The scent of scorched earth and blood lingered as Julian made his way back toward the battered encampment. Around him, tents were being re-pitched, wounded tended, and spells used to stabilize mana-logged terrain. No one paid him much attention. A servant stumbling back after a fight wasn't worth a second glance.
And that was fine.
He didn't need their recognition. Not yet.
He passed a few of the lesser-ranked fighters—E-ranks, some barely above unawakened—dragging what looked like a shattered cart from the wreckage. One of them glanced at Julian's bruised face, the ripped corner of his shirt soaked with blood, and looked away quickly.
Smart, Julian thought.
He was still processing what had happened. Not just the absorption. The coordination. The way Celeste had listened. The way Lilia had let him move.
There had been no real trust.
Just instinct and urgency.
But now?
Now there was a question in their eyes. Unspoken. Uneasy.
Who exactly is he?
