Agastya stared at the monolithic manual in his hands, feeling the sheer, crushing weight of the accumulated knowledge he was now expected to master. He looked back up at Spehead’s grim expression.
"Well," Agastya murmured, his voice dry but perfectly steady. "I do want to survive."
‘ I mean, who actually wants to die twice? ’ he thought to himself. ‘Once was entirely enough.’
Dictor clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing off the stone walls and breaking the heavy tension. "Excellent! Now that the reading assignments are out of the way, we are leaving you to your actual work. It’s time to meet your teammates."
"Teammates," Agastya repeated, the word tasting entirely foreign on his tongue.
Dictor gave a cheerful nod and led him away from the ACM controllers, navigating yet another winding corridor. The biting chill of the portal room gradually faded and the temperature stabilised into a comfortable, ambient warmth.
As they walked, Agastya’s mind spun. In his past life, he had been a shadow. A master assassin worked alone; partners were simply liabilities waiting to be exploited or tortured for information. Trust was a currency he had never possessed. But the rules of the underworld had shattered the moment he woke up in a dead baker's body. Everything that had happened to him since yesterday was uncharted territory.
They finally stopped before a set of imposing double doors. Dictor didn't knock; he simply pushed them open and stepped inside, gesturing for Agastya to follow. The moment the assassin crossed the threshold, the heavy doors swung shut behind him, sealing with a soft click guided by an unseen Aetheric force.
The spacious room was bathed in a striking duality of light. Pale yellow winter sunlight bled through a large glass window, intersecting with the cold, blue hum of the Aether-tubes mounted on the ceiling.
In the center of the room sat a low mahogany table. Flanking it were two long, plush velvet sofas facing one another. But it was the single, high-backed armchair positioned at the head of the table that immediately commanded Agastya’s attention.
Resting in the seat was a young woman who radiated a quiet, absolute authority. She possessed a striking, mature beauty, her skin as pale as porcelain, perfectly contrasting with her cascading snow-white hair. She wasn't dressed in the standard civilian coats of the others; she wore a fitted, beautifully articulated chest piece of lightweight silver armor over tailored clothes. Resting casually against the armrest beside her was a thin, elegant rapier sheathed in a polished silver scabbard. Agastya’s eyes instantly measured the length of the blade and the relaxed, yet perfectly balanced posture of her hands. She was the leader.
The other four occupants were divided between the sofas. Agastya’s tactical gaze swept over them, categorising the threats in a fraction of a second.
On the left sofa sat two men. The first was a living siege engine. He possessed a massive, heavily muscled build that looked capable of shattering a brick wall with a single blow. His stark black hair framed a pair of intense, blood-red eyes that locked onto Agastya with heavy, unblinking scrutiny.
Beside the bruiser sat a stark contrast: a slender young man wearing a simple white shirt, black trousers, and thick, black-rimmed spectacles. Despite his unassuming, scholarly appearance, Agastya noticed the heavy, bronze bracelet wrapping his right wrist—a complex artifact etched with microscopic Yantras. Resting against the sofa beside him was a long, polished black staff. He was undoubtedly their Aetheric specialist.
On the right sofa sat two women. The one closest to the table had vibrant orange hair and sharp, observant brown eyes. A dusting of dark freckles bridged her nose, giving her a grounded, pragmatic appearance. She looked at Agastya with a calculating tilt of her head, assessing his newly tailored suit.
But it was the girl sitting beside her that made Agastya’s internal alarms flare.
She wore a simple, pale yellow dress, her soft grey hair falling over her shoulders. She was leaning back into the velvet cushions with her eyes completely closed, her breathing slow and even, looking exactly like a sleeping beauty entirely oblivious to the world.
Agastya’s jaw tightened. In a clandestine room filled with heavily armed Awakeners, monsters, and magic, the person who felt comfortable enough to sleep unprotected was almost always the most dangerous one in the room.
Dictor clapped his hands together, wearing a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat. “Behold! Meet the newest addition to our esteemed roster.”
The silver-haired woman did not blink. Her pale eyes tracked over Agastya, weighing his stance, his breathing, and his newly tailored clothes with the cold precision of an executioner.
"I did not issue an order to expand our ranks," she stated, her voice as smooth and freezing as polished ice. "Nor was I consulted on the matter. Care to provide an explanation, Dictor, or did you simply pick him up off the street?"
Dictor didn’t lose an ounce of his playful demeanor. He offered a light, apologetic bow. “You are entirely correct, milady. No orders from you, no consultations.” He straightened, his tone shifting into something slightly more guarded. “But the directive came directly from above. High Command. Sire himself suggested we integrate him into this specific unit.”
The woman's eyes narrowed infinitesimally at the mention of the title. "Sire? To place a completely untested recruit into our vanguard? What possible reason could justify bypassing my authority?"
"Word is," Dictor murmured, tapping the side of his nose, "our baker here is an Awakener with... uniquely special abilities."
She scoffed softly, a delicate sound completely devoid of humor. "I highly doubt that is the entire truth. Special ability do not justify throwing a novice into the most dangerous unit in the organization. Even our veterans aren't guaranteed survival."
"Survival isn't guaranteed in any team, milady," Dictor pointed out lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The massive man on the left sofa suddenly leaned forward. The heavy velvet cushions groaned under his immense weight. "Yeah, but you know damn well this isn't just 'any' team, Dictor," the bulky man rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He fixed his blood-red eyes on Agastya. "We take the absolute worst zones. Putting him here is like throwing a blind lamb into a meat grinder."
Agastya stood perfectly still under the crossfire of their gazes, his face an impassive, stoic mask. Internally, however, he let out a slow, measured breath.
Just twenty-four hours ago, he had been the Empire's most lethal ghost—a predator whose very name struck terror into his targets. Now, standing in a borrowed festival suit while a group of strangers openly debated his life expectancy, he felt a bitter sense of irony. It felt exactly as if he had been dragged before a high tribunal, standing in the dock while the jury casually placed wagers on how quickly he was going to die.
Dictor placed a hand over his heart, feigning wounded pride. "Milady, if you had truly heard the specific phrasing of my words, you would have gasped in shock. I know I certainly did."
' Fuck, what the hell is going on? 'Agastya thought, though his face remained an immaculate, unreadable mask. ' And when the hell was he ever surprised? The man has been grinning like an idiot .'
Across the room, the girl in the yellow dress—the one who had been dead to the world—suddenly shifted. Her nose wrinkled in blatant distaste, and she turned her head slightly toward Agastya. Her eyes remained closed, but her expression practically screamed that she had just heard something incredibly loud and profoundly vulgar.
"What are you talking about, Dictor?" the silver-haired leader demanded, ignoring the sleeping girl's twitch.
"I said he possesses special abilities . Plural," Dictor announced, holding up two fingers with a theatrical flourish. "Our new recruit didn't just have one ability. He have two."
The leader's icy composure finally cracked, her pale eyes widening in genuine shock. "That... that is unheard of."
"Exactly!" Dictor beamed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Statistically impossible, historically unprecedented, and absolutely terrifying."
She immediately straightened her posture, her aristocratic mask slamming back into place. "Explain. What are these abilities? We lose an operative on nearly every deployment to the Other World. How exactly is this anomaly going to improve our survival rate?"
"Well, for his first trick," Dictor said, gesturing to Agastya like a prized racehorse, "he can condense ambient Photon, ions and Aetheric particles from nature and manifest them as high-density ammunition. Essentially, he can shoot raw, concentrated magic through a standard revolver."
The orange-haired woman let out a low, amused whistle. "Congratulations, Dictor," she drawled, her tone dripping with dry sarcasm. "Looks like you finally got yourself a handsome little backup dancer."
"Another marksman," the bespectacled man in the white shirt noted quietly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he analyzed Agastya with renewed interest.
"And the second ability?" the silver-haired leader pressed, her gaze locked onto Agastya.
"Currently dormant," Dictor admitted, dropping his hands. "It hasn't fully manifested yet. "
"And he had also have highly rare Psychic power"
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Suddenly, all five veterans were staring at Agastya. They were no longer looking at a dead-weight rookie; they were looking at a priceless, highly dangerous prototype weapon that had just been dropped into their laps.
The silver-haired leader offered a tight, calculating smile. "All the more reason he should be treated as a highly sensitive asset. He needs months of controlled, rigorous training before he even steps foot near an ACM Gate with us."
"Normally, I'd agree," Dictor sighed, scratching the back of his neck, his playful demeanor finally slipping. "But High Command made it my direct responsibility to train him during our next deployment. Sire explicitly stated that we are completely out of time."
"Out of time?" she demanded, her grip tightening instinctively on the silver hilt of her rapier. "What exactly does that mean, Dictor?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, milady," Dictor replied, his voice dropping its theatrical edge, leaving behind a grim reality.
Before the leader could interrogate him further, a sudden, unfamiliar voice echoed through the heavy silence of the room.
Except, the voice didn't travel through the air. It manifested directly inside the center of Agastya's mind.