Soren stood before the sink.

Water rushed over his hands. It was cold and relentless, carrying thin rivers of red into the drain.

He watched it swirl away, vanish into nothing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

But the blood did not leave.

Handler's scream burned in his ears.

Flames crawling up a wall.

Skin blistering.

The man clawing at his face, begging, while fire devoured him alive.

Soren shut his eyes. But it was not over.

Ratler came next.

The rush of movement.

The sound of his end — not a crack, not a snap — but something wet and final.

The man's chest collapsing inward.

Blood spraying his arm.

Then Slacker.

There was no scream.

And there was no struggle.

Only a long breath… Guilty eyes staring at him.

And a body falling.

Soren's hands began to tremble.

He pressed them harder beneath the running water, scrubbing until his skin reddened, until it stung.

He wanted the water wash it clean, wash the memory, the guilt. The blood in his mind.

Still, the images remained.

Soren lifted his head slowly. And His reflection stared back at him. The mirror showed a stranger.

His usually tan skin looked pale.

Eyes sunken, rimmed red.

Blood no longer on his fingers — but still in his gaze.

For a moment, he simply stared at himself.

Then—

His fist moved.

CRACK.

The wall dented beneath the blow.

Pain shot through his knuckles, sharp and grounding.

Soren welcomed it. No. He deserved it.

He believed he did.

His breath hitched.

Once.

Twice.

And then the tears came. They were silent at first.

Then heavier.

They slid down his cheeks, dripping into the porcelain sink as his shoulders trembled, as his lips quivered against a sob he refused to let escape.

Even though he cried for the dead. He also cried for himself.

For what he had become.

For what he could never undo.

…

When he was done, the sink was clean.

So were his hands.

He washed his face and changed his clothes.

The coat remained black. And the trousers, the same.

Only the shirt beneath had changed — deep blue, pressed neatly against his chest, as if color alone could remind him he was still human.

When Soren stepped into the waiting room, he stopped.

Someone was already there waiting.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and standing with his back to the door.

A blue tunic fell cleanly along the man's frame, marked with subtle silver stitching. Black hair, fine and carefully kept, brushed just past his collar.

The man turned.

An elegant white handkerchief covered the lower half of his face, though it did little to hide the sharp line of his jaw, the straight nose, or the calm, penetrating eyes that studied Soren with quiet intensity.

Major Boyed.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he spoke, his voice smooth and measured.

"I was supposed to see you tomorrow. But you insisted on today."

Soren nodded.

He hesitated — only a fraction of a second.

Then said quietly,

"Please… tell me everything you know about the Waterfells."

The night was long and deep. But despite everything Boyed told him, Soren discovered the man knew only so much.

Nevertheless, what he knew, Soren absorbed.

Apparently, Boyed owed the Waterfell family a debt. One of them had saved his family, and he had never forgotten the favor.

It was for this reason that Boyed had gone out of his way to save Soren.

However, Soren discovered that regardless of the evidence that was presented during his court trial, Soren's identity was not truly known.

The Waterfell family did not even have DNA results in the Empire's database.

And it was not that the Empire could not obtain it, but that it was forbidden by law.

For some reason, anything concerning the Waterfell family seemed to be veiled.

However, there were two things aside from their legends, serving as evidence of their existence.

The first was the last Soul Mecha ever piloted by one.

Its battle prowess is said to be the best in the last two decades.

And this is regardless of the technological advancement since then.

This Soul Mecha remains in the custody of the emperor.

No one has access to it but him. If Soren wanted it, he would need the emperor's seal.

That was not an easy man to meet. Even his own children have only seen him once.

The day they were born.

Other than that. He does appear during special occasions. Like the anointing of new soul mecha pilots.

Then again, because of the unique nature of Soul Mechas, and their inability to have not more than one pilot throughout their lifetime, not many have their attention on the Soul Mecha piloted by a waterfell.

The second was the family Graveyard.

While it was well guarded by the military of the empire, there was practically no need for that.

This graveyard somehow falls in between two interconnected soul energy Ley lines.

No one can get to it.

Rumours say the conditions for entry are as follows.

Firstly, one must be a Waterfell, no doubt.

Secondly, one must have at least achieved the 3rd Form.

And lastly, a worthy offering.

Soren frowned a bit. Especially because that last one was too vague.

What exactly was considered a worthy offering?

Soren could tell that Boyed did not know the answer himself.

Also, for a very secretive family, the conditions to enter the graveyard seem well-known.

It was almost as if they were inviting him to come.

"So all I need to do is attend the academy and reach the 3rd Form."

Soren nodded in understanding. He leaned into the backrest.

A concentrated look on his face.

"I'll do it," Soren stated. "I'll attend the academy."

"I never doubted that," Boyed replied.

"But... if you don't mind, there is a favor I'd like you to do for me."

"Favor?" Boyed raised a brow.

"I won't be going there alone."

Soren had barely finished talking before a huge person the size of a boulder walked into the room.

She still had bandages covering her head, but she moved with precision—standing behind Soren.

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