Training Ground Seven - Dawn

The morning air bit with unseasonable cold as Avian moved through his forms. Each strike of Fargrim carved vapor trails in the frigid air, the demon blade humming its contentment at the daily ritual. Sweat had long since soaked through his training clothes, steaming in the chill.

The divine chains pulsed.

He'd been ignoring them for the past hour, the way he'd learned to ignore old wounds that ached before storms. They'd been sitting at ninety-nine percent since yesterday morning—close enough to taste completion but not quite there. Like a word on the tip of the tongue that wouldn't come.

Another pulse. Stronger.

Avian's hand trembled mid-strike, Fargrim's arc wavering. The blade keened in protest at the broken form.

Not now. Not fucking now.

But the chains didn't care about his schedule. They pulsed again, and this time he felt them lurch forward, that final one percent grinding into motion with the inevitability of an avalanche. The divine power blazing through them tasted of incense and righteousness, of absolute certainty that this was correct, this was just, this was divine will made manifest.

Fuck your divine will.

Avian dropped to his knees right there on the frost-covered stones, Fargrim clattering beside him. His hands pressed against the ground as he fought to center himself, to find that calm place Lysander had beaten into him through a year of creative brutality.

Lux materialized instantly, her warm bulk pressing against his side. Through their bond came wordless concern, electric worry that made his hair stand on end. She could feel it too—the chains moving toward their final lock.

He dove inward, past the pain, past the burning divine power, into his cultivation base. The chains were there, golden serpents of pure authority wrapped around his core. They'd been still for so long he'd almost forgotten they were meant to move. Now they writhed, reaching for each other, for that final connection that would complete the circuit and cage him forever.

Fine control. Precision over power. Just like catching Lysander's blade—

His aether responded sluggishly, still tired from morning training. But it came when called, flowing through channels that had been carved by pain and repetition. He began weaving a barrier, not to fight the chains but to redirect them. Like water around a stone, like wind through leaves.

Thread by delicate thread, he built his working. Each strand had to be perfect—too thick and it would shatter under divine pressure, too thin and it would simply tear. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with blood from his nose as capillaries burst from the strain.

The chains were at ninety-nine point five percent now. He could feel priests somewhere pouring their life force into this final push. Their faith made manifest, their absolute belief that he needed to be contained.

Your faith means nothing to me.

He reached for his mana, pulling gravity magic through different channels. Making the divine power heavier, slower, fighting against itself. For a moment—just a moment—he thought it might work.

The barrier shattered like spun glass under a hammer.

Divine power flooded through him, no longer redirected or slowed. It burned through his channels like molten gold, searing everything it touched. His vision went white. His core screamed. The chains reached ninety-nine point nine percent and strained for that final fraction—

And stopped.

Something else had touched them. Something that made the Church's divine power look like a candle next to the sun.

It didn't fight the chains. It didn't break them. It simply held them, the way an adult might hold a child's wrist to prevent them from touching something hot. Gentle but absolutely immovable.

The presence felt like...

Like coming home after a long journey. Like the first breath after nearly drowning. Like someone saying "I've got you" and meaning it with every fiber of their being. But underneath that protectiveness was something else—an ancient amusement, as if the entire situation was somehow... funny?

What the fuck are you?

No answer came. Just that feeling of being protected by something vast and patient and deeply, inexplicably amused by mortal attempts at control.

"Interesting."

Avian's eyes snapped open to find Aedric crouched beside him. His father's hand was on his shoulder, steady and grounding. When had he arrived? How long had Avian been lost in that internal battle?

"The barrier," Avian croaked, throat raw from screaming he didn't remember. "It didn't—"

"I saw." Aedric's other hand moved to Avian's chest, directly over his heart, over the chains. His expression shifted, eyes widening slightly—the most surprise Avian had ever seen him show. "This signature..."

Aedric pulled his hand back as if it had been burned, staring at his palm.

"I've been reviewing Church historical records since your arena incident," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Trying to understand what happened when you broke the chains before. After the Demon King's death five centuries ago, there was something. A divine signature that appeared for less than a minute. Every instrument in the Empire detected it, but it matched nothing. No god in their pantheon, no demon lord, no power that should exist."

He looked at Avian with something approaching awe.

"That same power is holding your chains now. The exact same signature."

Avian could feel it more clearly now that his own desperate struggle had ended. The presence wasn't straining or fighting. It held the chains back with the same effort most people used to hold a door closed—present but not taxing. And underneath that easy strength was something else.

Amusement. It was amused by the Church's attempt.

"Why stop them at ninety-nine point nine percent?" Avian asked, carefully pushing himself to sit properly. Lux pressed closer, lending him her warmth. "Why not just break them?"

"Because broken chains would mean war. The Church would come with everything they had." Aedric helped him stand, steadying him when his legs shook. "But incomplete chains? That's..." He frowned, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I don't actually know what that means. I don't think anyone does."

The chains pulsed once more, weakly, like a dying heartbeat. Then nothing. They hung there at ninety-nine point nine percent, perfect except for that final, crucial fraction.

And Avian realized they weren't just incomplete. They were dead.

"They don't work," he said, wonder in his voice. "Without that final connection, they're just... decoration."

"That shouldn't be possible." Aedric's frown deepened. "Divine workings don't just fail—"

Aedric's expression suddenly sharpened, his gaze fixing on something beyond the training ground's walls. "We have observers."

Without warning, his aura exploded outward—not hostile, just present. The air itself seemed to bow before the weight of a Paragon Knight's fully unleashed power. Trees bent. Birds fled. The morning dew instantly evaporated.

Three shapes flickered into view on the compound wall—Shepherds in their white robes, caught mid-crouch in what had clearly been concealed observation positions. Their masks reflected the morning sun as they scrambled to maintain balance against the crushing pressure.

"The chains have failed." The central Shepherd's voice carried across the distance, disbelief and anger barely contained. They'd obviously been watching, waiting for the completion that never came.

"Have they?" Aedric's voice was conversational, but his aura pressed harder. "And you thought to spy on my compound to witness it? How... predictable."

The Shepherds tried to stand properly, to maintain their dignity, but Aedric's power made even that simple act difficult. One actually stumbled.

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"They're at ninety-nine point nine percent." The Shepherd's mask turned toward Avian, and even from fifty feet away, he felt its attention like cold fingers on his spine. "The power was sufficient. The working was perfect. This is—"

"Impossible?" Aedric suggested mildly, his aura pulsing with each word. "Yes, you Church types do struggle with that concept. Now, you have two choices. Leave immediately, or I demonstrate why even the Church respects the Five Great Blades."

The Shepherds went perfectly still. Avian felt them probing at the chains with their divine senses, examining the working from a distance. He felt the moment they touched that other presence—they recoiled visibly, one actually taking a step back on the wall.

"That signature..." one whispered, voice carrying on the morning air. "It's the same as... but that's not possible. Incomplete chains have never... in all of Church history, this has never happened."

"First time for everything," Aedric said, and his aura flared again—a casual display that cracked the stone beneath the Shepherds' feet. "Now get off my wall before I decide you're trespassing rather than observing."

"Archbishop Caldris will want answers."

"Archbishop Caldris can want whatever he likes. The working failed." Aedric's voice carried an edge now, sharp enough to cut. "I doubt even he knows what incomplete chains mean. This is, as you said, unprecedented."

The Shepherds exchanged glances—or at least turned their masks toward each other in what might have been communication. Then, without another word, they fled. Not walked, not departed with dignity—fled, using movement techniques to vanish from the wall in white blurs.

Aedric watched them go, his aura slowly retracting. "Church spies. Getting bolder every year. They probably had a dozen detection spells running, waiting for the chains to complete."

He turned back to Avian. "They're terrified. Six months of work, three dead priests, enough divine power to level a district, and they failed by zero point one percent. It's not just a failure—it's a message."

"Well," Avian said, his voice still rough. "That went better than expected."

"They're terrified." Aedric watched them go with satisfaction. "Six months of work, three dead priests, enough divine power to level a district, and they failed by zero point one percent. It's not just a failure—it's a message."

"What kind of message?"

"That something exists that can casually swat aside the Church's greatest workings." He turned back to Avian. "Whatever protected you—whatever's been dormant since the arena—it's connected to that ancient signature. Something from five hundred years ago is awakening now."

"But what is it?" Avian asked, genuinely confused. "What could have that kind of power?"

"I don't know." Aedric's admission clearly cost him. "But I intend to find out. For now, be grateful. You're free to grow without restriction."

Free. The word tasted strange. Whatever had saved him remained a mystery, warm and protective but utterly alien. Was it connected to Dex? To the Demon King's death? Or was it something else entirely—something that had been waiting five centuries for this moment?

The presence pulsed once more, affectionate but enigmatic, then retreated to wherever such things dwelt when not actively defying heaven.

Archbishop Caldris's Private Chamber - The Capital

The teacup shattered in his grip.

Archbishop Caldris stared at the fragments, watching his blood mix with spilled tea on the white tablecloth. He didn't heal the cuts. The pain helped him think.

"Your Grace?" Brother Francis peered nervously around the door. "The Shepherds have returned."

"Send them in. And bring bandages."

The three Shepherds entered as Francis scurried away. Even through their masks, Caldris could sense their distress. Good. They should be distressed. They'd just witnessed something that shouldn't be possible.

"Report."

"The chains are dead." The lead Shepherd's voice was carefully neutral. "Ninety-nine point nine percent complete. Held by the same divine signature detected five centuries ago after the Demon King's death."

"Interesting." Caldris picked a ceramic shard from his palm, studying how the blood welled up. "In the entirety of Church history, divine chains have never failed to complete once they reached ninety-nine percent. This is completely unprecedented."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Francis returned with bandages, wrapping the Archbishop's hand with practiced efficiency. Caldris never looked away from the Shepherds.

"Three priests gave their lives for this working," he continued. "Brother Marcus died screaming as divine power burned through him. Sister Catherine's heart exploded from the strain. Young Brother Thomas aged forty years in forty seconds." He flexed his bandaged hand. "All for nothing."

"Your Grace—"

"No." He stood, moving to his desk with careful steps. "We didn't just fail. We were allowed to almost succeed. Whatever protects the Veritas boy wanted us to exhaust ourselves. Wanted us to come within a hair's breadth of victory, only to be denied."

From a hidden drawer, he pulled out a piece of parchment that seemed to drink in the room's light. His hand hesitated over it.

The Lightbringers were not called lightly. They were the Church's final option, warriors who'd given up their humanity piece by piece in service to divine fire. They were weapons shaped like people, and once pointed at a target, they didn't stop until it was ash or they were.

But against something that could casually stop the Church's greatest working?

He began to write, each word careful and precise.

To the Grand Luminary of the Lightbringers,

We have encountered an anomaly that requires your expertise. A divine signature of unknown origin has manifested, matching records from five centuries past. It demonstrates power beyond our current containment capabilities.

This is not a request for immediate action. The entity appears dormant. But we must prepare for possibilities beyond our current understanding.

Begin preparations. Select your best. We may be facing something that predates our records.

In faith and fire, Archbishop Caldris

He sealed it with wax that glowed with its own inner light, then rang a small silver bell. A figure entered, wrapped in robes so white they hurt to look at directly. One of the Lightbringer liaisons, their humanity barely visible beneath divine radiance.

"Take this to your Grand Luminary," Caldris said. "Tell him it's not urgent, but it is important. We need to be ready."

The figure bowed and departed, taking the letter and leaving behind the scent of burning myrrh.

Caldris returned to his window, looking out over the capital as evening painted everything gold. Somewhere out there, a thirteen-year-old boy was walking around with dead chains wrapped around his soul and a divine protector that had waited five centuries to reveal itself.

He pulled out an ancient tome, opening it to a page soft with age and repeated reading. The testimony of a priest who'd felt that divine presence all those years ago.

"It felt like love," the priest had written. "But not the gentle love of the common gods. This was the love that would burn the world to keep one person warm. The love that would defy heaven itself. I pray we never meet its source, for I fear what it would do in the name of that love."

"Your prayer went unanswered, Brother Timothy," Caldris whispered to the empty room. "It's here. It chose its champion. And we have no idea what it truly is."

He thought about old heresies, stories dismissed as mythology. Tales of powers that predated the current pantheon, of gods who fell or were cast down. But those were just stories... weren't they?

The Church had always taught that their gods were eternal, unchanging. But what if something older existed? Something that had been waiting, patient as stone, for the right moment to return?

"We'll need time," he said to himself. "Years to prepare, to understand. The boy is thirteen. We have perhaps a decade before he reaches his full potential."

A decade to find a way to fight something that shouldn't exist.

It would have to be enough.

Avian's Room - Late Evening

The candle flame danced in the evening breeze, casting shifting shadows across the walls. Avian sat at his desk, the copper coin warm between his fingers. He'd been turning it for an hour, feeling the crude carving he'd made five centuries ago with grief and a belt knife.

The dead chains sat around his core like broken jewelry. He could feel them if he focused—elaborate, intricate, and completely useless. Six months of suppression ended by a margin so small it was almost insulting.

What are you? he thought toward that warm presence. Why did you save me?

No answer came. Just that feeling of patient protection, like something vast was watching over him. It felt familiar in a way he couldn't explain—not like a memory, but like an echo of something older than memory. Something that had perhaps always been there, waiting beneath the surface of his consciousness.

Was it connected to his past as Dex? Some power he'd gained when killing the Demon King? Or was it something else entirely—something that transcended his understanding of power and divinity?

The presence pulsed once, warm and reassuring, but revealed nothing of its nature.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, recognizing the pattern. Three light taps—Elira's signature.

"You missed dinner," she said, setting a tray on his desk. Steam rose from the soup, and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since before dawn.

"I wasn't hungry."

"You're never hungry after something significant happens." She moved his papers aside with practiced efficiency, making room for the meal. "The chains. They're really dead?"

"Completely."

"Good." She looked back at him, and for once, her carefully neutral expression cracked slightly. "My grandmother used to tell stories. Old stories, from before the Empire was unified. She said there were powers that watched over certain bloodlines, ancient things that moved in their own time."

"What kind of powers?"

"She never said specifically. Just that some people were marked for purposes beyond mortal understanding." She paused at the door. "Whatever watches over you, young master, I hope it's kind."

After she left, Avian ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. His mind kept returning to that moment when the divine presence had intervened. That feeling of being protected by something that found the Church's power trivial.

He thought about Seren's research, about the fragments she'd found. Vaerin's words: "The arrow was mercy. The curse was taking hold."

What curse? What did Vaerin know that I don't?

The copper coin caught the candlelight as he picked it up again. The Stubborn Bastards. Still refusing to give up, even after death, even after centuries.

Whatever protected him, whatever had waited five centuries to manifest, it had chosen him for a reason. He might not understand what it was or why it cared, but for now, that was enough.

He was free from the chains. Free to grow. Free to discover what he could become.

And maybe, eventually, free to understand what ancient power had decided he was worth protecting.

Time would tell.

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