Mikolaj Zarycz stared at the yellowed parchment, the scrawled ink blotted and dry. The library’s stale air, usually a comfort, now felt like a suffocating blanket. The words of his past self hovered in memory: *celestial slaughter*, *energy farm*, *beast*. His hands, calloused from years of menial labor, felt strangely delicate, as if they could crumble the paper to dust with a twitch. He could level a mountain by tripping, but he couldn't outrun the trap inside him. He had to learn how to fight it, but he had no idea where to begin. “Mikolaj?” Iskra Voronina’s voice cut the stillness of the records hall. She sat opposite him, her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously cross-referenced a brittle tome. Her sharp gaze softened at the corners. He had not formally agreed to her help, yet her pile of notes sat directly beside his. “The sigil,” she murmured, sliding a tattered book across the oak. “I found it. Or something nearly identical. It’s called the Mark of the Vigilant Wardens.” Mikolaj leaned closer. The sketch in the book was undeniable: a stylized eye within a jagged star, almost identical to the faded mark on Bronislaw’s boots. “Vigilant Wardens?” “A myth,” Iskra said, running a nail along the faded script. “Or so scholars claim. Old texts describe a forgotten order, sworn protectors of the realm from unconventional perils—not rival duchies or peasant revolts, but entities beyond mortal comprehension. They allegedly vanished centuries ago, leaving only scattered relics.” “Cosmic monstrosities?” Mikolaj asked, his tongue dry against his teeth. The memory of the formless, world-consuming entity was still too vivid. Iskra held his gaze, nodding once. “The descriptions are fragmented. 'Shadows from beyond the stars,' 'the swallower of light,' 'the hunger that consumes all.' They speak of an entity that drains the very essence of worlds, leaving husks behind.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Do you think… what you saw…?” Mikolaj simply nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to voice the horror again. The realization that his past self had been fighting this thing, and had failed, leaving him this monstrous legacy, was a fresh wound. “So, the boots,” Mikolaj mused, tapping the page. “And Bronislaw. He’s part of this ‘myth’?” “It would explain a great deal,” Iskra replied, a glint of intellectual curiosity sparking in her eyes. “His strange gifts, his cryptic advice. Perhaps the Wardens didn’t vanish entirely. Perhaps they merely went into deeper hiding, waiting for a specific threat to re-emerge.” “Or waiting for me,” Mikolaj muttered. The thought was chilling. Was Bronislaw a benevolent guide, or another puppet master pulling strings in this cosmic play? He suspected the latter, given his inherent distrust. [Calculating optimal walking trajectory for Aura dispersion. Current power level: 9.87 x 10^38 units. Accumulation rate: 1.2 x 10^17 units/step.] The cold, objective numbers of the Path of Perpetual Motion mocked him. Each unit of power was a step closer to his doom, yet also a step closer to understanding. He needed to walk, to grow stronger, but he also needed knowledge. Knowledge was the only weapon that might pierce the trap laid by himself. Their research continued, a desperate dive into forgotten lore. Iskra pulled out maps of ancient ley lines, Mikolaj devoured treatises on Aura resonance. The hall stayed muted, stirred only by turning leaves and the scratch of Iskra’s steel nib. The heavy iron-banded doors burst inward, crashing against the masonry. Mikolaj instinctively tensed, his legs already calculating potential impact zones if he had to move. A court herald clad in imperial crimson and gold stood framed in the doorway, flanked by two towering palace sentries. “Mikolaj Zarycz!” the herald bellowed, rattling the book stacks. “By Crown Decree of His Magnificence, Sovereign Volkov the Fourth, you are summoned to the Sovereign Palace. A formal demonstration of your… unique abilities… has been demanded.” Iskra gripped the edge of the table, her face paling. This was worse than she'd imagined. The Krupin family had bypassed the academy’s internal disciplinary channels entirely, going straight to the highest authority. This wasn't a duel; it was a political execution. “A demonstration?” Mikolaj repeated, his voice flat. He knew what that meant. Vlastan’s family wanted him exposed, disgraced. They wanted him to trip and level a province, proving he was a threat, or fail to produce anything, proving he was a fraud. “Indeed,” the herald said, curling an upper lip. “You will present yourself at the Grand Arena at dawn. His Majesty does not tolerate delay.” He wheeled away, his cloak snapping, the armored escorts marching behind. As the doors swung shut, sealing them once more in the tense quiet, Iskra finally spoke, her voice laced with urgency. “This is a noose, Mikolaj. If you reveal your full power, they’ll brand you a danger to the realm, a rogue mage beyond control. They’ll have you imprisoned, or worse. If you hold back, if you can’t perform… they’ll declare you a cheat, a charlatan who used forbidden arts, and the Krupins will demand your execution for insubordination and disrespect to the nobility.” Mikolaj closed his eyes for a moment, the calculations already running through his mind. Either way, his path led to a noose. His family's crushing debts and the cosmic horror faded behind the immediate malice of court factions. He had to walk a knife's edge, displaying enough force to appease the throne without exposing his cataclysmic output. “I need to walk,” he said, looking up with flat, steady purpose. “I must calibrate my output and untangle this trap.” Just then, a shuffling sound made them both look up. Bronislaw, the old quartermaster, ambled from behind a shadowy stack of folios. He blinked through rheumy eyelids, then scratched his chin. “Ah, young Mikolaj. Little Iskra. Heard the trumpets. A royal command, eh?” He chuckled like gravel rolling in an iron pot. “Fret not over that peacock's trial. It isn't the real test. Beware the one who does not watch.”

Unlikely Allies and a Royal Summons