"You want me to go where?"
Cael blinked as Doran handed him a sealed parchment stamped with the Adventurer's Guild sigil.
"Village outpost. Edge rot infestation. Standard suppression request," Doran said casually.
"I don't even have a proper sword."
"Good," Doran replied. "You won't be tempted to use your Form."
Cael squinted. "Is this because of the registration woman?"
"You're not officially trained," Doran said. "And the Form Guild has eyes. So the guild's sending you out as a 'logistics field hand.' No duels. No official combat."
"Then why send me at all?"
Doran smirked. "Because if you accidentally learn something out there, no one can stop you."
The outpost was five hours west, nestled between jagged cliffside roads and pine thickets. It didn't even have a wall—just a large wooden lodge, a few tents, and a creaky forge run by a man who looked allergic to bathing.
Cael was assigned to inventory swords.
Not wield them. Clean them. Catalogue them.
And stack crates of broken ones.
Aether:"New Task Acquired:— Identify balance flaws in discarded blades— Record shift points— Use hilt weight to replicate movement under fatigue conditionsProgress: 0 / 40"
He sighed and got to work.
It was exhausting.
And weirdly… satisfying.
With each blade, he started feeling the center of weight more clearly. His fingers stopped fumbling. His grip aligned naturally.
"Sword #22. Blade warped. Spine unstable. But it curves exactly the way my stance leans when I feint left..."
By nightfall, he could feel something new.
Not Edge.
But intention.
"You're the Null, huh?"
A voice snapped him from his thoughts.
Cael looked up—and froze.
The man was tall, gaunt, wrapped in a black cloak lined with rust-colored stitching. No visible weapon. No insignia.
But his presence was like steel left too long in fire—quiet, but dangerous.
"I saw your duel," the man said softly. "The one you didn't name."
Cael tensed. "I'm not using it."
"Shame," the man replied. "We're building a library of rogue Forms. Cultivating the ones they fear. And you're one of us, whether you like it or not."
Cael's grip on the crate tightened.
"Who are you?"
The man smiled.
"We are the Forgotten Steel.And your Form?We call it the Cut of Silence."
Cael didn't move.
The man who called himself Forgotten Steel just stood there, smiling like he'd invited him to afternoon tea instead of a secret sword cult.
"I think you've got the wrong person," Cael said.
"Do I?" The man's eyes gleamed. "Your unnamed technique disarmed a registered blade. You didn't falter. You didn't brag. You walked away."
Cael narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't make me one of you."
"No. But it makes you interesting."
The man reached into his cloak and tossed something at Cael's feet.
A wooden sword.
Weighted. Scarred. Balanced perfectly.
"We don't care about your Guild. We care about Forms born from failure, survival, and truth.Forms not named in temples or tournaments—only in blood and silence."
He gestured to the sword.
"Show me."
Cael stared at the weapon.
His instinct screamed no. But another voice whispered quieter.
Aether:"Observation Opportunity: High.Risk: Moderate.Alignment Note: Rogue practitioners often develop hybrid techniques lost to registry.Proceeding may accelerate understanding."
He hated how tempting that sounded.
Slowly, Cael stepped forward.
He didn't enter a stance. He didn't even raise the blade.
He just let his breath settle.
Feet flat.
Weight centered.
He swung.
Once.
No wind.
No Edge flash.
But the sound of the cut was different.
Like a breath held… then released too late.
The man didn't blink. Didn't smile.
He stepped forward and copied the motion, almost identically—but his cut dragged.
Cael's did not.
"…It's not just your motion," the man muttered. "It's your intent. You're not trying to defeat. You're trying to… finish."
"I'm not trying to impress anyone," Cael said.
The man's grin returned. "That's why it works."
Aether:"Edge Rhythm Updated.Prototype Form: 41% Synchronization.Hidden Trait Unlocked — Silence Cut: FlowbreakEffect: Negates opponent's follow-through tempo for 0.3 seconds."
The man offered him something wrapped in cloth. Cael hesitated—then unfolded it.
Inside was a single-edge dagger. Dull. Thin. Old.
But its grip felt right.
"Keep it," the man said. "Train with it. Let the world think you're just sweeping floors."
Cael stared down at the blade.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
The man's smile never faded.
"When they come to erase you...You won't be alone."
The dagger stayed wrapped in Cael's satchel, untouched.
He hadn't drawn it once.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he didn't trust what might happen if he did.
That night, the outpost was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the usual laughter from the trainee tents had died down.
Cael was sweeping dust from the mess tent floor—part of his "field support" duties—when he felt it.
A weight in the air.
Not a threat. Not Edge.
Something subtler.
Expectation.
Aether:"Passive edge intent detected. Radius: 14 meters. Concealed. Non-hostile posture. Identity match: 78% — Rikar of Forgotten Steel."
Cael didn't flinch. "Why is he back?"
"Unknown. Possibility: Observation. Invitation. Or correction."
The tent flap lifted.
Rikar—the same cloaked figure from before—stepped in. This time, he wasn't alone.
A younger girl followed him. Short-cropped black hair. Sleeveless leathers. Thin dueling blade at her hip.
"Cael," Rikar said. "Meet Kess. She's new to our line. But she's working on a fragment of her own."
Cael straightened. "Why are you here?"
Kess smirked. "To test you."
"I didn't agree to anything."
"She's not here to fight you," Rikar said. "She wants to learn your movement."
"I haven't even named it."
"Exactly." He stepped closer. "And that makes it safer. For now."
Kess drew her blade.
No flare. No flash. Just clean steel.
"I'll swing," she said. "You try to stop me—without your Form."
Cael hesitated.
Aether:"Warning: Intent tracking engaged. Subject Kess displays acceleration pattern unfamiliar to local dueling records.Suggested task: Counter without using edge pulse. Engage base motion only."
He stepped forward.
Took a breath.
And nodded.
She struck.
Her blade was fast—much faster than Rannick's. Cleaner, too. No wasted motion.
He barely blocked.
She pivoted.
His shoulder flared with pain as her reverse slash clipped his collarbone.
"Failing," Aether said dryly.
"I noticed!"
He staggered back.
"Again," she said.
The second time, he anticipated the lunge—ducked under it, turned… and his hand twitched.
He felt it.
The old rhythm.
His Form wanted to activate.
He gritted his teeth and denied it.
His blade met hers again—barely deflecting it.
Not with a technique.
With intention.
Kess grinned.
"Not bad. You're holding it back."
"I said I wouldn't use it."
"You should," she said. "Or you'll lose the right to own it."
Cael exhaled slowly.
Then froze.
Outside, torches flared to life.
Footsteps. Dozens.
Voices.
"That tent—search it!"
A new voice barked across the outpost:
"Form Registry! Step outside immediately! We have a warrant!"
"Form Registry!"
The voice slammed through the night like a war horn.
Outside the tent, torchlight painted the dirt red.
Kess froze, blade half-lowered. Rikar's expression didn't change—but his eyes narrowed.
Cael stayed very, very still.
Aether:"Tactical options:
Exit and comply.
Escape with cover of darkness.
Activate partial Edge form.Risk assessment: All options carry political consequence."
Rikar stepped beside Cael. "You have ten seconds to decide."
"I'm not running," Cael said.
"You should."
"They'll track me anyway. If I run, I become a rogue. Officially."
Kess sheathed her blade.
"You already are," she said.
Outside, boots pounded closer.
Cael stepped out of the tent into a wall of steel.
Six armored officials. All bearing the Registry's crest: a chained sword wrapped in parchment.
One of them—a stern woman with a braided scar over her brow—stepped forward.
"Cael of the outpost crew?"
"That's me."
"You're under investigation for unlicensed Form usage. You are to be detained for questioning. Noncompliance will be treated as threat-level activation."
Cael looked down at his hands.
Empty.
He hadn't drawn a blade.
Hadn't cut anything.
And yet… here they were.
Aether:"Suggested response: Minimal compliance. Emotional control.Note: One target's Edge pressure is unstable."
Cael looked up.
The youngest of the six officers had a twitch in his grip. A barely-suppressed pulse of Edge aura danced along his sheath.
He was itching to fight.
Waiting for a reason.
"Cael," the lead officer said, "if you resist, it will be taken as confirmation that you possess a hostile Form. That is punishable by permanent sealing."
Rikar's voice echoed from the tent behind.
"Sealing is worse than death."
Cael didn't move.
He could feel it now. The weight of his unnamed Form pressing against his bones.Wanting to come out.To speak for him.
To cut through everything.
But he said nothing.
Just… breathed.
Then extended his hands.
"I'll go," he said.
The officer raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"Good. For your sake, I hope you're as harmless as they say."
Aether:"Compliance complete.Marked as 'Passive Hostile' by Form Registry.Internal tracking activated.Task update: Survive interrogation without exposure."
As Cael was shackled and marched away, a soft wind carried Rikar's final whisper.
"Don't break.Your sword hasn't sung yet.But when it does… the world will listen."