The dining hall was alive with tired laughter, the scrape of spoons against metal bowls, and the low hum of recruits easing into their evening meal. Long wooden tables stretched from wall to wall, and lantern light flickered against the stone. In one of the back corners, a trio sat close together, Kael, Liane, and Ren ,among the dozens of others in their division. Yet even here, Kael seemed isolated, sitting straight-backed, eyes locked on nothing in particular.
Steam curled from his untouched stew. He stirred it absently, not tasting, not even looking down.
He was thinking—sharply, surgically—mapping out the problem like he had done with countless others. But this one required something more than analysis. This one demanded presence.
Captain Drachmour. A man who didn't waste time, didn't linger in crowds, and had no tolerance for mediocrity. If Kael wanted his attention, subtlety wouldn't cut it. He would need to orchestrate something undeniable.
"I can't wait to be found. I have to give him something he can't ignore. Something he can't dismiss as coincidence."
Across the table, Ren leaned in slightly, pushing his empty bowl away.
"Still thinking about Drachmour?" Ren asked, eyes flicking to Kael's untouched bowl. "You've… probably got a plan already, huh?"
Liane's eyes flicked to Kael. She looked like she wanted to say something,but didn't.
Kael didn't blink. Didn't respond.
Ren waited a second longer, then let the silence speak for itself.
Kael stood, pushing the bench back with calm precision. His eyes never met Ren's.
"I'll see you later," he said softly, almost to himself.
He left the hall and disappeared into the corridor's shadows.
---
[Chapter 10 – Continued]
This wasn't improvisation. It was movement by design.
Kael stepped into the darkness near the training barracks and didn't stop walking. The moment he crossed into the gardened corridor between divisions, his presence bent—barely. Not visibly. Not loudly. But to every surveillance ward and spirit-based sensor, he became no one of interest.
No mask. No costume.
Still Kael.
But reality politely stepped aside for him.
The Research Division's western annex housed the oldest records—cold cases, classified files, evidence from operations so volatile they were removed from the regular system. The annex was sealed to all recruits, guarded by three layers of arcane security, and patrolled once every twelve minutes.
Kael didn't break through the locks.
They simply never registered that he existed.
His boots left no echo on the marble as he descended the stairwell beneath the main study hall. He passed the alarm glyphs carved into the stone without pause. The invisible tendrils of magical detection brushed against his form, but they couldn't settle. He didn't resist them.
Inside the restricted archive, it was quiet. Cold. A lantern flame flickered inside a glass case at the center of the chamber—powered by old binding magic. Stone shelves, arranged in concentric circles, held parchment scrolls, sealed envelopes, and dark steel rings etched with runes.
Kael moved to the second ring. A small label:
"Confirmed: Rank S and above – Closed Cases, Dormant Threats."
This is what he needed.
He passed over a scroll bound in silver thread: Aural Splitter, mind fracture cases.
He ignored a sealed ring labeled: Entity: Lark 17, presumed non-human.
Then paused.
RAVOX – Known as "The Grin of Thorns"
Execution Ordered: Delayed
Status: Unknown
Last seen: Lower wards, abandoned district south of the Ashford Drainage Line.
He skimmed it, but kept moving.
Ravox was dangerous. But not the right danger.
Kael needed something that would signal tactical defiance, not savagery.
His hand stopped again.
A file sealed in wax, the mark faded:
"Cairne Volst – Strategic Breach, Disavowed Operative."
Kael drew the file.
Within: sketches, maps, cryptic annotations. Volst had been part of an elite group before turning against the crown during a border collapse. He had vanished after crippling an entire battalion using only urban manipulation and targeted misdirection. Never recaptured.
Tactical sabotage. High-level risk. Political embarrassment.
Kael's mind worked fast.
If he brought down Volst, it wouldn't be seen as a personal attack.
It would be seen as a message.
An operator who targets the untouchable. Who finishes what the kingdom couldn't.
That would be enough to pull eyes from the upper command.
That would be enough to draw Drachmour.
He closed the file.
Now, he had to think about appearance. The look. The feel of the next strike.
He couldn't look like chaos.
He had to look like a corrective force. Intentional. Unseen. Unstoppable.
Kael stood motionless in the dark.
His mind drew the image:
Him appearing not with drama—but with inevitability. No posturing. No roar. Just precision.
Just presence.
---
Kael didn't move yet.
In the dark, his eyes were half-lidded, not from tiredness—but from calculation.
He had the target. Now he needed the message.
And that meant deciding the mask.
"If I want to draw Captain Drachmour's attention, it can't be as myself. Not as Kael, the wind-affinity recruit. I need to become something else—something people will whisper about. A myth that steps out of the shadows, leaves a mark, and vanishes.
I'll need to hide my face... but not completely."
A mask—half of it. Just enough to keep them guessing, but not enough to look like he was afraid.
"Black. Always Black.
But not empty black. A single red line across the mask—bold, clean. Let it remind them of danger. Power."
For his eyes he went for red.
"Let them see the red, burn the image into their memory. No one else has eyes like mine."
No head cover, he was not here to erase himself. Just to reshape the way they saw him.
"Now the cloak. Something light enough to move in. Long. It needs to move like a shadow when I move"
Black still had to be the color of his choosing but not plain.
"I'll thread red through it. Thin, sharp lines. Quiet signs of power,not shouting, but humming underneath. Like veins holding something volatile."
"And here,"he touched the left side of his chest,his symbol. Something simple. Sharp. Red
This form... this name...
It won't be Kael who walks the night.
It'll be Noctis.
This wasn't intimidation by force.
It was psychological engineering.
By the time anyone laid eyes on Noctis… they'd already lost the first battle.
And Captain Drachmour?
He wouldn't just notice.
He'd start watching.