.
And the streets were already stirring with excitement.
"You think they'll bring the new Dragon through Central Square or down the old canal route?" a woman asked as she leaned across her flower cart to gossip with a neighboring vendor.
"Central Square, for sure," the man replied confidently. "That's where they've built the main stage. It's tradition, isn't it? The Dragon greets the twelfth elder from the high steps, then they start the ceremonial dance and fireworks."
Another voice chimed in, a tall guard laughing with his partner at the corner tavern. "The procession starts at the Northern Gate. Comes down Hawkspire Avenue, cuts across Riverbend Lane, passes Sunsteps Market, and ends at Central Square. Same route as thirty two years ago, when Dragon Noah participated in the Autumn Festival."
Dupravel's stride didn't falter, but his ears locked onto that sequence like a vice.
'So it starts at Northern Gate, then Hawkspire, Riverbend, Sunsteps, before finally ending at Central Square…. Got it!' He thought, as he drifted into a narrow alley as if pulled by curiosity, but once alone, he stepped into the shadows and closed his eyes for a moment, mentally reconstructing the city map he had memorized during his infiltration.
Each named location lit up in his mind like pieces on a chessboard.
Hawkspire Avenue: too broad, too many guards, and too many sightlines.
Riverbend Lane: good corners, narrow angles, but far too crowded with locals and impossible to control.
Sunsteps Market: better. The stairs created elevation. The roofs nearby offered solid angles. And the congestion here, if manipulated properly, could be weaponized.
Dupravel opened his eyes.
That was the spot.
He made his way toward Sunsteps Market with renewed focus, weaving through shortcut alleys and back lanes, until he arrived at the three-tiered stairway plaza overlooking the vendor strip. The place was already being decorated with lanterns and cloth banners.
He studied every detail.
The rooftops of nearby buildings.
The blind spots in patrol movement.
The merchant carts that could conceal traps.
The crowd flow and where it would bottleneck.
The slope of the stairs and how someone might tumble if pushed just right.
He imagined it all and that too from every angle.
Then came the planning.
Step One: Distraction.
He would create chaos at the market entrance. A firework cart tipping over. Or better yet, a small explosion. Harmless enough not to trigger a lockdown, but loud enough to draw guards away from the procession path. That was his opening signal.
Step Two: Crowded Surge.
He would time it just as the procession reached the midpoint of Sunsteps. With the guards' attention pulled toward the plaza's edge, the formation around the Dragon would loosen. That would be the precise window he needed to move.
Step Three: The Kill.
He would take the height advantage. One of the awnings, or more preferably, the roof of the spice shop on the eastern stairs. From there, he would have a clean shot at Veyr's collarbone using a poison-dipped throwing blade. Aimed to disable, not kill immediately. That would buy him enough time to approach the boy himself and finish the job properly.
Step Four: Safe Retreat.
He ruled out a rooftop escape. Too obvious. Instead, he would fall back through the sewer grate near the far fountain, already loosened earlier that day to avoid delays. It would be quick, clean, and untraceable.
He had done this before.
Too many times to count.
Everything was accounted for.
Dupravel crouched near the edge of the spice shop's roof, now lightly disguised as a visiting clerk. He ran the plan through his mind again, removing variables, identifying weaknesses.
Wind speed.
Guard rotations.
Civilian interference.
Mana detection spells.
He had answers for all of it. He always did.
This wasn't a reckless murder.
It was an act of surgical retribution.
'If everything goes right, the crowd will scream, the guards will scatter, and by the time they realize what happened, the new Dragon will already be bleeding out in his own parade.
If I pull this off, I will finally have my life back. I will finally have a chance to have my son back. And this time, I will find a way to bring him back, no matter what!' Dupravel thought, as he let out a resolute sigh.
Contact - ToS