Chapter 43: Aetherman Begins
Iskander Briand
The sea of silk, jewels, and carefully curated expressions continued to swell around me, a churning current of Alacrya's elite.
Each polite nod, each vacuous exchange was another layer of grime on my soul. I was playing a part, yes, building the legend of Iskander Briand, but the costume was beginning to feel less like a disguise and more like a shroud.
I was drowning in their casual, unthinking privilege, in the way they discussed a war of conquest as if it were a slightly distasteful but ultimately profitable business venture.
Then, I saw it—a familiar head of olive-green hair moving through the crowd with a grace that was both effortless and deeply reluctant. Sevren. Even here, amidst this grotesque pageant, he carried an air of detached curiosity, as if he were an anthropologist studying a bizarre tribal ritual.
He navigated the throng with a surprising, almost ironic courtesy, his movements economical, avoiding conversation with a skill that spoke of a lifetime of practice.
A genuine smile, the first all evening, touched my lips. Here was an anchor in this storm of falsehood. I moved, the crowd seeming to part more from my newfound status as Seris's pet project than from any conscious effort on my part, and arrived silently behind my dear friend.
"Heir Denoir," I called, my voice adopting the polished, slightly aloof tone I'd been practicing. "It's a pleasure to see you."
I saw the muscles in his shoulders tense immediately, a subtle flinch he quickly suppressed. He turned, his eyes still closed, a practiced, diplomatic smile already fixed on his face—the mask of the perfect noble son.
He opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver some bland, formulaic pleasantry, but the words died in his throat as his eyes opened and landed on me. The smile froze, then fractured into pure, unadulterated shock.
"Isk—Highlord Briand?" he stammered, the formality a brittle shell over his confusion. "To what do I owe the pleasure of talking with you?"
His recovery was swift, too perfect. A part of me, a petty, human part, had hoped for a more satisfyingly flustered reaction, for a crack in his composure that would prove our friendship was real, even here.
'Are you sad because you didn't embarrass your friend in front of all the people gathered here, Child?' Sylvia's voice chimed in my mind, a mixture of amusement and gentle chastisement.
Perhaps… I admitted silently. To Sevren, I said, my voice dropping its aristocratic sheen just a fraction, "I just wanted to see a dear friend, Heir Denoir."
The words were a risk, but a calculated one. Even if our first meeting in the Relictombs had to remain our secret, the connection between us was real. Sevren Denoir was the first true friend I'd made in either of my lives.
In a world of shifting identities—Iskander Hyperion, the reincarnate; Aetherman, the nascent vigilante; Highlord Briand, the political puppet—he was a constant.
He was more important than any delusional dream of justice, more real than any title.
"Seeing you here is surprising, Iskander," Sevren said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur that was swallowed by the room's din. "Especially after half of Alacrya's nobility saw you accompany Scythe Seris... I would have never expected this from you."
"I can say the same thing about you," I countered, a note of genuine amusement returning to my voice. "I didn't expect you to be such a refined nobleman, Heir Denoir."
We were two impostors in a den of vipers, both playing roles dictated by blood and circumstance. But the stakes of our performances were vastly different. Sevren was playing for his family's standing, for a quiet life where he could pursue his adventures in peace.
I was playing a long, deadly game, building a cover that would allow me to tear the very floor out from under them all.
"Oh, Iskander," Sevren said, leaning in closer, his voice barely a whisper. "Could you do me a favour and not interact with my parents? They tend to be very… zealous when they have the opportunity to gain more influence for our Blood."
The request, far from being offensive, was a gift. It was a sign of trust, an acknowledgment that our interaction was between us, not our political personas.
"Consider it done," I said, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. For a few moments, it was just us, two friends trapped in a gilded cage, sharing a silent joke at the cage's expense.
The moment was shattered by a new voice, amplified probably by a mana art that made it reverberate through the vast hall with crystal clarity, though it was invisible to my aetheric senses.
"Esteemed Highlords and Highladies!"
All eyes turned to the stage. The speaker was a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, with hair the color of a candle flame and a severe pair of round glasses perched on her nose. She wore a stunning red gala dress, and the horns at her temples marked her as more than just a hostess.
I noticed, with a start, that the Scythes had vanished from the stage. My gaze flicked upward to the highest balcony, where they now observed the proceedings like dispassionate gods. The empty throne of Khaernos had been moved there with them, a silent, gleaming symbol of absent authority.
The flame-haired woman continued, her voice dripping with a fervent, practiced zeal.
"Central Dominion thanks you for being here tonight for the Victory Ball. While our brave troops, loyal to our magnanimous Sovereigns, are spreading the benevolence of the High Sovereign to our sister continent of Dicathen," she declared, the lie so bald, so grotesque, that I had to consciously force the muscles in my face to remain neutral, "we can celebrate in their honour too! My fellow Retainers: Cylrit of Sehz-Clar, Uto of Vechor, and Jagrette of Truacia, are leading us to victory in the name of the Sovereigns. To them, too, we celebrate tonight!"
The crowd erupted in a wave of applause, a sound that felt like physical pressure against my skin. As the Retainer's speech concluded, a new, more vibrant piece of music swelled from the orchestra, officially signaling the start of the ball.
"Are you the Iskander I know?" Sevren asked suddenly, his gaze intense.
I turned my head slowly to face him. "What do you mean?"
He just shrugged, a strange look in his eyes. "Nothing. I didn't think you could contain yourself so well."
"Hey, I take that personally!" I exclaimed, feigning a wounded pride I didn't feel. We shared a quiet laugh, a tiny island of sanity in the rising tide of madness.
It was then that Sylvia's voice, sharp with alarm, cut through my mind. 'Child, we are being watched! I knew this wasn't safe!'
Calm down, Sylvia, I thought back, my eyes casually scanning the room. Is it a Scythe or that Retainer? If not, then they are just being curious about the new Highlord Briand.
Unless Agrona himself was walking among us in disguise, I was surely safe as long as Seris was present.
'Actually, when we were younger, Agrona was known to disguise himself and walk among the lessers of Dicathen,' Sylvia said, her mental voice thick with a sudden, painful nostalgia. 'It caused him quite a bit of adversity with Windsom, the one you saw in Sir Gawain's memories. Especially when he insisted on bringing me along.'
Don't be paranoid, Dragon Mama, I insisted, trying to reassure us both.
"Heir Denoir, speaking with you has been the most satisfying part of this evening," I said to Sevren, giving him a formal, curt nod that made him visibly cringe. "I wish you an happy continuation."
I drifted back into the crowd, engaging in more hollow conversations. I learned that while Highblood Briand wasn't wealthy—the state of the Manor made that abundantly clear—its status was immense due to its "blood purity."
Every Highblood derived its name from a Vritra ancestor. My Blood's founder, Briand Vritra, was apparently the first-born son of Sovereign Orlaeth himself.
Sylvia, do you know what happened to Briand Vritra? I asked, seeking a distraction.
'Yes, Child,' she replied, her voice softening with the weight of ancient history. 'He was killed in battle with my own Clan many, many centuries ago. He was the last Vritra born in Epheotus, to be precise.'
The information was a fascinating, tragic piece of history, a reminder that the conflicts of today were rooted in ancient grievances. But my historical musings were violently interrupted.
The music faltered and died. The chatter hushed. My blood ran cold as a squad of armored guards marched onto the stage, their expressions grim.
"It wouldn't be called a Victory Ball if we didn't show you, esteemed Highlords and Highladies, the successes of our blessed continent!" the Retainer proclaimed, her zealotry now taking on a chilling, commercial edge.
My heart plummeted, a cold stone of dread sinking into my gut. They were leading out a line of figures, their movements sluggish, forced. Men, women and children. They were thin, emaciated, clad in rags that did little to hide the bruises and welts on their skin. Their eyes were hollow pits of terror, of a broken spirit that was more painful to see than any physical wound.
S-slaves?
"These are the elves of Dicathen!" the Retainer's voice rang out, cheerful and horrifying. "The most knowledgeable of you surely know that in Dicathen, the Kingdom of Elenoir is an elven-populated one. These are the prisoners we have made and brought back to our continent through our portals in the Dicathian Beast Glades!"
The lords and ladies around me reacted not with horror, but with fascination. Some looked upon the elves with naked disgust, as if they were vermin. Others—and this was far worse—gazed at them with a calculating, greedy glint in their eyes, the way a farmer might look at a new breed of livestock.
"The High Sovereign himself blesses his people with the opportunity of purchasing these elves here today!" she exclaimed.
Her tone wasn't one of hate, nor even of fervent belief. It was worse. It was a bland, professional sales pitch. This was simply business. This was normal.
The horror was so absolute, so overwhelming, that for a moment, my mind went blank. Was this a trap? A specific, twisted test orchestrated by Agrona on the infinitesimal chance I had survived and would be here? The logic was too convoluted, too insane.
No. This was simply the reality of Agrona's Alacrya. This was what their "victory" looked like.
Around me, the auction began. Numbers were called out. Bids were made. Lives were valued in coin and influence. The sound was a monstrous perversion of commerce. I stood frozen, my hands clenched into fists so tight my nails would surely spill blood from my palms if my body wasn't as hard as steel.
I wanted to unleash the aether, to shatter this entire grotesque opera house around their ears.
Sylvia... I murmured inwardly, my voice a prayer in the storm of my rage. How has the analysis of the Tempus Warp gone?
'Good,' she replied, her own voice grim with shared fury. 'While I couldn't repair the one-time-use artifact, I know how to replicate its effects now. Child... what do you intend to do?'
I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the white-hot anger into a core of cold, hardened resolve.
Slavers are going to be Aetherman's first targets then, not Cadell, I declared mentally, the plan forming with icy clarity.
Sylvia, I said, my mind already racing ahead, mapping the city, plotting trajectories. Fighting all the Scythes right now is unthinkable. So, I need you to do something for me. Track each and every one of these people with aether. Imprint their signatures into my memory. I don't care how many there are, I don't care how far they're taken.
A grim, determined smile touched my lips, invisible to the monsters around me.
We are going to pay the buyers a visit. Tonight, The Aetherman makes his debut.
—
The moon over Cargidan was a cold, watchful eye, its silver light painting the city in stark contrasts of gleaming white and deep, impenetrable shadow.
The spectacle of the Victory Ball felt like a distant, feverish dream, the echoes of its music replaced by the tense silence of the night and the heavy, rhythmic clop of horse hooves on cobblestones.
Perched on my shoulder, Sylvia had taken back her miniature form.
Before us, a grim carriage, its opulent design a cruel joke, was being loaded. The elves from the auction, their forms even more fragile and broken-looking under the moon's unforgiving gaze, were being shoved inside, the metallic clink of their shackles a sound that seemed to poison the very air.
The Victory Ball had ended. Seris had sought me out, her gaze unreadable. "I have things to do," I'd told her, the lie tasting like ash. She had simply inclined her head, a minuscule gesture. She probably understood what I wanted to do.
The other Scythes had lingered, their auras like distant storms, but they too had eventually departed, leaving only the flame-haired Retainer, Lyra Dreide I discovered, as a guardian of this ghoulish operation.
A part of me, the part that still thought in terms of comic book showdowns, almost wished she would try to stop me. It would be a cleaner fight. But my goal wasn't a fight; it was a rescue.
Hidden within a fold of darkness, my aether suppressed to the merest whisper, I was a ghost. My armour, now fully manifested, was a second skin of potential energy, and my horns were no longer concealed.
Sylvia, is your Tempus Warp equivalent ready? I asked internally, my eyes never leaving the carriage as it began to rumble toward its destination: a glowing, stationary portal that led to Vechor, to the city of Dzianis.
'Yes, Child,' her voice was a steady hum in my mind, a counterpoint to my racing heart. A normal Tempus Warp, even one crafted with the Djinn Slate, would be too slow, too clunky. It required activation time I didn't have.
But Sylvia hadn't just replicated the item; she had internalized the principle of its magic. She was the conduit, and my aether was the fuel. As long as I could provide the power, she could bend space itself.
"Let's go," I whispered, the words a breath stolen by the night.
The carriage wheels began to turn. The portal shimmered, its surface rippling as the vehicle passed into its azure embrace. This was it. I crouched, coils of golden aether flaring to life around my legs, humming with contained power.
It wasn't just strength; it was the essence of motion itself, the aetheric echo of an Asuran technique Sylvia had described—Mirage Walk.
I launched forward.
The world blurred into a streak of gold and shadow. I was a bolt of living lightning, crossing the distance between my hiding spot and the fading portal in a heartbeat. I shot through the shimmering surface just as it collapsed behind me with a sound like a sigh, sealing my exit and any chance of immediate pursuit.
The transition was instantaneous. One moment, the chill night air of Cargidan; the closed atmosphere of a private courtyard. I landed in a silent crouch, the impact absorbed by my enhanced limbs. Before me, the carriage had come to a halt. Behind me, the portal was gone. We were in a world of our own.
It didn't take long. A guard, his uniform marking him as part of some Highblood's private force, turned and froze, his eyes widening comically. The runes on his back flickered to life in a panicked, uncoordinated dance.
"W-who are you?!" he shouted, his voice cracking as he leveled a pike at me. The weapon was ornate, more for show than war.
Another guard, bolder, stepped forward. "Y-you are trespassing on Highblood Redwater's property!" he stammered, trying to inject authority into his terror.
I rose to my full height, the pale moonlight glinting off the smooth planes of my armour. A slow, deliberate smile spread across my face beneath the helmet.
It was a smile they couldn't see, but I felt it—a release of tension, the pure, unadulterated joy of finally, finally saying the words.
"Me?" I asked as I raised my hands in a mockery of surrender. "I am just your friendly neighbourhood Aetherman."
I moved.
There was no grand technique, no flashy display. I was simply beside the first guard in the space between heartbeats. My hand, sheathed in aether, chopped down on the side of his neck with precise, controlled force. Just enough.
His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled without a sound. The second guard barely had time to gasp before my foot connected with his chest. It wasn't a kick meant to kill or even to break bones; it was a wave of concussive force, a push of solidified air that slammed him into the courtyard wall.
He slid down, unconscious.
Silence descended, broken only by the nervous stamp of the carriage horses and the frantic beating of my own heart.
"Static Void."
The command was a whisper, but its effect was absolute. The world froze. The dust motes hung suspended in the air. The leaves on a nearby tree were perfectly still. Time itself became my canvas. In this infinite moment of paused reality, I acted.
The Djinn Slate was in my hand and with a thought, I commanded it. Pale golden walls of pure aether erupted from the ground, a perfect, impenetrable cube that encased me, the carriage, and the two unconscious guards. We were cut off from the rest of the estate, hidden away in a sort of pocket dimension of my own making.
"Sylvia, prepare to teleport us away," I said, my voice the only sound in the silent, golden world.
On my shoulder, the form of the mouse shimmered and dissolved. In its place, a butterfly of breathtaking beauty took flight. Its wings were not mere chitin and membrane; they were woven from solidified sunlight and starlight, a tapestry of gold and brilliant white that pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence.
"Why this appearance?" I asked, momentarily captivated.
"It is to use the teleportation," her voice chimed, clearer now, like tiny bells. "Remember when you made that stick insect to cover your horns? The process is the same."
"Oh, it makes sense." The mechanics of it were fascinating, but there was no time. I turned to the carriage.
The aether walls were up. I deactivated Static Void.
Time crashed back into motion with a soundless roar. Outside our golden cage, the world would be reacting—shouts of alarm, the clatter of more guards. But in here, we had a precious few seconds.
I ripped the doors off the carriage, the metal screeching in protest. Inside, huddled together, were the elves. The moonlight, filtered through the golden aether of the walls, cast their terrified faces in a tragic, beautiful light.
Their eyes, wide with a trauma I could only imagine, locked onto my horns, my armour. They didn't see a saviour; they saw another monster, a new horror in a never-ending nightmare.
"Calm down, everyone," I said, pouring every ounce of reassurance I possessed into my voice. "I am here to bring you back home! You can trust me!" The words felt pathetic, inadequate against the depth of their fear. "My name is Aetherman."
I saw it in their eyes. The blank disbelief. The ingrained terror. My name meant nothing. My promises were just sounds. They were broken, and words were not enough to build a bridge across the chasm of their suffering. We were out of time. The decision was made not in my mind, but in my soul.
Sylvia, I ordered, the thought final and absolute. Do it.
I felt it immediately. A vacuum, a yawning chasm opening deep within my aether core. It was a sensation beyond draining, beyond exhaustion. It was as if my very life force, the energy that animated my Asuran body and powered my will, was being siphoned away at a terrifying rate.
The golden walls around us flickered. The butterfly that was Sylvia blazed with incandescent light, her wings beating a rhythm that seemed to stitch the fabric of reality itself.
The elves stared, their fear momentarily eclipsed by awe at the impossible, beautiful lightshow. I met their gazes, my own vision starting to swim from the immense drain, and I hoped, I prayed, that in that light, they saw not a demon, but a promise.
And then, the world dissolved into a torrent of gold and white.