POV: Valerian
The Ironwood Estate was a hive of mourning, but the honey was bitter.
As Valerian slipped back through the servants' entrance, the atmosphere had shifted. Black drapes were being hung from the banisters. The smell of incense—the kind used to mask the early stages of biological decay—wafted from the Great Hall.
He moved through the shadows of the upper gallery, his damp leather boots making no sound on the polished wood. He was heading for the West Wing, but a sudden spike in thermal energy around the corner forced him to halt.
"Nano. Sensory focus. Identify."
"Target identified: Baroness Elara Ironwood. Biological state: Elevated heart rate (110 BPM), respiratory distress, significant lachrymal secretion. Conclusion: Severe emotional instability."
Valerian stepped out of the shadows. He didn't have to; he could have waited for her to pass. But he needed to test his "social mask." If he was to survive the Asuran court, he needed to know how effectively he could simulate human interaction while feeling nothing.
The Baroness was a woman who had once been beautiful, but grief had turned her into a ghost. Her golden hair was disheveled, and her eyes were bloodshot. When she saw Valerian standing there—clean of blood but still radiating that cold, predatory stillness—she stopped. Her face contorted, shifting from sorrow to a loathing so pure it was almost impressive.
"You," she hissed. Her voice was a jagged shard of glass. "The mongrel. The mistake."
Valerian tilted his head. "Good evening, Stepmother. You should be in bed. The cortisol levels in your system are reaching neurotoxic levels. It will hinder your recovery."
She recoiled as if he had slapped her. "Recovery? My son is dead! Gilbert is dead, and you… you are walking free? You were in that dungeon! Why didn't the assassin kill you? Why did the filth survive while the prince died?"
She stepped forward, her hand trembling as she pointed a finger at his chest. "I see it in your eyes. You're glad. You think this makes you the heir. You think Archibald will look at a rat like you and see a son?"
Valerian looked down at the finger pointing at him. He could break it in 0.2 seconds. He could collapse her windpipe as he had done to Garek. But she was a non-combatant. A resource belonging to the Baron. Damaging her would be a breach of his current contract with his father.
"Logic dictates that your anger is misplaced," Valerian said, his voice a flat, terrifying monotone. "Gilbert died because he was incompetent. If you seek someone to blame, look at the tutors who failed to prepare him, or perhaps the genetics that prioritized vanity over survival. I am simply the variable that remains."
The Baroness let out a strangled cry and swung her hand to strike him.
Valerian didn't flinch. He didn't even move his head.
"Nano. Stimulate facial dermis. Kinetic absorption."
Her palm connected with his cheek with a loud crack. Her hand stung; his face didn't move an inch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at her, his blue-filmed eyes empty.
"Is the emotional release satisfactory?" Valerian asked. "Or do you require another attempt to balance your humors?"
She stared at him, her hand clutched to her chest, horror finally overriding her rage. She saw it then—the truth that Hance and Silas had seen. There was no boy behind those eyes. There was only a void that watched and calculated.
"Monster," she whispered, backing away. "You're not human. Archibald has let a demon into this house."
She turned and fled down the hallway, her sobs echoing against the stone.
Valerian watched her go. "Nano. Analysis of social simulation."
"Result: Negative. Hostility increased by 400%. Simulation of 'Grieving Brother' failed. Suggestion: Maintain silence in future emotional encounters. Human logic is not applicable during mourning cycles."
"Noted," Valerian thought. "Emotional variables are too volatile. Avoidance is the most efficient path."
He reached the library's pedestal. He reached beneath it, finding the hidden groove the Baron had mentioned. A small, cold iron key sat there.
He walked to the back of the library, where two massive statues of knights stood guard over a seamless stone wall. Valerian placed the key into a hole hidden in the knight's belt.
There was no sound of shifting gears. Instead, a series of glowing blue lines erupted across the stone—a magic circle.
"Nano. Analyze the lock."
"Scanning… Multi-layered authentication detected. Layer 1: Physical key (verified). Layer 2: Mana signature matching the Ironwood bloodline (pending). Host, you must channel mana into the center of the array."
Valerian placed his hand on the wall. He didn't just push mana; he let Nano regulate the frequency.
"Nano. Mimic the Baron's mana resonance from the earlier encounter."
"Modulating output… Frequency: 440 Hz… Mana density: 0.8… Overriding biological mismatch. Access granted."
The wall didn't slide; it dissolved, the stone turning into a shimmering mist that Valerian stepped through.
The Restricted Vault was small, circular, and lined with only a dozen pedestals. Each one held a single item: a ring, a blackened sword hilt, and several scrolls that felt as though they were vibrating.
In the center of the room sat a single, massive grimoire bound in what looked like human skin. It was chained to a pedestal made of black obsidian.
"Nano. Immediate scan of the room. Danger assessment."
"Warning. The room is saturated with 'miasma'—a byproduct of high-density, corrupted mana. Host's biological cells will begin to degrade in 12 minutes without protection."
"Find the optimization data," Valerian commanded, walking toward the central book. "I didn't come here for jewelry."
He looked at the title of the grimoire, written in a script that seemed to shift as he looked at it.
[The Anatomy of the Infinite Well: Soul Partitioning and the Void]
Valerian opened the cover. The pages weren't paper; they were thin sheets of beaten silver, etched with microscopic runes.
"Nano. Record everything. This isn't just magic. This is structural engineering of the soul."
"Recording… Processing… Analysis: This text describes a method to physically divide the mana pool. Instead of one large reservoir, the user creates multiple 'cells.' This prevents mana exhaustion and allows for parallel processing of spells. It is the magical equivalent of a multi-core processor."
Valerian's eyes widened slightly. This was the missing link.
In this world, a mage's capacity was usually fixed from childhood. You could grow the pool by using it, but you were still one "tank." If the tank ran dry, you died. But if he could partition his soul into cores…
"Nano," Valerian whispered. "Can we implement this?"
"Affirmative. However, the process is categorized as 'Forbidden' for a reason. To create a new core, we must physically tear a portion of your existing mana gates and reconstruct them in a new configuration. The pain will exceed all previous thresholds. The probability of the host's consciousness collapsing is 78%."
"And the benefit?"
"If successful: 200% increase in mana recovery speed. Ability to maintain Nano at 100% power indefinitely. Ability to cast two different spells of different elements simultaneously without a chant."
Valerian looked at the silver pages. He remembered the Baroness's face—her grief, her weakness. He remembered Silas Vane, trapped in his own body. He remembered his own death on Earth, a casualty of being just a little too slow, a little too human.
"Pain is data," Valerian said, his voice echoing in the cold vault. "And I am tired of being an unoptimized machine."
"Nano. Begin the partitioning."
"Acknowledged. Initiating Soul-Tear in 3… 2… 1…"
Valerian's world turned white.
It didn't feel like fire or ice. It felt like his very existence was being pulled through a needle's eye. Every atom of his being screamed as Nano began to surgically shred his mana pool, reorganizing the very essence of his soul into a more efficient shape.
His body hit the floor of the vault. His fingernails clawed at the stone, drawing blood as his muscles convulsed. But even as his vision failed and his heart stopped for a terrifying three seconds, his mind—the cold, mechanical center of him—remained focused on the blueprints.
Build it better, he thought through the agony. Build it stronger.
End of Part 3