The Veridahn's training hall was silent, save for the hum of dormant conduits buried in the obsidian walls. Rows of the True Persequions stood at attention, their forms sharp and rigid despite the gnawing sense of anticipation. Beside them were the Numbers, figures of sharp-eyed lethality, and scattered among the gathering were several chosen members of the Veridah. All had gathered for one reason: to learn the intricacies of Vaylora and the shaping of Systems, not from their elders who taught them to survive, but from Lord Cefketa, who intended to teach them how to conquer.

Cefketa, draped in a robe of muted ash-grey that concealed the weakness of his body, stood before them like a shadow carved from authority itself. Over the past few years he could not move his body as much as he would like. Instead he had sharpened his knowledge into a weapon more dangerous than claws or fangs. His dragon blood had opened his sight, his perspective, in ways that even elder scholars could not imagine. Most dragons never bothered with such learning, content to let time and instinct yield answers. But Cefketa had grown up human, mortal, and fragile. That weakness had been burned out of him, leaving behind someone who studied, dissected, and understood with terrifying precision.

When he spoke, the hall seemed to still.

"I won't waste your time with my feelings on what Vaylora truly is," Cefketa said, his voice low but carrying to every corner. "Philosophical drivel at worst, and too complex for your comprehension at best." His words were daggers; they pierced directly into the pride of his students, daring them to rise above the insult.

The Numbers bowed their heads in crisp acknowledgment. The Persequions followed, their faces masks of solemn discipline. But among the monsters, unease rippled. A few Leviathans shifted their massive bodies, and Titan Orcs grunted their discontent.

Cefketa's eyes swept over them. "Simply put—Vaylora is what you make of it. And what we are going to make are Systems." He raised his hand, and shimmering aquamarine light wove into a lattice of impossible intricacy before their eyes. Symbols and threads of living code folded over one another like a song etched into creation. The beauty of it caught even the reluctant in its spell.

A younger beast blurted before they could stop themselves: "What does it do? It's so intricate… so beautiful."

Cefketa smiled without warmth. The System flared once, releasing a spark of flame no larger than a candle. Then it unraveled into nothing.

"Nothing," Cefketa said, chuckling darkly. "And yet some of you were ready to kneel before its beauty."

Gasps followed, murmurs sweeping the crowd. Only Sage and Thalune, leader of the Numbers, remained unmoved. They had already guessed where this lesson would lead.

"What I will teach you today," Cefketa continued, "is not how to wield power, but how to craft power. Systems are not accidents. They are not gifts. They are art—and art conquers where brute force fails."

A Leviathan, old by human years but young in their people's measure, raised their head defiantly. "Systems are not art. They are tools. Intricacies such as yours are worthless fluff—impractical for soldiers." Several others nodded, Titan Orcs grumbling agreement.

Cefketa gestured. "Show me a System you're proud of. Don't name it, just use it on me."

The Leviathan wasted no time, their claws weaving clean lines of structure into the air. The System was simple, efficient, glowing with martial potency. Yet before it could release its power, Cefketa lazily flicked his hand. The System shattered like glass, undone in an instant.

"Effective, yes," Cefketa said. "But fragile. That 'fluff' you despise would have saved it."

"With respect, Lord Cefketa," the Leviathan countered, bowing their head only slightly, "you are a Gteju. No matter what I built, it would mean nothing against your eyes."

Cefketa tilted his head. "A fair point. Sage."

The woman stepped forward, her smile cold. "Yes, Sensei."

"Kid—use it on her."

The beast obeyed. But Sage's fingers twitched once, and the System unraveled before it even breathed life.

"Now," Cefketa said, turning his gaze toward Thalune, lounging against the wall, "try him."

The Leviathan obeyed again. Thalune barely moved. He pursed his lips and blew. The System collapsed like a candle flame extinguished by breath. Laughter rippled through some of the Numbers, but the Leviathan only stood in shocked silence.

"That System will slaughter in the hands of soldiers," Cefketa said. His tone deepened, heavy as stone grinding together. "But you are not soldiers. You are Veridahn. We do not march to war, we descend upon it."

The air grew heavier with every word, pressing down until some of the younger Persequions bent at the knees.

"A soldier can kill a man, maybe even dozens," Cefketa went on. His voice darkened, eyes glowing faintly. "A Veridahn, with a single System, can erase a people."

The hall quaked with silence. Many of the monsters had been raised to think of themselves as grunts—fodder until proven worthy. But Cefketa's words twisted that inheritance, re-forging it into something darker, greater.

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"Now," he said more quietly, "consider this: why do we name our Systems?"

Hands rose hesitantly. Cefketa pointed to Nocthera, the Vampire member of the Veridahn.

"We name them first for cataloging. To categorize their effects and pass them to future generations," she said.

"And second?"

"To give them life," she answered. "So that they can call out to creation."

"Exactly." Cefketa's eyes glittered. "The name of the System is the question. Its output is the answer. And if you speak its name aloud, the question becomes sharper—the answer louder. Yet we seldom do this. Why?"

Thalune answered smoothly. "Because a name is a core. Reveal the composition of the core, and the System becomes vulnerable. Easier to dismantle."

"Correct. Which is why we add—what did you call it?" His gaze flicked to the Leviathan. "Fluff."

Gasps rippled when Cefketa conjured two Systems—one simple, one a labyrinth of glittering detail. "These are the same System. Its name is Spark. Thalune—dismantle them."

Thalune walked forward, swiping the simple one apart with ease. Then he faced the intricate one. His hands moved, gestures sharp and fast. The System shivered but held. He frowned, sweat gathering at his brow. Minutes passed. Finally, he spat.

"I can't. Not in any useful time frame."

"Why?" Cefketa asked.

Thalune gestured at the weaving patterns. "Hundreds of nodes spelling Spark. Thousands more loosely echoing the meaning. Any of them could be the true core. It's guesswork. I could spend an hour a day, and never strike the right one."

Cefketa's eyes glowed with cruel delight.

"There's something you missed." He pointed to thirty places. Each flared, threads gathering, until the word Cindral formed—a Mytherian word for the first breath of fire.

"There are no rules saying the core must be one piece," Cefketa said. The revelation left even the Numbers gaping. "Your elders never told you because they feared what you might build, or perhaps you would surpass them too quickly."

The chamber erupted in whispers, disbelief, awe..

"Knowledge is ash without mastery," Cefketa said, dismissing the Systems with a flick. "Use your free time to engrave this into your marrow. You are dismissed."

The students filed out, their excitement palpable. Systems flared faintly in their palms as they whispered new theories. They had come to learn of weapons. They left with knowledge that could reshape their life.

When the last footstep faded beyond the hall's threshold, Cefketa's shoulders dropped as if invisible weights had been cut from them. The performance was over. The mask of absolute authority—finally slipped.

Cefketa moved to the center of the hall. "Glow," he called softly.

"Yes, my Lord?" came the disembodied AI voice.

"Lock the hall. End all surveillance. Make yourself scarce."

"As you wish." The voice faded, taking with it the last pretense of normalcy.

Alone now, Cefketa allowed himself a moment of genuine exhaustion. His breath came slower, deeper. The air should have felt lighter without the weight of watching eyes, but instead it seemed to thicken around him.

That was wrong.

The hall's atmosphere had shifted—not dramatically, but like the difference between a held breath and natural breathing. Someone else was drawing oxygen from this space.

Cefketa's enhanced senses began cataloging inconsistencies. A shadow that fell at the wrong angle. Air currents that moved against the ventilation flow. The faintest displacement of dust motes where something invisible pressed against the world.Not just anyone could hide from him this well.

"Come out," he said. His voice was raw and primal.

Silence stretched like a held blade.

His lip curled. Whoever this was, they thought they could observe him, study him, treat him like a specimen in his own hall. The rage that had been simmering beneath his composed exterior for days—rage at his limitations. He had felt this way for sometime, but only now was he certain that he was being watched.

In a blink he launched across the chamber, scythe materializing in his grip as it ripped a seam through the air itself. Steel met steel—a golden staff blocked his strike, the gem at its head glowing red like a malevolent eye.

The sight of that red gem triggered something deeper than anger. Recognition without memory. Revulsion that came from his very bones. Dragon instincts screamed warnings he couldn't understand, and Cefketa roared his confusion and fury, driving forward with everything he had. The masked woman holding the staff barely shifted. With a soft grunt, she parried, sending Cefketa skidding across the hall.

He vanished, reappearing in front of her with another slash. This time she froze, caught in his invisible grip. Before his scythe connected to her mask, Cefketa froze as well. For a heartbeat neither moved, locked in unseen force. Her faceless mask tilted toward him, almost curious.

Then the world shattered. They moved faster than sound, slamming through the hall in blurring afterimages. Shards of space broke with every clash, the air screaming from their speed. Cefketa's strikes were furious, raw aggression carved into form with demonic precision. Her defense was fluid, graceful, maddeningly aloof.

At last they slid apart, the hall scorched and cracked.

"Hmm," the woman mused, adjusting her sleeves as if nothing had happened. "Your lessons and your fighting—passable. Not bad, for a fledgling."

"Who are you?" Cefketa demanded.

"I am someone sent by your mother," she said calmly.

Shock rippled through him. "What? Sent for what purpose?"

"To take you where you belong."

He barked a laugh. His teeth bared. "My nanny, then? My fucking Au pair?"

"Yes," she said simply. "Something like that."

"Fuck." Cefketa spat, recognizing the familiarity in her presence. She was a dragon, close in blood. Far older than he was. Against her, he stood little chance.

"I will not leave," he said. "I still have things to do here."

"I know. I wasn't meant to reveal myself until you were finished… playing." Her tone was mocking.

"Playing?" His voice was venomous. "Is that what this looks like?"

"What else? You twist, you manipulate, you make them give you what you could simply take. There are faster ways."

"Taking would be temporary. I need them to give it willingly. That way, it stays."

The mask inclined, amused. "I see. Then I will watch, even if you die, I will not interfere.. When you are ready, I will take you home."

She dissolved like smoke, her voice lingering. "Until then…little one."

Cefketa stood alone in the wrecked hall, scythe dripping sparks, his breath ragged. "When I'm ready?" he muttered. His eyes glowed with dangerous resolve. "Fuck."

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