Weeks settled into a semblance of routine following the harrowing mission at Loknezt Lake and Henry's subsequent, unsettlingly rapid recovery.

The Royal Guard's deployment had indeed shifted the operational tempo; the high-threat anomaly missions were now handled by specialized units, leaving Squad 18 to their standard patrols and low-level reconnaissance within East Aerion. A fragile sense of normalcy returned, though the memory of the cultist's cave and the whispers of widespread sacrifices lingered like a bad taste in the city's collective mouth.

One night, deep into the graveyard shift, Henry found himself walking a deserted stretch of cobbled road bordering a warehouse district. The air was cold, the only sounds his own steady footsteps and the distant hum of the ever-active capital. The ever-present passive awareness of his Mystic Sense registered the usual - empty doorways, sleeping beggars huddled in alcoves, the scuttling of rats in the refuse bins. Then, abruptly, a jarring jolt slammed through his awareness, sharp and cold.

His mental map flared with vivid crimson streaks. They pinpointed multiple hostile sources converging rapidly on him from the shadows.

He didn't have time to draw his sword. Five figures erupted from darkened alleyways and recessed loading docks, moving with practiced coordination, their movements swift and purposeful.

They carried weighted clubs and short blades, weapons meant for disabling, not necessarily killing at range. As they closed in, waves of aggression so intense they became physical washed over him via the Mystic Sense - raw hostility, malice, the intent to subdue and inflict pain - but crucially, it lacked the absolute, razor-sharp edge of true killing intent he had sensed from Jacobs in their spars, or from the monsters they'd faced.

He dodged, and the truth slammed into him - this was a test, the first wild swing of a heavy cudgel. They don't want me dead. Not yet.

Through the unwavering, analytical lens of the Mystic Sense, Henry processed the chaotic assault not just as physical threats, but as flows of intent and projected movement.

The throb in his recently healed jaw was a sharp reminder of pain, forcing him to grit his teeth as his awareness expanded to every subtle shift in the air currents, every footfall, every anticipated trajectory. He didn't try to meet their force head-on; five against one, even if they weren't aiming to kill, was poor odds. Instead, he weaved, using his innate agility and the Sense's precognitive whispers to evade the worst of the blows.

He countered with sharp, economical movements designed to disrupt and create space. He slammed the heavy pommel of his sheathed sword into the face of an onrushing assailant, rewarded by a grunt of pain and surprise.

As another attacker materialized from a blind spot to his left, he twisted, a club glancing off his ribs. Even as pain flared, he lashed out with a low kick, striking his opponent's knee with brutal precision, sending the man sprawling with a yelp.

The chaotic dance continued under the indifferent glow of the lumen-stones. A short blade nicked his arm, drawing blood. Another club blow connected solidly with his shoulder, numbing the limb momentarily.

Stinging wounds, bruises blooming, but nothing life-threatening. They were skilled, likely Rank 2 like himself, perhaps low-level enforcers or clandestine operatives, pressing him hard, testing his reactions, his awareness. But their lack of lethal precision confirmed his initial assessment.

Prolonging the engagement was a luxury he couldn't afford. Sooner or later, a lucky blow would land, or exhaustion would betray him. Watching the flow of the fight through the Sense, he saw his chance - a momentary fissure in their tightening encirclement as two attackers slightly overcommitted. Feinting left, he exploded right, knocking aside one opponent with a shoulder check, sidestepping another's clumsy grab.

He surged through the narrow gap, pouring every ounce of his strange, quickly recovering energy into sheer speed, melting into the deeper shadows of an unlit alleyway beyond their immediate reach.

He heard a couple of them give chase initially, their footsteps echoing briefly, but he was faster, aided by his intimate knowledge of the district's labyrinthine layout and the Sense warning him of blind corners or potential dead ends.

Within moments, he had vanished completely into the concealing darkness of the Aerion night, leaving his frustrated assailants behind. He leaned against a cold, damp wall, catching his breath, pain emanated from half a dozen places, blood trickling down his arm.

A test, he thought again, his mind racing - "But who is testing me? And why now?"

The incident, discreetly observed by unseen eyes, was relayed swiftly and efficiently through secure channels. Within the hour, a concise report landed on the polished desk of General Zalogr in his private study. Silence was the General's only reply as he listened to his aide, Captain Verus, deliver the summary, his sharp, hawk-like features tightening in contemplation.

More than a decade had passed since the boy, Henry, had somehow orchestrated the destruction of the Dark Reaper. Ten years, during which the subject had remained, on the surface, a diligent but unremarkable soldier. Competent, yes. Exceptionally disciplined in his training, certainly. But he hadn't displayed the meteoric rise Zalogr might have expected from someone involved in such an event, someone who might, just might, have become the new host for the Reaper's unique Mystic Sense. Zalogr had watched, patiently, discreetly, waiting for a sign. For years, there had been nothing conclusive.

Henry's survival against five trained opponents was noted in the report, highlighting his preternatural evasion. The ambush, and his escape, reawakened Zalogr's long-held suspicions. Perhaps the boy wasn't so unremarkable after all. Perhaps the Sense was merely dormant? Or expertly concealed? It was time, Zalogr decided, for a more direct approach.

The following afternoon, Henry found himself standing stiffly at attention inside the imposing command tent that served as General Zalogr's field office within the East Aerion garrison.

The air inside the spacious tent was unnaturally still, charged with unspoken authority. Sunlight filtered dimly through the dense canvas, illuminating dancing dust motes. The only sound was the crisp rustle of parchment as Zalogr slowly turned pages of a hefty dossier resting on his campaign desk.

The General sat with his arms crossed, his decorated chest broad and imposing. His piercing, unreadable gaze was fixed on Henry. He gestured curtly towards the simple wooden chair opposite the desk.

"Sit, soldier." Zalogr's quiet command cut through the silence, each word resonating with a power that hinted at the immense strength held in check, cutting through the silence. The General's oppressive presence filled the tent, compelling Henry's obedience as he perched uneasily on the edge of the chair

Zalogr leaned forward slightly, his presence filling the tent. "Do you know why I've summoned you here, Henry?" His quiet question was resonant with authority.

He knows something, Henry thought, keeping his own features carefully neutral. He tilted his head slightly, feigning contemplation. I assume this is about the incident on my patrol last night, General?

Zalogr's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something – surprise? respect? – at Henry's directness. He tapped a hefty dossier on the campaign desk before him. "Astute," he conceded. "Captain Verus's report on your interesting reaction to five assailants. Difficult to attribute solely to chance or standard training."

"Nor do I, sir," Henry replied calmly, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He met the General's unwavering stare. "They were skilled, but something was off. It didn't feel like they were trying to kill me."

"Explain," Zalogr commanded, leaning forward slightly, the movement subtle but intensifying the pressure in the room. His interest was clearly piqued.

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Henry chose his words with care, the silence stretching. "To eliminate a Rank 2 soldier like myself, sir, a single competent Rank 3 would suffice for a clean kill. Five Rank 2, It felt more like a test than an assassination." He allowed a faint, wry smile. "It suggests the objective wasn't necessarily my death, but perhaps an assessment."

"An assessment?" Zalogr's quiet echo seemed to hang in the air, his words carrying a cryptic, knowing edge. He was guiding the conversation, circling like a hawk. "And what, pray tell, do you surmise they wished to test?"

The unspoken question hung heavy between them, the true object of Zalogr's decade-long suspicion. He kept his answer general. "Perhaps my combat awareness, sir? My reactions under pressure?"

Zalogr leaned back again, observing Henry intently for a long moment.

The silence stretched, amplifying the tension in the tent. "Henry," the General said finally, his tone softening slightly but losing none of its weight, "I remember our first encounter vividly. Ten years ago. A boy, no older than twelve, standing amidst the carnage of my slaughtered men, covered in grime and blood."

He looked past Henry, his mind clearly turning over the memory with cold calculation. "A boy who looked me, a Rank 6 General of Zephyros, directly in the eye and declared he would slay the Dark Reaper without costing me a single soldier." He paused. "I was intrigued by your audacity then. A reckless, impossible plan. And yet it succeeded."

Zalogr suddenly stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped directly in front of Henry. "And I confess, I have kept a watchful, if distant, eye on you ever since."

Henry remained silent, his face impassive, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He knew where this was leading.

"You are familiar, are you not," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "with the particular talent possessed by the Dark Reaper? An ability known as Mystic Sense?"

Henry gave a slight, controlled nod. Feign knowledge, but not too much. "Yes, General. I've read the basic Church records pertaining to it, after the incident. A peculiar ability, it was said. Allowing the wielder to perceive hostility, danger, negative emotions. The reports stated the Reaper's had even evolved into something called Undead Mystic Sense, making direct attacks almost impossible."

Zalogr rested his elbows on the desk, his powerful fingers interlaced. "A troublesome ability," he murmured, almost to himself. His stare was like a physical probe, seeking out any crack in Henry's composure. "Then perhaps you can enlighten me on a matter that has perplexed scholars and strategists for a decade. Why do you think the Dark Reaper, a creature of absolute malice, spared both you and the girl, Sophia, not once, but twice?"

Henry met the probing gaze without flinching, projecting only respectful ignorance. He slowly shook his head. "Honestly, sir, I don't know. Neither does she. We were just kids, terrified. Maybe it was just luck? The Angels? I suppose only the Reaper itself knew for sure, and it's long dead."

A humorless smile touched Zalogr's lips. "Perhaps. A convenient mystery." He leaned forward again, dropping his words to a conspiratorial and dangerous whisper. "But are you aware, Henry, of one particularly fascinating characteristic of Mystic Sense mentioned only in the most restricted archives? That upon the death of its host the Sense does not simply vanish. It actively seeks a new one nearby?"

Henry schooled his features into a placid mask of polite confusion, but inside, a cold dread washed over him. He knows or he strongly suspects. "I was not aware of that specific detail, sir," he replied, carefully injecting a note of mild surprise into his voice. "That sounds like a dark legend, sir. Surely if someone inherited a power like that, it would've been noticed by now?" He left the statement deliberately ambiguous.

Zalogr studied him for another long, tense moment. Then, he rose slowly from his chair. The sheer presence of the man, a Rank 6 powerhouse, filled the tent. He walked around the desk and stopped directly in front of Henry, close enough that Henry could feel the aura of power radiating from him. Zalogr placed a heavy hand on Henry's shoulder, the weight seemingly enough to crush bone.

"I am a cautious man by nature, Henry," Zalogr said softly, his stare as cold as chips of ice. "And a thorough one. I prefer to verify things myself."

Suddenly, an immense pressure descended upon Henry, crushing the air from his lungs, making his vision swim. It wasn't physical force, but the sheer weight of Zalogr's focused will, his Rank 6 aether pressing down, examining, probing.

Zalogr's power scoured every fiber of his being, a meticulous probe of each cell, each flicker of energy. Panic surged, cold and sharp. He fought to remain still, to keep his breathing even, to shield the core of his secrets - the Sense, the crimson tattoo - behind a wall of desperate mental calm. Don't react. Don't show anything. It felt like an eternity, drowning under the weight of Zalogr's power.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure lifted. Henry gasped inwardly, relief washing over him, though he kept his outward composure intact. Zalogr removed his hand, his brow furrowed in thought. There was a flicker of something in his features, perhaps even slight disappointment?

"Hm," the General murmured, turning back towards his desk. "Perhaps you speak truthfully. Or perhaps you are merely adept at concealment." He fixed Henry with a final, penetrating look. "Regardless remember this, soldier: I am always watching. Should you ever feel the need to confide anything unusual it would be wise to do so before circumstances force the issue." The underlying threat was unmistakable.

Henry inclined his head respectfully. Despite his efforts to remain composed, a slight tremble of relief entered his words. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."

Zalogr held his gaze for another beat, then waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. You are dismissed. But tread carefully, Henry. Your peculiar brand of luck may not always hold."

Henry rose stiffly, offered a curt bow, and quickly exited the tent, stepping back out into the bright, indifferent sunlight. Weakness flooded his legs, his heart still pounding from the close call. He leaned against the rough canvas wall for a moment, taking deep breaths, the oppressive weight of Zalogr's presence slowly receding.

Ten years, he thought, tilting his head back, the memory of that terrifying night surging back with startling clarity. Ten years have passed, and he's still just as terrifying. Still watching. Still wondering.

…The chaos following the Dark Reaper's first appearance at the caravan massacre site grew distant now, eclipsed by the immediate horror unfolding within the military encampment itself. He remembered being brought here, him and Sophia, under guard, questioned briefly by stern-faced officers under the piercing gaze of the imposing General Zalogr. They hadn't known what to say, hadn't understood why they alone had survived the monster's initial onslaught.

Then the shrieking had started outside the command tent. The clang of steel, the terrified screams of men, the sickening tear of flesh, followed by that low, guttural, scraping sound.

Scritch… Scritch… Scritch…

The Dark Reaper. It had followed them. Or perhaps it had always been coming for the army.

He remembered the tent shaking violently, being thrown to the ground beside Sophia as the sounds of slaughter erupted just outside. The General and his commanders had charged out, unleashing a furious barrage - lightning, fire, enchanted arrows - against the skeletal black figure wielding the enormous scythe. Explosions rocked the ground. He'd seen glimpses through the tent flap - the Reaper gliding through the soldiers like smoke, each swing of its scythe cutting down multiple men, shields and armor parting like paper. Its empty eye sockets burned with malevolent red fire.

He saw it shrug off direct hits from powerful spells cast by the camp's mages, saw it cut down five heavily armored soldiers in less than three seconds. Terror, cold and absolute, had gripped him. "Let's go!" he'd yelled, grabbing Sophia, trying to pull her towards the back of the tent, away from the carnage.

But then the dark shadow had materialized before them, blocking their escape. The Dark Reaper stood there, scythe dripping with gore. It raised the massive blade, its fiery gaze fixing on Henry. He froze, certain death upon him. But then officers nearby unleashed a desperate volley of blessed artifacts, distracting it for a crucial instant. Explosions sent him and Sophia flying in opposite directions.

He scrambled back, watching in horror as the Reaper finished slaughtering the last defenders. But the strangest thing it ignored Sophia, who had landed closest to it. It didn't even seem to see her as it turned, its burning gaze locking onto Henry once more. The scythe rose high.

In that instant, without thinking, Henry lurched forward, throwing himself in front of Sophia, shielding her small form with his own body, bracing for the inevitable end.

And the Dark Reaper hesitated. The scythe stopped its descent. The fiery red glow in its empty sockets flickered, dimmed, leaving only faint pinpricks of light. It seemed confused. As if its target had vanished the moment Henry stood directly beside Sophia.

That single, impossible moment of hesitation saved them. Before the Reaper could reacquire him, a searing bolt of lightning - Zalogr's attack - struck it from behind. The red flames in its eyes flared back to life instantly. It absorbed the blow, swung its scythe in a vicious counter that wounded the General, and then, under a renewed barrage from the surviving officers, retreated back into the darkness.

He remembered turning slowly to Sophia. In that shared look, the same terrified, unspoken question passed between them: Why? Why had it ignored her? Why had it hesitated when he shielded her? It made no sense.

Henry pushed himself away from the tent wall, the harsh sunlight momentarily blinding after the dim interior and the darkness of the memory. Zalogr's scrutiny, the probing power, the veiled threats it all stemmed from that night. From the inexplicable fact of their survival.

A survival tied intrinsically to the Mystic Sense Zalogr suspected him of harbouring. He had escaped the General's direct detection today, perhaps through luck, perhaps because the Sense itself knew how to hide.

But the scrutiny wouldn't end. Zalogr would keep watching, waiting for a slip, waiting for proof.

Henry squared his shoulders, the weight of his secrets settling back upon him, heavier than ever.

He had to be more careful.

Much more careful.

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