By morning, Uncle Rodrick had—thankfully—delayed my entry into the gate by a few days. He didn’t bother explaining his sudden caution to my mother, and from the bits of his one-sided conversation I overheard through his comms-crystal, his refusal to elaborate was hilarious. At least, it was until he decided to take out his frustrations on me by switching into full Drill Instructor mode.

  This time, training was pure hell.

  I had to fire arrows while constantly on the move. Not at moving targets, no—that would have been too easy. Instead, I was the one who couldn’t stop. If I stood in place for more than seven seconds, a sharp jolt from the collar around my neck would remind me to move. If I didn’t fire an arrow within twenty seconds of relocating? Shock. If I didn’t hit the target at least once every thirty seconds? Another damn shock. The entire method was dehumanizing. I was being treated less like a trainee and more like a stubborn mule being prodded into submission.

  Worse?

  It was working.

  The target was soon littered with arrows, each one marking gradual improvements in accuracy. My form became smoother, my transitions between movement and firing more natural. I could feel the difference.

  And Fractal?

  She sat perched nearby, observing with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. She wasn’t just watching—she was studying. Every movement, every shift of my stance, every moment of hesitation. I could feel her thoughts pressing at the edges of my awareness, filled with curiosity and something else—something sharp and calculating. Was she trying to understand what I was doing? Or was she analyzing the mechanics behind it?

  I didn’t know for certain, and that uncertainty unsettled me more than the training itself.

  Eventually, Rodrick returned, pressing a button on his remote. The collar unlocked and fell inertly to the ground.

  "Good," he grunted, arms crossed. "You're learning how to shoot on the move. That'll save your life more times than you can count."

  I took the compliment for what it was worth, even as I struggled to catch my breath. The constant running, arching, drawing, aiming, and firing had drained me more than I wanted to admit. Every muscle in my body screamed. But I forced myself to steady my breathing, to push through the exhaustion.

  Because Rodrick was right.

  If I wanted to survive the path I had chosen, I couldn’t just be good at archery. I had to be flawless.

  Looking up at the pudgy man, I barely had a moment to brace myself before he pressed a firm hand onto my shoulder. His touch was deceptively gentle, almost fatherly—if not for the absolute menace lurking in his eyes.

  "From now on, you'll be running," he said, his tone far too casual for what I knew was coming. "You've been trotting. Walking. No—when I say running, I mean you'll be running while occasionally shooting back at a target."

  Curse. My. Life.

  Rodrick’s grin widened, gilded and predatory. A rabbit? No. The man was no rabbit. He was a hawk circling its prey, watching me with the same amusement a beast has before playing with its food.

  "The target?" He continued, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. "Oh, that’ll be my Machina."

  His expression was openly sadistic now, his smile no longer even pretending to be kind.

  This was going to suck.

  The moment training resumed, I understood exactly how much suck was in store for me.

  Rodrick's Machina—dubbed The Pursuer—was a four-legged monstrosity of compacted metal plates, its body resembling some hellish hybrid between a feline and a war machine. It was faster than me, more agile than me, and worst of all? It had projectiles.

  The first arrow I loosed missed completely.

  The second didn't even make it out of my bow before The Pursuer fired a mana bolt at my feet, forcing me to leap away before I was scorched.

  "Don't stop moving!" Rodrick barked from his elevated seat on the fencepost, watching as I scrambled through the training field like a rabbit being hunted. "Your shot isn’t going to matter if you get caught first! Priorities, boy! Priorities!"

  Easy for you to say!

  Every few seconds, I had to shift direction or be pounced on. Every time I managed to draw an arrow, I had half a second to aim before another blast of mana forced me to dodge. My movements were sloppy, barely controlled, my arrows flying wide, and my arms felt heavier with each passing moment.

  The Machina was relentless.

  Its feet barely touched the ground before it lunged again, cutting across the field in a blur of mechanical speed. My legs burned. My lungs were on fire. The weight of my quiver felt like a hundred bricks strapped to my back, and my fingers had grown numb from drawing and loosing arrows without pause.

  I was losing.

  I knew I was losing.

  And then—Fractal stirred.

  From her perch, she flared her wings, chirping rapidly, her thoughts pressing into mine. Speed. Flow. Adapt.

  It hit me then.

  I was thinking like a stationary archer.

  I needed to think like a moving one.

  Biting back my exhaustion, I switched my grip. Instead of stopping to aim, I let my instincts take over. I focused less on perfect form and more on feeling the motion of my own body—the way my legs carried me, the way the bow sat in my hands, the rhythm of my movements.

  Knock. Aim. Release.

  I didn’t wait for perfection. I trusted the shot.

  And the next arrow slammed right into The Pursuer’s flank.

  Rodrick whistled, impressed. "Finally caught on, did you?"

  I didn’t get a chance to respond before The Pursuer retaliated. Hard.

  The mana blast struck the ground near my feet, but instead of just dodging, I used the momentum—letting it carry me into a slide, twisting my body mid-motion, loosing another arrow mid-roll.

  This one hit The Pursuer’s leg.

  Fractal chirped again, excited. She understood now.

  I wasn’t fighting a machine.

  I was dancing with it.

  It still wasn’t pretty. My movements were rough, unrefined. I wasn’t a master, nowhere near it.

  But I was learning.

  And with each arrow that struck, I could feel something shifting—not just in me, but in Fractal. She wasn’t just observing anymore. She was calculating, her own mana sparking in response to mine, mirroring the flow.

  Rodrick finally called off The Pursuer after what felt like hours.

  I collapsed onto the dirt, gasping, my arms shaking too hard to knock another arrow. My shirt was drenched in sweat, my legs screamed with exhaustion, and my lungs burned like I had swallowed embers.

  "Good," Rodrick muttered, crouching down beside me. "Still slow. Still clunky. But you’re getting it."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I groaned. "Getting what, exactly?"

  Rodrick smirked, reaching down to haul me back to my feet. "The difference between firing an arrow and fighting with one."

  That night, I barely made it to my bed before collapsing.

  Fractal nestled against my shoulder, warm and content, but her thoughts buzzed with energy.

  She liked the training.

  She liked the challenge.

  I sighed, running a hand through my sweat-drenched hair. "You’re just as insane as he is, aren’t you?"

  She chirped. Approval.

  I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.

  Tomorrow was going to hurt.

  ***

  The next morning, after I was not forced into Danatallion’s Halls, I was met with another unexpected delight. Breakfast was... well, to call it humble would be the grandest insult imaginable. The spread before me was nothing short of magnificent. Strawberries, fennel, crisp bacon, rich cheeses, milk, and eggs in every conceivable form: scrambled, poached, sunny side up, sunny side down, and even omelets. My uncle had a platter of sausage so full it seemed to overflow. And the pastries—oh, the pastries. The smell alone was intoxicating, but the taste? Even better. Delightful. Delicious. A feast worthy of kings.

  Sitting at the table, my uncle, of course, claimed the seat at the head—a position that was always reserved for me. In front of me sat Cordelia, the maid who had attended to me the previous evening. She was my age, with soft porcelain skin that I knew also felt as slick and delicate as the material it resembled. Her long hair, straight and dark, was interwoven with strands of brown. Not a single hair was out of place. She was perfect, almost unnervingly so—like a doll, crafted with care and precision.

  “I suppose I need to get this out of the way,” my uncle began, his voice casually breaking the silence. “Cordelia, you know my nephew. Nephew, Cordelia.”

  I nodded toward her, now taking a closer look at the woman in front of me. She returned the nod with quiet grace, before lifting her fork—spearing a piece of sausage alongside some strawberry salad. As she did, I took her silence as an invitation to begin my own meal. The food, of course, was as divine as it appeared. The pastries I’d smelled earlier tasted even better. Their flakes were perfectly crunchy, yet soft at the same time. Fractal, ever the odd companion, had a few shards of obsidian at the table for herself, which she eagerly nibbled on, her joy palpable in the way her feathers shimmered.

  We ate in companionable silence for around twenty minutes, the sound of forks and knives clinking the only interruption to the otherwise peaceful breakfast. It wasn’t long, however, before my uncle’s tone shifted—his voice, once light with small talk, grew darker and more serious.

  “Alexander,” he began, his gaze now focused entirely on me, his demeanor shifting from the easygoing uncle to something far more commanding. “You’ll take the Walker examination next month. You’re ready. You’ll have your nightly excursions to increase your power for what they want. You have Fractal. You have your Machina. Still need to name it, but it needs to be upgraded first. Naming the spirit inside before it’s strengthened is a bad idea—a very bad idea, Alexander.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. There was no mistaking the seriousness now in his eyes.

  “Walkers may walk into the fire alone, but they do not walk the path into the fire in solitude. Each Walker has four people assigned to watch over them.”

  At this, I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Walkers walk alone, though. That’s even engraved on the association building. Why would they need others with them?”

  My uncle’s expression hardened. “Adjutants,” he explained. “That’s what they’re called. They enter the Otherrealm with the Walker, operating under the Walker’s authority. But they don’t share in the glory, because they’re not the ones in danger. You will be, Alexander. The Adjutants are free to leave assigned Gates at any time. They can abandon the duty the association places on the Walker. There’s no risk for them at all. They only need to find another Walker to assist. They aren’t bound by the same rules.”

  He paused, his gaze shifting to Cordelia, who sat quietly across the table. “Cordelia here—yes, she’s one of my maids. But she’s also a master of psychic abilities. Every Walker who isn’t an esper, psyker, or psychic themselves—this includes you—hires an Adjutant to protect the group from psychic attacks.”

  He let the words hang in the air for a moment, as if weighing the significance of his statement. “Your birthday was only a few days ago. Your awakening day. Your father dropped off his and your mother’s gift for you at my request. Cordelia, in many ways, is mine. We agreed after last night. She is willing to be your dedicated psyker.”

  “You never explained. Why do I need these Adjutants?” My voice faltered, cracking toward the end, and I winced in embarrassment. Still, it was enough to get my point across. “Why would I need a psyker? Walkers walk alone. If they’re just going to abandon me when things get tough, why should I rely on them at all?”

  My uncle’s eyes hardened, his expression shifting as the room seemed to grow heavier with the weight of his words. He leaned forward, his voice steady but filled with undeniable gravity.

  “You need them because you can’t do everything alone, Alexander.” He paused, letting the truth settle before continuing. “The phrase refers to the burden—the responsibility—the entirety of what it means to protect all of Demeterra from hostile Visitors. From Others. You think you can face that alone? You can’t. Not yet.”

  He stood, pacing briefly as he spoke, the seriousness of his tone cutting through the air like a sharp blade. “Even now, you lack a Skillcube. Do you realize what that means? You can't even unlock your other two mana channels. They're dormant—waiting. You’re not even close to reaching your potential. To become 1-2, you need to absorb five Dimensional abilities, two Crystal abilities, and two Nature-aligned abilities. And that’s just the beginning. Without these, you can't even access the power you need to face the trials ahead.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off, his eyes piercing mine with the intensity of someone who had seen far too many fail.

  “You think you can do everything yourself? You’ve been crushed by every single training program I’ve put you through. You’re talented, yes. I won’t deny that. You have the ability to manifest and control a Machina. That’s no small feat. But talent alone won’t get you through what’s coming.” He leaned in, his voice lowering to a dangerous, almost haunting whisper. “You’re young, Alexander. Foolish, even. You know where those Walkers end up, right? The graveyard. If they make it back at all.”

  “Young. Foolish. Brash. Brazen.” Uncle Rodrick’s voice was low, like the rumble of distant thunder, but it carried a weight that felt as though it might crush the air around us. “You are the epitome of your parents. Curious, kind, nurturing, yes, but headstrong. Stubborn. So much like them… so much like her.” His voice faltered briefly, then steadied, as if forcing the words from a place he’d buried long ago.

  He shook his head, a bitter chuckle escaping him. "I love my sister dearly, even if she insisted on marrying that fool of a husband. And don't get me started on the shears..." His hand flew up to his face in exasperation, though his shoulders sagged under the weight of his words. "How in the seven hells did she bend shears, of all things, for moons' sake?" He paused, his ears twitching and flopping in agitation, but the flicker of humor died quickly, replaced by the heaviness that lingered in his gaze.

  Rodrick’s expression darkened as his thoughts returned to the grim reality that hung between us. “I’ve seen many a Walker fail. More than I care to remember. More than I’d ever want you to know. And I’ve had the privilege of operating on the ones who didn’t die outright. Those who crawled back, broken and barely alive, their bodies torn by monsters, their minds shattered by the pressure of what they couldn’t handle.” His voice shook now, just slightly, as he swallowed the bitter lump in his throat. “That’s the price, Alexander. You don’t get to be a Walker and walk away unscathed. You don’t get to carry that title and remain the same.”

  A long silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. I wanted to speak, to say something, but I couldn’t. His words gripped me, holding me in place.

  “I’ve seen my fair share of death. More than anyone should,” Rodrick continued, his voice quieter now, but infinitely more grave. “Your mother’s seen more. She caused it, after all. There’s blood on her hands, Alexander. That’s the reality of a soldier. And that’s the reality of the Otherrealms. The realm of the Walkers. It’s a realm that demands blood. Your mother… she’s been part of it for longer than I care to admit. And she’s survived. But not unscathed. She carries the weight of every life lost, every life taken, like a shadow following her every step.”

  His shoulders hunched under the weight of his memories, and the look in his eyes deepened, like someone who had carried too many burdens for too long. "I’m an artificer, Alexander. My job is to create, to build, to invent things to make life easier, better. But I’m also a doctor. I fix what the world breaks. And that’s what it is, Alexander. A constant breaking. Every day, someone new falls to the fire. Every day, I stitch them back together, only for them to march right back into it. Again.”

  He leaned forward now, eyes locked with mine, filled with a sorrow too vast to express. “You think I want to see you walk that same path? I’ve buried too many Walkers, too many souls I couldn’t save. I’ve fixed them, stitched them back together, only to see them break again, and I’m tired, Alexander. I’m tired of seeing good people like you… die for a cause that doesn’t care whether you live or not.”

  Rodrick wiped his eyes, his hands trembling as the tears fell, unbidden. “You were the only one of your thirteen siblings to ever ask me a question that made me stop and think. That made me feel something again.” His voice cracked as the words fell from him, heavy with emotion. “You asked me, ‘Why?’ Why do the trees lose their leaves? Why do the colors fade when the seasons change?” He let out a ragged sigh, his hand falling to his lap. “It was such a simple question, Alexander. But it was free of the harshness of the world. You didn’t ask about survival, or about power, or what the future held. You just wanted to know why things change. It was... pure. And it was the only question that made me believe there was something left in this world worth saving. Something untouched.”

  He stood then, towering over me, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But, Alexander, don’t make me watch you throw that away. Don’t make me see you, bloodied and broken, on my operating table. Don’t make me have to fix you, knowing that I can’t save you once you’re there. You can shoulder the burden of responsibility. You can. But the duty... the duty is too much for any one person to bear. And it will kill you if you try.”

  His eyes were filled with something deeper than sorrow now—there was a hollow, aching sadness there. A truth he could not undo. “I’ve seen what happens to those who try to bear it all. And I won’t let that happen to you, Alexander. Not if I can stop it.”