The sun had not yet risen when the silence of morning wrapped the academy in stillness. Aevion sat upright in his bed, fully dressed, as if he had never slept. He hadn't. His thoughts had not quieted since the encounter with the Grandmaster.
Taking a book from the Library of the End without permission.
Punishable, perhaps. But that wasn't why the Grandmaster summoned him. It was the fear beneath the reprimand—the recognition of something far deeper than what anyone understood.
And now, he was to be assigned a personal instructor.
The summons came with no announcement. A sigil pulsed above his door, and a sharp, cold wind passed through the room without a sound. Aevion stood and stepped out, the world still draped in pre-dawn silver.
He walked through the quiet halls alone, shadows of flickering lamps stretching like fingers. At the southern end of the academy grounds was a narrow corridor, leading to a sealed arch that opened for him on approach. Beyond it—nothing like a training hall.
It was stone and wind.
A vast field of slate-gray rock stretched outward, surrounded by jagged cliffs. The sky above was bruised with dark blue clouds swirling against dim light. It wasn't cold, but there was a pressure in the air—as if movement itself was being watched.
And there, waiting at the center of the grounds, stood the instructor.
He wore long black robes marked by faint silver threads that pulsed like veins. His hair was pale ash, his eyes a washed-out gray that seemed to forget color ever existed. He didn't offer a name. He didn't move.
"You're the one," he said, not looking at Aevion directly. "The child who stole a book that cannot be read."
"I read it," Aevion replied calmly.
The instructor finally turned. "You're lying."
Aevion said nothing.
The man's eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with curiosity. "You'll train here. With me. Until you are no longer a question."
They began with stillness.
Not combat. Not techniques. The instructor made Aevion stand at the edge of the slate field and told him not to move.
Then he threw a dagger at his head.
It stopped a breath before touching Aevion's forehead—suspended in place by a sharp current of Nexis. But it wasn't Aevion's Nexis. It was the instructor's.
"Had you moved, you would've died," the man said. "Movement must never be reaction. It must be answer."
Then began the lesson.
The instructor walked in circles around Aevion, whispering fragments of forgotten teachings.
> "To move is to write a line of causality."
"Each step is a thread across the weave."
"Those who cannot move without making sound… are already lost."
Hours passed.
The wind stirred. Dust spiraled. The field grew colder.
Then, without warning, the instructor vanished.
Aevion's eyes shifted, but only slightly.
A blow struck his back—not heavy, not painful, but direct.
"You're slow," the instructor said from behind.
"You're loud," Aevion whispered.
He turned. The instructor was already mid-step to vanish again. But this time—Aevion stepped forward, softly, precisely, and appeared in front of him.
Not with speed. Not with power. With intention.
Their eyes met.
The instructor froze.
Aevion's movement had made no noise, no wind, no shift in air.
"You moved... without leaving a mark," the instructor muttered. "That shouldn't be possible."
Aevion tilted his head. "What's beyond movement?"
The instructor didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Do you know what lies beyond the thread?"
Aevion waited.
The man stepped back and whispered, "To outrun the thread is to reach what none have seen. But you…"
He lowered his head.
"You may walk without weaving at all."
When the session ended, the instructor gave no compliment, no praise, no name.
He only turned once more and said:
> "Return tomorrow. If you are capable of silence again, I may begin to teach you what the void once taught me."
Aevion turned away from the field of slate, stepping lightly, soundlessly.
In his left hand, unseen to the instructor, the book from the Library of the End remained tucked within his sleeve.
Its cover read:
The Order of Null Origin.
And something inside it… stirred.
The door to the slate arena closed behind him, its sound vanishing like a thought erased. Aevion stepped into the corridors of the academy alone, still wrapped in the silence his instructor had demanded — a silence that lingered not in air, but in thought.
The book remained tucked beneath his sleeve.
No footsteps echoed behind him.
Until they did.
Aevion slowed, eyes shifting.
A presence walked into his path like a wall being built mid-step. A senior. Not one of rank. Not one of fame. But one who walked like death knew his name.
He was tall, with a plain uniform slightly too tight around his shoulders. His hair was cut short, uneven. His eyes weren't cruel — they were cold. Not numbness, but readiness. As if they'd already seen how this ended.
"You're the little one training with the instructor," he said. His voice didn't need to be loud. "I heard he's wasting his time."
Aevion said nothing.
The senior stared at him. "No fear? I like that. Come."
Aevion didn't ask where. He didn't need to. The senior turned without waiting, and Aevion followed.
They entered a combat chamber no longer in use. The sky above was cracked glass, the ceiling long shattered from some battle that left the corners blackened with old scorch marks.
No audience. No teachers.
Only the wind and broken sun.
The senior turned. "Draw your blade."
Aevion summoned Vexiaris.
The senior didn't summon anything.
He moved.
The sound came after.
Aevion was already falling backward, vision blurred, pain blooming across his chest before he'd registered what had hit him. The senior hadn't even thrown a punch — just brushed past him. Aevion barely caught the next motion and raised his blade—
Only to find the senior already behind him.
Aevion's eyes widened.
His instincts screamed too late.
A foot caught his ribs and sent him skidding across the cracked floor, dust exploding in his wake. He barely managed to catch himself.
The senior didn't gloat.
He walked.
"I've killed monsters faster than that," he said. "You're no monster."
Aevion's lungs pulled in slow air. His fingers trembled.
Not in fear.
In frustration.
He stood.
The senior came again.
Faster.
This time, Aevion moved — not by sight, but memory. He recalled the instructor's words.
> "Movement must never be reaction. It must be answer."
He stepped forward instead of back.
The blow missed his jaw by an inch, but the impact of its wake tore a gash across his shoulder. Blood spilled, but Aevion didn't retreat.
He stepped again.
And again.
Suddenly, it wasn't speed.
It was placement. Pattern. Thread.
The senior frowned. "You're catching on."
The next exchange happened in silence.
Aevion ducked, not because he saw the blow, but because the senior's breath had shifted. His blade turned not in retaliation — but in rhythm.
And for a moment, they clashed.
Their blades met.
The world hiccuped.
Aevion's feet did not slide, yet the ground beneath him warped, as if rejecting the path he'd taken. Time strained around the two figures — not broken, not stopped, just… denied.
The senior blinked. "What—"
But the sentence never finished.
Aevion moved.
Not quickly.
Not even visibly.
He simply was — in one space, and then another. His presence had bled into a state that no longer obeyed distance.
The senior spun and slashed. Missed.
He leapt back, eyes sharp now. Real tension crept into his voice.
"…That's not teleportation."
Aevion stood where he hadn't a moment ago. His blade didn't hum. It waited.
"I don't understand it," the senior muttered. "But I felt it. The moment you vanished — it wasn't speed. It wasn't phasing."
He clenched his fists.
"You stepped outside cause."
He charged, this time with full force.
The floor cratered. Nexis shattered in waves.
But he never reached Aevion.
The blade touched the space between them, and reality buckled.
Aevion's strike was too light to split bone, too shallow to cut.
But the idea of impact landed.
The senior dropped to one knee, eyes wide, gasping. Not in pain.
In realization.
He looked up.
"You weren't supposed to surpass me," he whispered. "Not mid-fight."
Aevion lowered his blade.
The silence returned. Not stillness, not awe.
Pure silence.
The senior rose slowly, face calm again, but his eyes held respect now — no mockery.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Aevion didn't answer.
The senior nodded anyway.
"Good," he said. "Names like yours shouldn't be spoken so soon."
He turned to leave. "When you want a real fight… come find me. And don't bring that sealed sword."
He vanished into the sunlit corridor.
Aevion stood alone again.
He looked down at Vexiaris, then at the air itself, now stilled in his presence.
There were no words for what had changed.
But he understood.
It was not movement.
Not stillness.
It was transcendence through necessity.
And now, no step he took would ever follow a thread again.