The director's obsidian gaze remained fixed on Timur. “Follow me, young Timur. We have much to discuss regarding your… unique talents.” Timur’s gut twisted. He wanted to melt into the shattered flagstones, to become invisible. He had spent years honing the art of being forgettable, and now this. A direct summons, a perilous assignment. This was the exact opposite of lying low. He had visions of being conscripted, forced to level mountains for the empire, his carefully constructed anonymity crumbling like Barlas’s armor. He had to stop this. “Ah, Director,” Timur stammered, forcing a nervous cough. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. My… ‘dense air manipulation’ is quite rudimentary. It’s mostly for… uh… deflating cushions. Or perhaps, really stubborn balloons.” He tried to wink, but it felt more like a painful twitch. The man merely offered a thin, unsettling smile. “Indeed. A most fascinating application. Let us discuss its potential for… imperial projects.” He gestured to the side, where two hulking sentries in polished ebony armor stepped forward, their gauntlets glinting. “After you.” Timur swallowed, the metal taste of panic in his mouth. He shot a desperate glance at Professor Orhan, who still looked like he’d seen a particularly dense ghost. Orhan offered no help, only a slow shake of his head. With a sigh that felt far too heavy for an F-rank novice, Timur trudged after the elder, the sentries flanking him like silent vultures. They ascended. The Yildiz Institute was a monument to magic and hierarchy. The lower levels, where Timur and Ayla lived, clung to the shadowed, monster-scarred base of the canyon, perpetually damp and smelling of petrichor and fear. But as they climbed through a series of spiraling crystal elevators, the air grew lighter, warmer, infused with the scent of sun-warmed stone and exotic spices. Grand archways carved with intricate celestial maps replaced rough-hewn rock. The light, once a struggle, now streamed in through massive, unblemished windows, illuminating woven silk banners and polished onyx floors. This was the Domain of the Sky, where the highborn and powerful resided. Timur, blinking in the unfamiliar brilliance, felt his social anxiety flare. Every perfectly coiffed student, every crisp uniform, seemed to judge his rumpled, dust-stained tunic. He felt like a stray dog dragged into a royal banquet. The silence of their ascent was punctuated only by the soft hum of the gravity lifts and the distant, melodic chime of unseen bells. The director led him into a spacious study, high in one of the central spires. Sunlight poured through a vast panoramic window, revealing the sprawling canyon city below, a miniature world of twinkling lights and winding paths. Timur felt a dizzying surge of vertigo. A massive desk carved from a single slab of polished obsidian dominated the room, stacked with scrolls and arcane diagrams. The administrator settled into a plush, high-backed chair, his gaze never leaving Timur. “Sit, young Timur.” His voice was still a silken purr, yet it held an undeniable edge. “Tell me, how long have you been cultivating this… *dense air manipulation*?” Timur nervously perched on the edge of a velvet-cushioned seat. He wracked his brain for a believable lie. “Oh, uh, since I was a small child. Very… unrefined, of course. Mostly just… accidental pressure bursts. Like… when you sneeze too hard. But with… air.” He felt ridiculous even as he said it. Before the director could press further, the heavy wooden doors to the chamber burst open with an echoing crash. A figure stumbled in, wild-eyed and disheveled, but otherwise perfectly unharmed. It was Barlas, his expensive uniform torn in places, his hair a mess, but his face alight with a manic fervor. He looked less like someone who’d been crushed, and more like someone who’d had a religious awakening. The two sentries outside the doorway looked stunned, having clearly failed to intercept him. “Guru!” Barlas cried, ignoring the director and rushing towards Timur, dropping to one knee with surprising speed. “Lord Timur! I knew it! I knew you possessed the ancient technique!” Timur flinched, nearly falling off the chair. “Barlas? What in the world—?” Barlas looked up, shining with unhinged devotion. “The Meridian Point Strike! You didn’t just crush my Aegis Plates, Lord Timur! You found the hidden nodes! The secret kinetic conduits within the very weave of the plate! You… you dismantled my defenses from the inside out with pure, concentrated will! It was… *exquisite*!” He pounded a fist lightly on his chest. “My soul vibrated! My spirit was reborn! I demand you take me as your disciple! Teach me the ways of the Sky-Cleaving Thrust!” Timur stared, aghast. Sky-Cleaving Thrust? Meridian Point Strike? This was a whole new level of delusion. But then, a thought sparked in his panicked mind. This was a gift. This was a perfect, noble-sanctioned excuse for his accidental display of power. He could blame it all on a ‘secret technique’ only Barlas was deluded enough to believe. He cleared his throat, trying to adopt a sage-like expression. “Ah, Barlas,” Timur began, projecting an air of mysterious wisdom he absolutely did not possess. “So you have perceived… a fragment of the truth. Indeed, the path of the Sky-Cleaving Thrust is not for the faint of heart. It requires… immense discipline. And… heavy lifting.” Barlas shot to his feet, vibrating with enthusiasm. “I am ready, Lord Timur! I will lift mountains for you!” “Excellent,” Timur said, suppressing a shudder. “For your first task, I require you to bring me a… an exceptionally dense boulder. From the training grounds below. Approximately… the size of a grown bull. Carry it up here. Without using any conventional magic. Only… your innate mental force. Consider it… a test of your… ‘meridian points’.” Barlas’s eyes gleamed. “At once, Lord Timur! The Sky-Cleaving Thrust shall not be denied!” He bowed deeply, spun on his heel, and sprinted out of the study, leaving the sentries gaping and the director looking utterly bewildered. Timur let out a shaky breath. That was a close call. He turned back to Kaelen, offering an apologetic shrug. “My apologies, Director. He’s… a very enthusiastic student. Misunderstood my… unique training regimen.” The director merely tented his thumbs, his expression unreadable. “Indeed. A unique regimen.” He paused. “Nevertheless, Timur, about your assignment…” Before he could continue, a soft knock came from the closed doorway. A slender figure entered, her movements fluid and graceful, like a desert cat. Shirin. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid, her grey eyes, usually cool and distant, held a flicker of curiosity as they met Timur’s. “Director,” Shirin said, her voice steady and crisp. “Professor Vahid sent me to retrieve the updated Chasm patrol roster.” She carried herself with an understated confidence that always made Timur’s stomach flutter, a stark contrast to his own self-conscious demeanor. He tried to avoid her gaze, acutely aware of the dust on his tunic and the lingering smell of feral pugs. The director nodded. “Of course, Shirin. It’s on my desk. While you’re here, perhaps you can offer young Timur some insight into the Institute’s… more rigorous techniques. He seems to have a flair for the… unconventional.” His gaze flickered between them, a hint of something calculating in his eyes. Shirin turned to Timur, her gaze unwavering. “Your display in the arena was… startling, Timur. I’ve never seen anything like it. This ‘dense air manipulation’… it truly is mind-over-matter art?” Timur stammered, his cheeks heating. “Oh, yes! Very… specialized! Takes years to govern the… uh… invisible weight pockets in the atmosphere.” He internally cringed at recycling Barlas’s delusion. Shirin tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. “And it allows you to… crush things? From a distance?” “Precisely!” Timur exclaimed, perhaps a little too eagerly. “It’s all about… density. Making the air around an object incredibly dense. Like… a very, very heavy blanket of air. Then you… push.” He gestured vaguely. Shirin’s hand went to her sleeve, as if adjusting a cuff. As she did, a small, intricate runic symbol, glowing faintly with a soft cerulean light, slipped partly into view from beneath her dark fabric. It was gone in an instant, snatched back into hiding, but not before Timur’s eyes caught it. It was the mark of the Ashkin, the rebel faction. The very symbol Ayla had shown him in his past life, warning him of the dangers. Timur froze, blood rushing to his ears. Shirin? A rebel? The girl he had admired from afar, whose life he was trying to save, was entangled with the very group the empire was hunting. The grand chamber suddenly turned ice-cold. [Akashic Ledger: Alert! Anomalous seismic activity detected in Obsidian Chasm. Quest: Investigate source of tremors. Reward: Reputation (Yildiz Institute) +100, Etheric Shards +50.] Before Timur could process the Ledger’s message, before he could even begin to reconcile Shirin’s secret with the new quest, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. The very spire shuddered as a shockfront slammed into the panoramic window, rattling the thick glass. A cloud of dust and debris, accompanied by the screams of distant students, billowed up from the lower levels, obscuring the setting sun. The explosion had come from the shadowed base of the canyon. From where Ayla’s dormitory was located.

A Delusion of Grandeur