Chapter 12: Whispers in the Vein
The moon hung low above the cliffs of Valenridge, its pale glow illuminating the obsidian walls of the Valen estate. The estate's towers cut jagged shapes against the night, and the thick forest that bordered the cliffside rustled with the hushed movements of nocturnal predators. Deep beneath the surface, in the catacombs no noble dared tread, Ethan sat cross-legged in a circle of runes burning with faint golden light.
He exhaled.
The mana in the chamber swirled around him like a storm caught in a bottle—erratic, resisting, yet drawn to the strange hum of the energy laced within his veins. He had spent the last three days delving into the sealed library beneath the Valen estate, absorbing knowledge like a man dying of thirst. Books in forgotten languages, diagrams of mana circuits, records of failed cultivation techniques. Most would take years to comprehend them. Ethan, of course, had done it in days.
The evolution of his body had stabilized. For now. But his energy—his true energy—still defied explanation.
"It's not mana," he muttered to himself, watching a golden tendril rise from his forearm, whip through the air, and fade. "It's not even Aether."
It obeyed no rules. It had no affinity, yet mimicked all. It moved with his thoughts. It did not drain him, nor did it replenish like mana. It simply was. And the more he used it, the more he became it.
He reached to the side and picked up a jagged obsidian shard—one of the enchanted relics used by the ancient Elves to store traces of Divine energy. When Ethan had first touched it, it nearly shattered from a simple pulse of his energy.
Now, he pressed it to his wrist.
The shard exploded in dust.
"Hmph," he smirked. "So Divine-class vessels can't even contain it…"
"Ethan."
The voice echoed from the stairwell above.
He didn't flinch.
It was Layra Valen—the Viscount's daughter and the closest thing Ethan had to a tutor in this world. Older than him by eight years, with flowing dark auburn hair, piercing emerald eyes, and a body that had matured to rival the highest courtesans of the Empire, Layra was a trained mage and heir to House Valen. But unlike the others, she had always been curious about Ethan. Too curious.
"You were supposed to meet with the elven envoy tonight."
Ethan's golden eyes flicked toward her. "He can wait. My cultivation can't."
She stepped into the room, her gown trailing behind her like liquid silk. The runes on the floor flickered at her approach, dimming slightly—as if reacting to her presence.
"You're reckless," she said, folding her arms beneath her ample chest. "Father says the elf from Emerald won't be pleased with our delays. He already thinks our house is weak."
Ethan stood. Taller now, broader than a month ago. His frame had grown back quickly. He no longer looked like the helpless child she once found in the woods.
"Then let him be displeased," he said coolly. "A house that bows too easily might as well not exist."
"You're not a Valen," she replied sharply. "You don't speak for us."
He stepped forward. The golden glow in his eyes shimmered.
"No," he said, "but I will. Soon."
Layra's breath hitched.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was something else. Something that had begun to grow the longer she spent near him. She hated how his presence commanded her attention. How her mind wandered when she looked at his lips. How her body betrayed her thoughts when he touched her during training.
He was younger.
He was dangerous.
And she was drawn to him.
"Don't make me regret bringing you back," she said, softer now. "We're not safe, Ethan. This house… it's under pressure from the kingdom. The Elves sniffing around are just the start."
"I am the pressure," he whispered.
Layra's cheeks flushed, and she turned away, retreating up the stairs.
As her footsteps faded, Ethan turned back to the circle.
"I need more," he murmured.
More cultivation. More answers. More power.
—
Two nights later, Ethan stood in the northern courtyard where the envoy was waiting.
He was an elf.
Tall, lithe, with silver-blond hair braided down to his chest, and eyes like polished sapphire. His skin glowed with the natural luster of Emerald-blooded Elves, and he wore robes of woven mana-thread that shimmered in the night.
"Ethan Walker," the elf said, his voice smooth. "You're the anomaly."
"I've been called worse."
The elf raised a brow. "You bear no crest, no noble lineage. Yet the mana of this entire estate flows toward you, even when you sleep. That's not natural. Nor is it safe."
Ethan tilted his head. "Then perhaps you should leave."
The elf smiled.
"Not until I've made my assessment. There are rumors in Emerald—rumors of a boy on Earth who has awakened with energy not of this world. The Empress herself took interest."
Ethan's smile vanished.
"Empress Eliryana sent you?"
"No," the elf said. "She sent someone far more dangerous."
At that, the courtyard exploded in wind.
A figure appeared behind the elf. Not teleported. Not flown. Simply appeared.
She was tall—taller than any woman Ethan had seen. Slender and lethal, with silver armor molded to fit her curves like a second skin. Her hair was platinum-white, her skin flawless, her ears long and adorned with crystalline piercings. But what caught Ethan's gaze were her eyes:
They were gold.
Like his.
"I am General Alithra Serayne," she said. "Hand of the Empress. And you…" she looked him up and down, "are what remains of a world that should have died."
He didn't speak.
She stepped forward.
"Your energy disrupted Emerald's flow readings. We believed it to be a mana distortion. But it's something else. Something older. You are either a threat to the hierarchy of this galaxy—or a miracle sent by the roots of the Aether Tree itself."
"I'm neither," Ethan said. "I'm just tired of being underestimated."
She smiled. It wasn't kind.
"Prove it."
She vanished.
Ethan's instincts screamed.
He spun, ducked—and her blade missed his throat by inches. He pivoted, energy surging from his palm. Golden light erupted, striking her midair. She twisted, deflecting the blast with a gauntleted forearm and landed effortlessly on the cobblestones.
The elf envoy stepped back, wide-eyed. "You— You attacked a Hand of the Empress!"
"She attacked me," Ethan growled.
Alithra narrowed her eyes.
"That energy… It's reacting to mine."
She slashed again. Ethan blocked it with his forearm—and to both their shock, her Divine-enhanced blade cracked on impact.
Ethan's eyes glowed.
"It evolves," he whispered. "Every fight makes it stronger."
Alithra stepped back, lowering her weapon. Her gaze had changed. Not fear. Not awe.
Curiosity.
"This planet… may not be as useless as we thought."
And then she was gone.
The envoy remained behind, trembling.
Ethan turned to him.
"Tell your Empress," he said. "Tell her I'm not done growing."
The elf vanished.
And Ethan was alone again.
But not for long.
—
Later that night, Layra found him back in the catacombs. She didn't speak as she walked toward him. Didn't ask questions.
She stood before him, eyes dark.
"You fought her."
"Yes."
"You survived."
"Yes."
She stepped closer. Her hand reached up to touch his chest, where his heart beat with quiet thunder.
"I don't know what you are," she said. "But I know I can't stop thinking about you."
Ethan stared at her. At the curve of her lips. At the hunger in her gaze. She was beautiful. Experienced. Dangerous.
Older.
His weakness.
"You should leave," he said hoarsely.
She didn't.
She kissed him.
And for the first time since awakening, Ethan surrendered—not to pain, not to evolution, but to the primal heat of want.
The storm within him stirred.
And the Supreme Universe shivered.