Aurelian trained before the city woke.
The room was dark, window cracked open just enough to let in cold air and distant sound—wagon wheels, early footsteps, life beginning without him. He stood barefoot on the wooden floor, scars pale against lean muscle, eyes closed.
Still Blade.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Mana moved.
Not violently.
Not eagerly.
Precisely.
He guided it through his body in a slow loop, careful not to touch the edges of the veil he had reshaped from his mother's seal. Mana pooled in his core, then flowed outward in narrow, disciplined channels—never flaring, never leaking.
Control before strength.
Lucien's voice echoed in memory.
Power that announces itself is power that gets killed.
Aurelian opened his eyes and summoned the Soul Sword.
White light condensed soundlessly, forming the blade in his hand. The golden markings within it pulsed once—acknowledgment, not excitement.
He moved.
No wasted steps.
No excess force.
Each strike ended where it needed to, not where it looked impressive. His feet whispered across the floor as he practiced balance and redirection, imagining pressure where none existed.
Halfway through the form, he deliberately made a mistake.
The blade resisted.
Not angrily—firmly.
Aurelian corrected himself immediately.
"That," he muttered, "would have killed me."
The sword settled.
By the time dawn crept in through the window, sweat clung to his skin and his breathing was steady rather than ragged.
He hadn't grown stronger.
He had grown cleaner.
And that mattered more.
CHAPTER 14 — CONTROL IS A KIND OF MERCY
Alchemy training came next.
Not potions—he couldn't risk purchasing ingredients too often, not with the academy's eyes everywhere—but mental formulation. He sat at the small table with scraps of parchment and charcoal, sketching reaction circles from memory.
Ironroot substitute ratios.
Mana-stabilizing binders.
Toxic volatility curves.
The Soul Bow hummed faintly as he worked, reacting when his calculations aligned too closely with live mana applications.
"Not yet," Aurelian whispered. "We wait."
He practiced mana shaping instead—condensing it into tiny spheres above his palm, holding them steady while walking, breathing, thinking of unrelated things. Each fluctuation taught him something about emotional leakage.
Fear made mana jagged.
Anger made it burn too hot.
Grief made it heavy.
Acceptance made it quiet.
By afternoon, he took controlled risks.
He loosened the seal slightly—slightly—and allowed more mana through while maintaining a mundane output profile. No spikes. No resonance.
If someone scanned him now, he would register as barely awakened.
F-rank at best.
He smiled faintly.
Let them underestimate me.
That night, he practiced archery in an abandoned quarry outside the city. No targets. No arrows. Just intent.
The Soul Bow formed in his hands, translucent and golden. He drew slowly, feeling mana shape itself into an arrow—not power, but purpose.
He aimed at a rock face.
Released.
The arrow vanished an inch from impact.
Perfect control.
Elenora's legacy approved.
CHAPTER 15 — THE BODY THAT REMEMBERS
Physical conditioning was the hardest.
Not because it hurt—pain was familiar—but because his body had learned bad habits during captivity. Protective tension. Flinches. Overcompensation.
He ran at dawn, weights strapped to his limbs. He climbed walls until his fingers bled. He practiced falling again and again, rolling to disperse impact, relearning trust in motion.
Sometimes memories surfaced without warning.
Cold stone.
Iron restraints.
The sound of chains.
When that happened, he stopped.
Didn't push through.
Didn't punish himself.
He knelt, pressed two fingers to his wrist, and whispered his name.
"Aurelian."
Again.
"Aurelian."
The Still Blade steadied him.
Strength wasn't forcing the body forward.
Strength was bringing it back.
By the end of the week, his endurance doubled. His movements smoothed. His scars still hurt—but they no longer dictated how he moved.
He was reclaiming his body.
One breath at a time.
CHAPTER 16 — THE ART OF HIDING FIRE
Concealment became its own discipline.
Aurelian practiced fighting incorrectly.
He dulled his sword forms, introduced hesitation, reduced efficiency. He learned how to lose without looking intentional—how to take hits that looked clumsy but avoided damage.
He practiced letting his mana stutter.
Practiced being mediocre.
It was harder than excellence.
"Don't shine," he reminded himself. "Survive."
He sparred with hired fighters in back alleys, taking small jobs that let him test restraint. When pressed, he retreated. When cornered, he escaped instead of dominating.
Word spread.
"Ren's decent," they said.
"Careful, but nothing special."
Perfect.
At night, he wrote notes for himself—rules he would follow once inside the academy.
Never duel publicly.
Never correct instructors.
Never show full control.
Never react emotionally.
And above all:
Never summon soul weapons where eyes could see.
The sword and bow remained silent, waiting.
Patient.
CHAPTER 17 — THE DAY BEFORE FIFTEEN
The night before his birthday, Aurelian didn't train.
He sat on the edge of his bed, academy entrance card resting in his palm. The runes on it glowed faintly, attuned to his presence but blind to his truth.
He would walk into the academy as Ren.
An orphan.
Late-awakened.
Unremarkable.
No one would see the boy forged in chains.
No one would see the legacies carried in his soul.
He stood and looked into the mirror.
White hair—bound, deliberately dulled.
Grey eyes—veiled.
Scars—hidden beneath cloth.
But behind them—
A blade that never wavered.
A bow that never missed.
A will that had already survived hell.
"I'm ready," he said quietly.
The Soul Sword aligned.
The Soul Bow hummed.
Outside, the academy bells rang faintly—distant, inevitable.
Tomorrow, he would step into a protected world.
And everything he had endured would finally have meaning.
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