First Form

By the time the Master of Sword and Young Master Altair had returned to the main campus, a large crowd had gathered, from slaves to servants to ladies of wait and more. Each of them carried a myriad of expressions: some appeared joyous that the Revened Lady, whose beauty was said to dim the beauty of the world around her. Others carried scornful looks that dipped into seething hate. While some appeared envious unable to hold in the excitement of catching a glance of the woman who controlled over fourteen sectors.

'Why is everyone gathered?' Altair thought, glancing back at his stalker. 'And how long is he going to follow me? No one bullies Mama and gets away with it! Don't think you can just act nice to me, and all is forgiven!'

Anger festered for a lingering moment but trickled little by little as the Master of Swords' words once more resounded through his subconscious. He looked ahead, his childlike likeness fading, leaving only the bearing of a Young Lord. His large eyes narrowed, growing piercingly sharp, while his cheeks seemed to thin. And while the change wasn't noticeable to most, Altair knew this false mask was necessary.

The innocent child that had fallen into his mother's arms had vanished.

'This child…' the Master of swords said to himself. 'I guess he can only be himself with his mother. Were we too cruel? Was I too blinded by the fact that he was an outsider? If the boy can control himself to such a level. He'd make a great ally. And it's better to have an ally than an enemy: Weak or strong.'

The inner working of the Master of Sword swirled, connecting various plans for the coming years.

"Tell me, boy, do you wish for power?" He asked, drawing Altair's keen eye. He smiled inwardly, rustling his hair. " Then you are in the right place. Give us a chance."

The cascading crisp summer winds whisked through the air with the coming of Fall. Silence rang louder than any voice. And the hue in Altair's eyes deepened the longer his mind spun. He turned away, leaving no clear answer. But Veltos could feel his desire.

He chuckled, following behind toward the training ground.

Arriving just before class started, Altair readied himself by grabbing his weapon as he'd done daily but was stopped, " Grab a G-Weapon. Your skill needs to be challenged." Veltos remarked, making his way toward the head of the small formation of children. He watched Altair shock and resisted the urge to smile as he thought: Still but a child in the end, one too young to carry such a mask.

A childish smile inched over the Young Master's starry face at the sight of the G-Weapon, tools reserved for Awakeners. He reached up, tiptoeing to the dark shortsword with jitters in his actions.

'It's so light!' He thought, disturbed by the balance that seemed counterintuitive. The blade wasn't sharp, but it had length. Just about the same length as a normal longsword, but it was half its weight.

"With the defeat of Lavos Aros, fifth son of the Brigadier General: I, who carry the authority of the Duke, hereby invite Altair to the Awakener Class. No more will he join the Unawaken routine!"

Altair got into formation, the astonishment shattering the mask he carried.

"NOW! Unawaken! Twenty Laps! Eighty Sword Dances and lightweight conditioning. Move out!" The Master of Sword barked his command, glaring at those who scurried away at a moment's notice. He began again. " Awakeners, you will begin your Sword Dance for half an hour."

'A sword dance, huh.' Altair mused, not hearing himself speak. He parted his feet and thought of the First of Seven Forms of Grave of Night, Shadow Blade. His mother had instilled all the mechanics in his swordsmanship from the tender age of two, and he had been training the first Form ever since having memorized the rest.

He sucked in a breath, and the light within his obsidian gaze fell into darkness. His blade elegantly whisked and whirled into arcs of semi-circles. As if an invisible sphere had gathered around him, Altair stepped forward, his domain slowly expanding and contracting, spirling the flow of the winds around him. Each stroke of his blade, each thrust, and riposte seemed to capture the ethereal nature of the world around him.

Control gathered within the Young Altair's mind. With each swing of his blade, he could feel the G-Weapon would grow heavier. He could feel it was almost twelve pounds and rising, but the swiftness of his blade never waned. Grave of Night: Shadow Blade was a Form of Pure Control, unlike many other forms that added destructive elements. It focused on controlling everything around him.

'If the winds are too strong, I shall be the winds themselves. If the sun burns my skin, my blade shall gather its cruel flame! If my weapon is too heavy! so too, shall my blade carry the weight of the world!" He thought, no longer using his entire wrist to control the blade but rather the entirety of his body, retaining the same swiftness and power.

Sweat whipped over the young Altair's exquisite features, turning many of the young ladies' cheeks flushed. They stared at the smiling Young Master. Many of them never holding the honor of witnessing his grin.

'What a monster!' The Master of Swords told himself, shaken by the level of elegance. He stood, unable to pull his gaze away. 'It's as though the boy's sword was shadowing the world around him. What type of… no, what rank technique is that? I don't know if I can wait for him to awaken his System.

Veltos was so caught up in Altair's Shadow Blade Dance; he'd not even felt the chilling presence of the Reverend Mother and her little guest clinging to the Reverend's Mother's finger.

Masks of white porcelain covered their faces, revealing nothing but similar snow-white tailcoats, vests, and trousers, the jet-black hair of the Reverend Mother, and the Snow White of the female child.

The Reverend Mother stared at the young Altair, a seriousness in her gaze.

"Master… His blood… He doesn't seem human." The young child pointed out. Her tone was somewhat confused. 'But it smells good, though."

"Oh?" The Reverend Mother hummed, drawing near as the Head Knight, Flinn Aros, watched on with cool eyes from a distance, his gaze surveying the perimeter and settled on Altair. A hint of a smile rose.

"Reverend Mother, I—"

She raised her hand, pausing Veltos words, and stared at the boy so lost in his dance. She stood silently by the Master of Swords for a few seconds before offering her words: "Veltos, that boy, is he yours? He doesn't seem registered."

The Master of Swords bowed. " He's not one of ours. He's an outsider."

"Yet he training with the Awakeners? That is quite a talent." She chuckled, continuing. " How old?"

"Nine."

"Race?"

"Human."

"Parents?"

"One."

"Last question: What Genetic Line?" The Reverend Mother asked, her voice so sharp it felt like a blade against the Master of Swords' neck.

He quivered, his bow sinking deep. "As far as we can tell. He has none."

And the Reverend Mother thought: 'How? No. That doesn't make sense. We've kept a close eye on Earth. And have regulated what type of Genetics are given. Nothing above Seventh Tier was granted. Should I scan him? But the brat isn't mine. Did he step out From Babel Tower or a Lower Tier Dungeon? I heard on the fiftieth floor exists a universe onto itself.' She frowned beneath her masked, narrowing her lashes. And spoke: Syris, are you interested in a little match?

The little girl turned to the Reverend Mother. "Full power?"

"Draw Blood."