Those Who Ignore History

B1 Part 2: Chapter 8: The Song of Silence


I lifted the bow.

Not Lunarias—no, that would have made sense. Gin wouldn't allow anything close to sense.

First day back, and the Catomancer handed me a task with all the gentleness of a brick to the spine. Not a request. Not even a punishment. Just a test. A trial by tendon-tearing fire.

The bow loomed over me—taller than I was, easily. It looked like it belonged to a giant, or a god, or a particularly angry tree. Ancient. Arrogant. It had no name written on it, but I was already drafting a few: The Spine-Killer, Hopebreaker, Nope.

I reached for the arrow. My body trembled with the effort. Muscles spasmed. Pain pinched in strange places—places that shouldn't be able to hurt from archery. Just lifting the arrow felt like moving a fallen pillar. Nocking it was a victory. A small, fleeting one.

The hard part was next.

I tried to draw.

I tilted the bow slightly upward, hoping—begging—that gravity might do something. Anything. My arms strained, shoulders creaking like old floorboards. My spine screamed. My hips twisted awkwardly to compensate, but it didn't help.

I managed maybe a third of the draw weight before my arms gave out, and I collapsed to the ground, chest heaving, lungs aching, dry-heaving with the force of it.

A shadow fell across me.

"You done already?" Gin's voice came like silk wrapped around a razor. "Damn. I figured you'd at least get halfway. Guess rabbits aren't built for power, huh?"

I groaned into the dirt.

Gin crouched beside me, violet eyes glinting with delight. "You do realize you've got two cats around here, right? And cats…" He grinned, sharp teeth showing. "Love chasing rabbits."

"By… all the… moons…" I gasped, barely getting the words out between wheezing breaths. "I swear… I'll kill you…"

Gin's grin widened, feline smugness practically radiating off him. "Get in line, carrot-breath. You'd be number… hmm, what was it last count? Three hundred twelve? Nah, probably closer to three twenty by now."

He stood and nudged my ribs with the tip of his shoe. "Up. Again."

I groaned louder.

At what point does training turn into torture?

I barely moved, my arm attempting—and failing—to reach for the arrow again.

"What… did you call this bow again?"

Gin knelt beside me with theatrical reverence, resting a hand on the towering monstrosity of a weapon. "The Bow of Ithica," he said, like naming an old god. "Once wielded by a mythical archer of extreme prowess who strung it and fired through twelve hundred axes. A weapon for a myth."

He looked down at me with all the grace of a smirking stormcloud. "You are currently… not a myth."

I hated him.

I hated him and every smug hair on his twitching ears.

The bow didn't just resist me. It defied me. I tried again. Muscles flared, pain roared. I tried reaching for a spell, a distortion, anything that might make it easier. The magic burned. The string felt like iron wire. The bow didn't flex. It judged.

The arrow was worse—long as my leg, thick as my arm, and probably heavier than some of the sheep my party was now inexplicably herding around. Made of some gleaming blue metal, cool to the touch and impossibly dense.

Every inch of it said you're not ready.

I didn't disagree.

Gin tapped the bow with a claw and leaned back on his heels. "Fun thing about this one," he said casually, "is that if you actually manage to fire it, it doesn't just hit what you aim at. It hits the target behind that one. And the one behind that. And the one after that."

He turned, the tip of his tail flicking dangerously close to my nose. "You know. If you ever get past the part where it crushes you like a fly."

I groaned again. It was the only thing I could do with consistency.

More voices approached. One of them was clearly Ten, annoyed and grumbling.

"…this is not my job. I don't do livestock. I don't like livestock. If one of these rams charges me, I'm throwing it into orbit."

"Noted," V's deadpan voice replied. "Would you prefer chickens next time?"

"I swear to whatever gods listen," Ten snapped, "I will drown you in wool."

Gin looked over his shoulder and raised a brow. "They're actually doing it," he muttered. "They're herding sheep. That's incredible. Who knew your team had hidden talents?"

"I didn't ask them to do that," I wheezed.

Gin snorted. "Of course she did. Probably part of her long con to breed sheep with flame-resistant wool or something insane like that."

I finally managed to push myself upright, hands trembling, breath ragged.

"I hate this bow."

"I know," Gin said, smile widening. "That's why I gave it to you."

I wanted to throw it at him. If I had the strength. Or the ability to stand. Or to move my arms more than a few inches. Or really anything beyond breathing and regretting life.

But he just stood there, grinning with all the satisfaction of a cat knocking a vase off a table in slow motion.

"Again," he said simply.

And gods help me…

I tried.

I could barely even lean on the bow as I stood.

Every muscle in my body protested the motion—tight, trembling, raw. My knees buckled under me as I tried to find balance, clutching at the weapon like a crutch. My breath rasped out in shallow gasps, head swimming.

Before I could collapse again, a firm hand grabbed my shoulder. Cordelia.

Her expression was stone-cold fury hidden under clinical detachment. She shoved the bow away from me with no ceremony, her eyes flashing violet with a touch of psionic warning as she squared herself between Gin and me.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"As the team's healer, psyker, and apparently the only one here not actively trying to murder our Walker," she snapped, her voice rising sharply with barely restrained venom, "I'm declaring him on rest."

Gin raised a single amused brow, tail flicking lazily, but didn't interrupt.

Cordelia turned to me, pressing her fingers to my neck for a pulse, her expression darkening further. "You already tore one meridian line trying to refine a bloodline method you weren't prepared for. I won't let you add torn muscle and shattered tendons to the list. That would take you out for months, not weeks."

Her gaze cut to Gin again like a scalpel. "Light movement only. Gentle stretches. No more of your idiotic death-trials for today. Is that clear?"

I nodded, the motion weak but sincere.

Cordelia turned back to me and pointed toward the pasture. "Alexander Duarte-Alizade," she said, crisp and commanding. "Gather your sheep into the meadow where you want them to settle. Slowly. Methodically. Step by step. No rushing. No sudden movements."

I didn't argue. I couldn't. My body was already screaming its agreement.

She exhaled through her nose and stepped back, crossing her arms.

Then her attention shifted back to Gin—and this time, it was personal.

"We know what you're doing," she said quietly. "We're not fools. You think pushing him to his breaking point will force him to evolve. Maybe you're right. But that wasn't training today. That was cruelty at its finest."

Gin met her stare without flinching. His smirk stayed, but the energy shifted—cooler, sharper.

"Cats," he said simply, "are cruel. That's part of my Providence."

He straightened and gestured vaguely with one clawed finger, as if he were painting an idea in the air.

"Kindness through Cruelty," he said. "That's what I was given. My nature. A Providence not of mercy, but of refinement through resistance. We don't sharpen knives with pillows."

Cordelia didn't blink. "This isn't sharpening. This is breaking."

Gin chuckled low, like a purr wrapped around a growl.

"I'll lay off," he said. "For now. Mostly because you showed bite. I like that. Keeps things interesting."

Then he stepped closer, his voice dipping as he looked directly into Cordelia's eyes.

"But be careful, little flower," he murmured. "Sometimes the housecat is a tiger. And tigers? They risk their lives when they hunt rabbits."

Cordelia didn't step back. Her eyes narrowed. "Then be very sure, Gin, that this tiger doesn't mistake loyalty for weakness."

The air between them thickened. Not with heat, not with anger—but with the kind of tension that only came from two predators circling the same prey, unsure whether they were allies or rivals.

Eventually, Gin gave a flick of his ear, his expression relaxing again into mischief.

"I'll play nice," he said lightly, already turning away. "Until it stops being interesting."

I started toward the sheep, each step slow and aching, but I kept moving.

And behind me, the cat and the flower stood in a silence louder than most arguments.

***

It was sunset by the time I finished rounding up the last of the sheep.

I hadn't thought I'd make it.

[Sheep Husbandry] had carried me farther than I expected it could—nudging me along as I coaxed the flock into some semblance of order. Somehow, my fumbling had even triggered a pleasant system chime in the corner of my vision, like a patronizing pat on the head.

[Sheep Husbandry] has advanced to Level Two. Subskill [Shepherding] unlocked. [Shepherding] has reached Level One.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, so I did neither. I simply stood there, breathing like I'd just wrestled a manticore. Everything in my body ached—legs barely holding me up, arms hanging limp at my sides, each muscle singing its own out-of-tune funeral dirge.

The last few sheep meandered into the pen we'd built—somewhat crooked, but stable. The wool-coated tyrants gave me one final look, as if to say see you tomorrow, loser, before settling down into soft mounds of indifference.

I trudged toward the manor, half-dragging my feet up the familiar steps. The estate had once been in shambles—broken windows, vines crawling through the halls, dust heavy enough to bury books—but my siblings had helped clean most of it during their brief, chaotic visit.

Now it was livable again. Not beautiful. Not home. But livable.

I didn't even bother turning on the light as I entered my room. The sun still leaked through the tall, warped windows, splashing pale gold across the floor. I collapsed onto my bed, not even bothering to undress. The familiar creak of the frame was a lullaby compared to the howling of sheep.

I lay there, staring up at the wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling. Shadows flickered between them as the light faded, and my hand lifted instinctively—reaching toward the dusk.

Toward the stars I couldn't see, but still believed were there.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why me?"

It was a quiet question. Not meant for anyone. Not really. But I felt the answer coming before the silence had a chance to linger.

"Sire," Lumivis said, his voice resonating faintly from the shadows of the room, "I did not choose you for your strength. I chose you for what I saw."

I didn't move. I just let his voice wash over me—too tired to fight it, too curious to shut it out.

"I saw a broken individual who could not yet govern himself," he continued, his tone cool and patient. "One who longed for freedom without understanding the cost. A boy with fire in his chest, and no idea how often fire devours the very hands that carry it."

The air in the room felt thicker now. His words clung to it like mist.

"You saw a liability," I muttered.

"I saw potential," Lumivis corrected. "I saw someone standing at the edge of a precipice—aware of the fall, but still willing to leap. That courage, however misguided, is rare."

He didn't pause long.

"I chose you, Alexander, because I saw someone who would bear the cost of freedom. Not gladly, not gracefully—but willingly. Someone who would break himself against the anvil of purpose and not ask to be spared."

I swallowed. "You talk like I'm some great revolutionary."

"No. I talk like someone who has seen revolutionaries," Lumivis replied. "You are not great. Not yet. You are raw ore, waiting to be smelted. A gemstone uncut. A weapon untempered. I chose you because you were unfinished—and because you had the will to finish yourself."

His voice grew quieter.

"And because I knew I was putting my faith in a child."

"I'm seventeen," I said, eyes still on the ceiling. "Not a child."

"I am older than this continent. To me, even your kings are toddlers."

A dry laugh slipped past my lips. "You really know how to inspire."

He ignored that.

"And you," he added pointedly, "bound me to a glorified toy. A device you've used once, perhaps twice, and then left to gather dust."

"I've been busy," I muttered.

"Busy herding sheep."

I rolled onto my side, groaning as my spine protested. "Alright. Fine. You're a divine being and I'm wasting your potential. Get to the part where you explain why you're lecturing me right now."

"Because," he said, "you are on light exercise. You are healing. And this is the perfect time to address the one resource you've neglected."

"What, my brain?"

"Worse," he said. "Me."

That caught my attention.

I blinked at the wall. "You?"

"Yes. Me." There was a tinge of irritation now. "You have a contracted being of significant power, wisdom, and elegance—and you've relegated me to poetic commentary and sarcastic asides."

"Because you won't shut up," I shot back.

"Because you haven't asked anything of me."

I didn't answer right away.

"Ranah will help you begin training in conjunction with me," Lumivis went on. "She knows how to draw upon me properly. How to wield me as more than a burden. And I suggest, Alexander… that you learn."

I closed my eyes.

The ache in my arms hadn't faded. My legs still felt like firewood, brittle and stiff. But deep beneath the pain, something flickered. A spark. Not strength—but the memory of it.

"Alright," I whispered. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Lumivis echoed.

And then he was silent.

For now.

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