Sister Lucia explained that, given his extraordinary results, Silas would be transferred immediately to the city’s premier Legionnaire academy. They needed to corroborate the data, though in her heart, she knew the machine had made no mistake. That same day, the Sister set out on a two-day journey to the nearest town to dispatch the baptism reports.

  The following days passed normally enough, until one night, sleep brought no rest. Silas fell into a dream that was strangely vivid—crystalline in its clarity, as if he were reliving an actual memory.

  He was in the church again. Sister Lucia was leaning over him, but her face wasn't masked with worry; it was lit by genuine happiness. “You are a Scholar,” she whispered in his ear. Then, she handed him one of her "puzzle-pops" as a reward.

  The scene blurred, and the vision shifted. He was Silas, but older, standing in an unfamiliar hall. A somber man in a strange hat read aloud from a scroll: “Logical Scholar. General Capacity.”

  Scenes cascaded one after another: Silas arguing desperately with men who looked like professors. “I need to pass, Master, to stay in the academy,” he pleaded. The professor replied coldly that there were no special favors, suggesting his abilities had reached their ceiling. “But it’s not the end of the world. After all, we are Scholars; what’s the worst that could happen to us?”

  Then, images of the village. Silas, older again, helping Sister Lucia—who now bore new wrinkles—in the church. Helping the villagers: mowing grass, digging ditches, fixing machinery, teaching combat stances, cooking at the tavern. A life... normal, yet full. A life that felt like his own.

  And then, a memory that felt sharper, more real than the rest. He was fixing a chimney in the home of a slender woman with pale, freckled skin and black hair that fell past her shoulders. When he finished, she told him with regret that she had no money. He laughed, saying it didn't matter—that in the village, people paid in trades—and showed her a bag of fruit. Shamed, the woman offered him a coal-black stone in exchange. Silas laughed again; he liked this woman and her peculiar laugh; he hadn't intended to charge her. But she insisted, swearing on her name that the rock was worth much.

  “I swear it on my name. Linnea.”

  The name echoed like a tolling bell. Immersed in the vision, Silas heard it again. Linnea.

  Silas woke in his bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. A weight of sorrow pressed against his chest, but also the certainty that those tears were genuine—shed for someone he had seen again, even if only in a dream. It was the second time he’d had these visions since the baptism.

  He didn't have much time to process it. The next day, the village's peace was shattered by the arrival of the Legionnaires sent to take him to the city. A crowd gathered to see him off—a rare event, as youths usually traveled to training schools on their own after turning fifteen.

  The carriage waiting for him looked more like a war wagon: devoid of luxury but tremendously solid. There were two Legionnaires. One was tall—Ronny—standing over six-foot-three, brawny and clad in deep blue armor. The other, Andros, was slightly shorter but still over six feet, helmetless, with the face of a "pretty boy." His brown eyes hid an unusual depth, and his dark crimson armor seemed designed for mobility. He carried a sheathed sword that vibrated with contained energy.

  The Legionnaires offered their greetings. Andros introduced himself and Ronny as the escort for "the boy Legionnaire named Silas." Upon seeing Silas, Andros thought: I traveled all this way for this scrawny kid? The machine probably made a mistake. Ronny, on the other hand, gave him a nod of approval. Silas said his goodbyes. As he climbed into the carriage, he looked at the villagers, struck by the uncanny feeling that he had seen them before—or at least, future versions of them.

  Ronny handled the horses; Andros sat inside with Silas. The General was silent. Nervous, Silas tried to make conversation about sweets, Sister Lucia, and Don Alfonse. Andros responded in monosyllables. Driven by curiosity, Silas asked, “Why is your armor red?”

  Andros answered flatly, “It’s special Legionnaire plate.”

  “And why is your partner’s blue?”

  Andros sighed, resigned to the chatter. “The color relates to the properties. The blue sets have high hardness and weight. The red ones have moderate hardness; they’re more flexible and reactive to impact.”

  Silas looked at him with confusion that quickly sharpened into an analytical glint.

  “Here,” Andros said, handing him a spoon. “Hit the pauldron.”

  Silas didn't hesitate. He struck. He felt the vibration in Andros’s shoulder, which concentrated and surged up his arm into the gauntlet. Andros touched the spoon with his fingertip, and it bent instantly as if it were made of paper.

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  Silas, holding the mangled spoon, murmured as his mind reordered the experience. “The metal amplifies the force of impact for greater destructive power... but it would be impractical without control.” He struck the pauldron again; nothing. “Ah. You direct the kinetic force with your Ether. It’s a practical resource. You’re an expert in force and power, but given the joints of your armor, you must handle speed as well.”

  What the hell is wrong with this kid? Andros thought. Two hits and he understood the armor and my specialty. It’s no mistake. This trip might actually be entertaining.

  Excited, Silas looked at the sheathed sword. “Then your sword should be…” He reached out to touch it.

  Andros caught his hand quickly. “Careful. You want an accident?” He looked at the weapon. “It’s different. When drawn, things happen... good things for me, bad things for whatever’s in front of me.”

  He explained that drawing it required Ether, but he preferred not to risk it in a confined space. His effectiveness relied on the enemy not knowing its secret. “The Damocles blade is a marvel of energy engineering,” Andros said, almost with reverence. “Its Blue Metal scabbard creates a hermetic seal that holds an insulating gas. Its primary attack breaks this seal: kinetic force and Ether are amplified by the Red Metal, concentrating all that energy into a single, devastating cut. However, its secret is a second surprise attack. After the initial strike, an internal fluid activates, converting additional energy interactions into a subsequent cut—fast and precise. No opponent has survived to bear witness to it.”

  After their talk, they made camp. “Kid, you sleep in the carriage. We’ll keep watch in case a wild animal or a Mana Beast crosses our path,” Andros said.

  Mana Beasts were animals that had evolved near veins of Primordial Energy. Scholars said they possessed a core similar to that of Molders, though they used it instinctively to alter their physiology. Silas settled into the seats and, despite the noise of the forest, fell asleep.

  In his dreams, Silas was plunged again into that strange current of memories from a life unlived. It was no longer a chaotic avalanche, but defined fragments. He saw flashes: affectionately calling Don Alfonse a "drunk old man"; a dark rock in the old man's hands; rapid images of the dark-haired woman with the distinctive laugh. He felt a profound connection to her.

  Then, the memories darkened: metal, blood, scars on his own adult hands. The raw sensation of combat. Images of soldiers terrified at the mere sight of him. Violence overlapped with intimacy, creating a blurred mixture of affection and tragedy.

  Silas woke with a start, gasping. The contrast between the intensity of the dreams and the reality of his twelve-year-old body was jarring. He looked at his thin arms. Where was the familiarity of that adult physique? He could only evoke one specific sensation from that future struggle: the use of Ether. He remembered the feeling of burning, as if he were being scorched from the inside.

  With that memory fresh, Silas—guided by a foreign muscle memory—tried to replicate the act. He pulled on that inner energy. He braced for the pain. He felt the energy responding, flowing toward his hand. But there was no pain, only a lukewarm heat. It was different. His current method didn't cause the agony of the future.

  He had no time to reflect. The silence of the night shattered.

  “Ronny, protect the boy! I’ll handle the rest!”

  Andros’s voice broke the calm. Silas bolted upright. Outside, he heard low growls and the metallic ring of armor clashing against something organic. The scent of pine gave way to a pungent stench. He peered through the window. Ronny stood firmly in front of the carriage, blocking the path of a pair of wolf-like creatures moving with unnatural speed. They had fur as dense as chainmail and exaggerated muzzles. Mana Beasts.

  Andros moved with surprising speed for his heavy armor. His fists landed with dry, heavy thuds, redirecting the impact energy of the beasts to hurl them through the air. “Damned vermin!” he roared.

  But then, the earth trembled. It wasn't a normal tremor; Silas felt an unmistakable pulse of energy. From the edge of the forest, a shadow rose, twice the size of the others. Its fur shimmered with intensity and seemed to cut the wind, making its movements silent. A Superior-level Mana Beast.

  The great beast charged at Ronny. Instead of ramming, it fired a volley of its own fur like daggers. Ronny raised his shield and struck the metal, creating a shockwave that halted the projectiles. Andros saw the danger. Ronny was under immense pressure.

  “Move!” Andros shouted.

  Silas saw Andros reach for the hilt of Damocles. He didn't draw the blade fully; he only broke the seal. The Damocles blade glowed with a red light. There was no physical cut. There was an explosion of kinetic energy and pressurized gas in a thin, invisible line. A terrible hiss tore through the air. The Superior beast stopped. A line appeared across its colossal body. Then, it fell apart, leaving a smoking crater and a quartz-like core. Silas watched the disintegration. He understood that when the beasts died, they returned their unstable energy to the environment.

  The tension broke, but a lesser beast, seizing the distraction, lunged toward the carriage. Its black eyes locked onto Silas. “Ronny, the carriage!” Andros yelled.

  Silas had no weapons. The beast pounced, claws ready to shatter the glass. Childish panic gripped him, but the cold, calculating layer of his "other self" activated. His heart and mind worked together by reflex. He guided energy from his heart into the veins of his hand. He prepared for the burn, but felt only an intense itching. His hand didn't glow, but it vibrated. When the claw slammed against the window, Silas struck the glass from the inside.

  The energy repelled the impact with surprising force. It didn't break the glass, but it deflected the claw with enough power to make the beast howl in pain and recoil, fleeing into the forest. The itching ceased.

  Ronny approached, panting. He saw the claw marks on the intact glass. He looked at Silas, perplexed. “But... how?” he muttered.

  Andros arrived at his side. He had seen the beast bounce back. He had heard the dry thud from within. He looked at Silas with a mixture of gravity and calculation. That sound was a solid hit. But only the kid is in the carriage. His thoughts formed with chilling certainty: Channeling Ether at fifteen is the mark of a genius. But fending off a Mana Beast with a charged strike at twelve... there is only one name for that: a monster.

  Andros didn't see the boy as an aberration, but with the respect a warrior holds for a natural predator. He was standing before someone who could become the strongest Legionnaire in history.