• The One Who Was Ordinary

Sitting there, cross-legged, Deremiah made sure to be careful of his play here. First of all, he certainly was not going to tell them about his Path being the one of Void, which in turn meant he couldn't tell them his primary Technique.

There were numerous reasons for that, but Deremiah focused on the main three: First; he had a One Mark potential, meaning it was virtually impossible for him to be assigned to a Void Path. They simply wouldn't believe him.

Second; if they did believe him, the dynamics presently at play were going to shift. Deremiah would be targeted, and killing him would grant them some efficient reward that could help them survive the Gates.

Third; it was obvious that his presence here was assisted by the fact that they presumed him to be a weak, ordinary, One-Marked slummer. But if he revealed that his Path's Threat Level was [15], he would be gone by the following second.

Alfis would make sure of it. Typically, participants wanted their Threat Level going down not up.

His gaze lingered on the others for a moment, then he lowered it and sighed. The decision was clear, and Deremiah had no choice but to lie.

It was still early days inside the Gates and Deremiah was resolute on the decision that no one could know his properties.

No one could know his Path was as dangerous as the Void energy itself, or that the Writhe of Command — a Technique he couldn't remember creating — was as ominous as it was complex. Not even the group sitting before him.

Besides, his present plan to survive the Gates was to glue himself to every high potential participant, and then ditch them once he saw they were about to die.

So until he thought otherwise, for now, Deremiah believed he was safer with the nobles and wanted to keep it that way.

He cleared his throat, eyes on the ground. "My Path has a Threat Level of [4], and as for my Technique, it's called Mental Gravity. It uh... I can move things using my mind."

No he couldn't. He had just made that up. On the spot.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence after that. Deremiah wasn't sure why, but they were all staring at him with unappealed expressions like he was a clown in a circus that refused to dance. They were... disappointed?

The silence was broken by Mist's voice. "Is that it?" she asked, sounding mildly but very clearly disappointed.

Faya giggled. "Yeah, that's it?"

"What do you mean move objects?" Alfis asked, hoping there was more to learn. "Move something."

"Uh..." Aeric was about to smartly refuse, knowing that his lie could be discovered, but an idea struck him and he extended his hand towards his sword in front of him.

"I'm not very good at it, but I will try."

The group leaned in, curious to see.

Controlling his will, he ushered the energy of Void to summon the Writhe of Command, however, when the liquid surged through his veins, Deremiah made sure they remained within his palm, ensuring it didn't extend beyond his skin.

Then, he commanded the sword to lift and come to his open palm. Fortunately for Deremiah, the weapon obeyed his command and slowly rose to the air, floating in an invisible river before it then moved to his hand.

He clenched his fingers around it and finished his display with a sigh of relief.

Silence again. The nobles all exchanged glances. Alfis leaned back, and crossed his arms. "I must say, that was pretty lame."

Mist grinned, giving Deremiah a taunting smile. "I thought you were going to surprise us, Deremiah. Prove us wrong for underestimating you."

Faya added, "Yeah, that was quite normal. Pretty boring, if you ask me."

Deremiah's laugh came out a bit too nervously, and he scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, uh… that's me. Normal and boring."

Internally, however, Deremiah was completely ecstatic. Not only had he been able to solidify his lie by using his actual Technique, but he had learnt something new about how the Technique really worked.

He looked down at the silver blade. 'So I really do have control over this damn thing.'

He lifted his eyes from his sword and his gaze caught Pallock's. The fat boy was staring at him, eyes wide, but as soon as their gazes locked, Pallock quickly looked away.

Deremiah frowned. 'What is wrong with that guy? He looks at me like I'm the reaper.'

Alfis made a joke that Deremiah didn't hear, but it was Mist's voice as she ended their conversations that drew him out of his thoughts.

"Well, seems like you're taking me up on my offer after all, Deremiah." She stood, brushing the grass from her legs. "We must get some sleep now. Waking up early tomorrow is vital."

Without another word, everyone followed her order and began to settle down, finding soft patches of grass to sleep on.

It was a full night by this time. The air was cool, and the fire's crackling warmth filled the quiet night. Deremiah searched left and right for a good spot, watching as Alfis and Faya found theirs.

Noticing this, Mist called to him from a few paces away, pointing to a spot beside her. "Over here," she said.

Deremiah walked slowly towards her and then hesitated when he saw where she was pointing at, a furrow between his brows.

'She's really asking me to sleep beside her. When did girls ever start being this… direct?'

Mist smiled at his hesitation. "You're fence-sitting. Why?"

Deremiah bit his lip, not wanting to refuse, but not entirely certain of her intentions. "Are you sure?" he asked cautiously.

She smiled wider. "Of course I'm sure, Deremiah. You must stay close to me at all times. How else will I protect you?"

That being a fair point plus to the spot looking very comfortable led Deremiah to agree. Slowly, he placed his sword in between them both and he lay down beside her. Mist followed suit, lying down as well, her eyes still sharp as she faced him.

They were lying face to face, and Mist continued to assess Deremiah with her gaze, as if searching for something deeper.

Trying to play it cool, Deremiah listened to the fire crackling in the background and the faint rustle of the wind stirring the spare leaves above them.

Everyone else was bundled up and ready to doze off. So the silence between them stretched on, thick with the awkward tension that neither seemed willing to break.

Deremiah was just about to escape the tension by turning his head the other way, when Mist whispered to him.

"You know, I don't think you were entirely honest with us, Deremiah," she said softly. "Especially if you have a sword like that."

His heart sank. "What?" he asked with a tightened throat. "I am. I am... being honest. Don't mind the sword. It's... it's not... mine."

"How did you get it then?"

"I stole it," he answered quickly, "from a WaveKnight back in the Main Barracks. I didn't earn it, I didn't buy it. I stole it in a fit of desperation. I'm just... an ordinary guy."

Mist leaned in closely, making Deremiah fear that she was about to kiss him. "Ordinary? A guy with silver hair and…purple eyes? There is nothing ordinary about that."

He froze, forcing himself to keep his reaction under control as he managed a wry smile.

"Well then. Good night. We have a day ahead of ourselves tomorrow."

Quiet and still, he watched as Mist, still assessing him, eventually closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Instantly, he burst into frantic action, reaching for his sword.

'Purple eyes? What the hell was she talking about? Deremiah didn't have purple eyes.'

Grabbing the sword's hilt, he held it up, using the firelight to catch his reflection. Then, he caught a glimpse of his eyes and registered the color.

It was purple.

Deremiah's brows furrowed. 'What the fuck?'