Eldritch Guidance

Alan turned toward the source of the voice, his eyes widening as he took in the newcomer. The man wore the distinctive robes of the Enforcers, the same uniform Alan previously felt like he wore on borrowed time. But any sense of camaraderie was instantly overshadowed by the man's sheer physical presence.

He was a mountain of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall, with a broad, powerful frame that seemed to strain the very fabric of his robes. His skin was the color of cooled ash, smooth and hairless, lacking even eyebrows or eyelashes. He moved with a surprising grace for his size, each step carrying a quiet, confident weight.

Alan felt a jolt of recognition and disbelief. He was looking at a Goliath. In the Gixian Empire, their kind were a common sight, often found as knights or soilders—their immense strength and size giving them a certain appeal within Gix society. But here, in the heart of the Union, they were a rarity, more often spoken of in stories than seen walking the halls of the University. To see one not only on Union soil but wearing the robes of an Enforcer was profoundly disorienting.

So this is him, Alan thought, a wave of conflicting feelings washing over him. Mitra’s senior disciple.

The man approached, his ashen face breaking into a wide, easy smile as he glanced from Alan to Mitra.

Alan: “Is this the new disciple you told me about, Mitra?” he asked, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that filled the training chamber.

Mitra: “Yes,” Mayumi replied, her tone shifting into one of formal introduction. “This is Alan Vexal. Alan, this is Grom Rockjaw. He is my first disciple, and he is your senior.”

Grom’s smile widened, revealing strong, white teeth. He extended a massive hand toward Alan, his movements open and welcoming. “Nice to meet you, junior!”

Alan reached out, his own hand disappearing inside Grom’s powerful grip. His handshake was firm but carefully controlled.

Alan: “It’s, um, nice to meet you too,” Alan managed. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to see a Goliath serving as an Enforcer here.”

Grom: “Ah!” he boomed, releasing his hand. “So you’re from Gix, then.”

Alan: “You can tell?” Alan asked, genuinely surprised. He’d worked hard to blend in within Union society.

Grom: “Just a hint of an accent on your vowels. And most Union-born citizens don’t know anything about Goliaths. They see me in uniform and assume I’m a very large, very lost mutant.”

Alan: “Oh, I see,” he said, relaxing slightly. “I’m quite familiar with Goliaths. My grandfather was one. I suppose most people here don’t realize that certain… mutations that still allow you to have children and are compatible with complex aether channeling. But it’s common enough back in Gix.”

Alan’s mind flashed back to days from his homeland. In the Gixian Empire, the term ‘Aether Mutant’ was something well known. While the common belief held that mutation prevented people from being able to use magic, there had long been exceptions.

The chaotic, transformative, effects of the drug Krimson left mutants bodies and aether pathways often scarred and unstable. But Generational Mutants—elves, dracos, goliaths—were different.. Their “mutation” was a stable part of their biology and with it came aetheric channels that were not broken.

But here in the Union States, where Generational Mutants were rare curiosities and the shadow of Krimson-defined “mutant” loomed large, this nuanced truth was not well known.

Grom: “Yup,” he nodded, a spark of kinship in his dark eyes.

Alan: “But to pick up on my accent… are you from Gix as well?” he ventured.

Grom: “No,” he said, and for a moment, his jovial expression hardened into something ancient and grim. “My clan was driven from Gix centuries ago. We carry the memory of a dishonorable exile, and a debt of vengeance against the Empire that has been passed down through generations.”

Alan flinched inwardly, feeling as if he’d just stepped on a cultural landmine. He knew the legendary pride and long memories of Goliath clans. A grudge held for centuries was a living thing, nourished by stories and rituals. He feared he’d just made himself an enemy by association.

Then, Grom’s severe expression shattered into a booming laugh that echoed off the nearby walls.

Grom: “Haha! You should see your face!” he laughed, clapping a hand on Alan’s shoulder with enough force to make his knees buckle slightly. “Yes, my clan has a blood-feud with the Gixian throne. But that’s with the government, the architects of our exile—not its people. I still have cousins in the mountains who stayed behind. It is still good to see another of the blood here in the Union, even one or two generations removed.” He gave Alan’s shoulder a final, friendly squeeze. “What clan was your grandfather from?”

Alan: “Um,” he hesitated, the old family history feeling both distant and suddenly very relevant. “My grandfather was… clanless.”

Grom’s smile didn’t falter, though his nod held a note of solemn understanding.

Grom: “Ah, a wanderer. A Goliath who walked his own path. Well, a brother in blood is a brother still. You carry the stone in your spirit, if not in your name.”

He then turned his full attention back to Mitra, his demeanor shifting seamlessly from gregarious clansman to focused senior.

Grom: “So, Mitra. Was there something important you wished to discuss? Or was this primarily an introduction to my new junior?”

Mitra: “Your understanding is correct,” Mayumi replied, her voice devoid of its usual cutting edge, adopting instead the flat, iron tone of a strategic briefing. “The introduction was the first objective. The second is to inform you that you are being reassigned. Your new primary assignment is to the Sleuth-Hawks unit to which Alan belongs. You will serve as his senior in the field, and I will expect you to integrate supplemental training into your joint operations.”

Grom: “You want me on a field team and playing drill sergeant to my new junior?” he asked, scratching his smooth chin. He shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling with the motion. “Eh, no problem. A change of scenery will be good.”

Alan’s eyes widened. He remembered Rell’s frustration—their unit was undermanned, especially after Jaffar’s abrupt resignation. They’d needed a capable replacement, but Alan never imagined they’d be assigned someone of Grom’s caliber, a personal disciple of Mitra. There was an unexpected comfort in the idea. Perhaps it was the fond memory of his grandfather, or the innate, solid presence Goliaths projected, but Grom radiated a sense of unshakeable reliability beneath his laid-back exterior. Despite the shock, a flicker of gratitude warmed Alan’s chest.

Mitra: “Furthermore,” she continued, her emerald eyes pinning Grom in place, “you will assume a primary role in Alan’s practical conditioning, starting with this session and continuing henceforth. Your direct experience is required.”

Grom: “Again, no problem,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “As long as I have the hours, I’m happy to help my junior find his footing.”

Mitra: “Good. Then we begin immediately. You will take the lead in instructing him in the preliminary stages of the Reactive Enhancement Method I developed.”

The casual atmosphere evaporated. For the first time since he’d entered, Grom’s relaxed composure faltered. His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of stark, genuine concern. He stared at Mitra, then at Alan, then back at Mitra.

Grom: “You… you can’t be serious,” he said, his booming voice now low and serious. “Mitra, he’s a junior. A novice. You didn’t even introduce me to Reactive Enhancement until I’d been under your tutelage for over two years, and even then, I thought you were trying to kill me.” He took a step forward, his expression earnest. “I know you love your… intensive methods. But must we rush this? That technique isn’t just difficult; it’s a foundation for S-Class combat. It will be too much for him.”

Mitra: “Grom.”

Mitra’s voice cut through his protest. She did not raise her voice, but the space seemed to grow colder.

Mitra: “When you came to me, covered in the grime, and asked to be my disciple, I gave you one chance to walk away. I asked you if you were certain. Do you remember what you said to me?”

Grom’s jaw tightened, the memory flashing in his dark eyes. He remained silent.

Mitra: “You said, ‘Do not insult my determination by asking twice,’” her gaze was unblinking, a green-lit judgment. “Alan has come to me of his own will. He has looked at the path I offer and has not flinched. He has indicated the same resolve. So I ask you now, as his senior and my disciple: are you going to insult his determination by assuming it is lesser than yours once was?”

The challenge hung in the air, a masterful trap built on Grom’s own past and honor. He shook his head, not in negation, but in frustration at the logic.

Grom: “It’s not that, Mitra. You’re twisting my meaning, and you know it.” His rumble was lower, edged with a protective grit. “This isn’t about his spirit. I know you too well. Have you even told him what the Reactive Enhancement Method is? Not the theory, but the—”

Alan: “Grom, please.”

Alan’s voice cut between them with a solid immovable weight. Both sets of eyes snapped to him. The young man from Gix stood straighter, the ghosts of lost friends and a burning homestead visible in the hard line of his mouth.

Alan: “I’ve watched people I care about be broken. I held them as the light left their eyes, knowing I was too weak to stop it. I carry that regret inside me that will follow me to the end of my life.” His gaze held Grom’s, fierce and unyielding. “I will become someone who can protect the people I care about. And, nothing less..”

His words fell into a stunned silence, final as a tomb door closing. There was no adolescent bravado in them, only the grim calculus of a soldier who had already counted the cost.

Grom opened his mouth, the practical arguments still on his tongue. But they died there as he truly saw the look in Alan’s eyes. It was not the hot, reckless determination of youth. It was the cold resolve of a man who has already chosen his path. It was a look Grom recognized—it was the look he had seen in his own reflection.

A long, slow breath escaped the Goliath, a sound like shifting gravel. He closed his eyes for a moment, the last bastion of his resistance crumbling before an honor he understood too well.

Grom: “Fine,” he conceded, the word heavy with resigned respect. He looked from Alan back to Mitra, his expression now that of a fellow professional accepting a perilous mission. “To stand in your way would be the height of hypocrisy. And it would dishonor the spirit of our ancestors." He rolled his massive shoulders, the playful senior gone, replaced by the focused, ruthless trainer. “Prepare yourself, Alan.”

Mitra: “Now that it is settled, we begin. Immediately.”

Alan: “Okay. What do I need to—”

Alan’s question was obliterated mid-syllable by a force colliding with his face.

There was no wind-up, no shout, no gathering of visible aether. One moment, Grom stood relaxed, his expression one of focus. The next, his right fist vanished from his side and reappeared against Alan’s jaw.

A deafening CRUNCH of sundering bone vibrated through Alan’s entire skull, a sickening, internal thunder that drowned out all sound. White-hot pain exploded from the point of contact, flooding his nervous system. His vision stuttered into a strobe of blinding light and dark nothingness. The world upended, his feet left the ground, and he was a ragdoll in a hurricane of his own momentum.

He was airborne, tumbling end over end in a graceless arc. The training ground blurred into a smear of grey stone and green wards. He hit the unforgiving ground once, shoulder-first, the breath hammered from his lungs in a voiceless gasp, then bounced and rolled until his momentum spent itself, leaving him flat on his back, staring dumbly at the indifferent sky.

The pain was a constant, shrieking siren in his jaw. Gingerly, dreading the confirmation, he raised a trembling hand to his face. He probed the line of his jaw, expecting to find shattered bone, the slick warmth of blood, the misalignment of a ruined hinge.

His fingers touched… unbroken skin. Solid bone beneath. A deep, throbbing ache radiated from the point of impact, a memory of trauma etched into his nerves, but there was no fracture, no dislocation, not even the rising swell of a bruise. It was as if his body had experienced the total destruction and then simply… refused to acknowledge it.

His wide, disbelieving eyes flicked back to Grom. The Goliath stood in a low, rooted stance, his right fist held before him. For a fleeting instant, Alan saw it— a shimmer, a corona of intricate, yellow-colored energy woven around Grom’s knuckles like a lattice. It was the faint, fading echo of Vito’s energy, a fundamental force of life.

Grom exhaled, a plume of steam in the cool air, and the shimmer vanished. He didn’t smile. His dark eyes held only the stern, unwavering focus of a sculptor about to strike the marble again.

Mitra: “Alright, listen up. Here’s the drill,” she said from the sidelines, not moving from her spot by a pillar. Her tone was cooler and more direct now, stripped of formality—a veteran instructor laying out the facts. She stood with her arms loosely crossed, one foot slightly forward, like she was watching an experiment she’d designed from scratch.

Mitra: “Grom’s going to hit you. Randomly. No patterns, no tells. The moment you think you’ve got the rhythm, he’ll change it. Your one and only job is to get enhancement magic active right at the instant of impact—not a second before, and definitely not after. You’re not just cushioning the blow; you’re teaching your body to hold ground, to reinforce structure under stress.’”

As Alan pushed himself back to his feet, legs trembling not from injury but from adrenal shock, the methodical horror of it crystallized. This was why they called her the Green-Haired Demon.

Mitra: “Don’t lose sleep over broken bones,” she went on, her tone disturbingly matter-of-fact. “Grom’s weaving Vito energy into every strike using a spell I designed—‘Regeneration Fist.’ It’s a kinetic-reversal matrix. The force that should shatter bone or tear tissue is captured and prevented at the moment of trauma, triggering near-instant cellular repair. You’ll walk out of here without a single bruise or fracture. Nothing permanent.”

She paused, letting that cold, clinical comfort settle before delivering the catch—the part that hollowed out his earlier resolve.

Mitra: “But the pain? That’s all yours.. Your nerves will light up exactly as if your arm’s bone had been broken, or your ribs caved in. That’s not a bug—it’s the point. Pain is the signal. Your magic needs to learn to respond to that signal before your conscious mind even registers it.” She tilted her head slightly, a flicker of something analytical in her emerald gaze. “I’d run this drill myself, but… let’s be real. My control is calibrated for a different weight class. If I hit you, even holding back, your system would likely short-circuit from the shock. You’d be out cold, and we’d have to call it a day. Grom’s better at…holding back.”

“Holding back?” Alan almost wanted to laugh, but his jaw still throbbed with the phantom memory of a break that never was, a pain that felt more real than the unmarried skin beneath his fingers.

Then she delivered the kicker, her voice still casual, as though scheduling a follow-up meeting or a trip to the library.

Mitra: “We’ll keep this up for the next four hours. No breaks, no timeouts. After that, provided you’re still conscious and coherent, we’ll arrange a meeting with Dakka sometime next week. He’s got some… supplemental equipment and knowledge that should help with another aspect of your training.”

“Four hours.” Alan silently reeled.

The words didn’t just land—they hit hard. Alan searched her face—still calm, still unreadable—but he caught it now: a slight sharpness in her gaze, the focused intensity of a sculptor eyeing a block of marble. She was immersed. His pain was data. His resistance, a variable in an equation only she was solving. And in that detached focus, he sensed something that chilled him more than malice ever could—the quiet, terrifying enjoyment of a master watching her method unfold exactly as predicted.

Across the training ground, Grom shifted his weight silently, the faint yellow shimmer of Vito energy flickering once more around his knuckles like trapped lightning. The friendly senior, the brother-in-stone, was gone, fully replaced by the patient, implacable instrument of Mitra’s will.

Alan sucked in a breath that felt too thin, and settled into the most basic defensive stance he knew. Every instinct, every primal warning bell in his body, screamed at him to run, to yield, to make it stop. He locked those impulses down, burying them under the cold, heavy weight of memory—Cris’s smile turning hollow, the scent of burning homes, the ceaseless, whispering pull of something beyond himself, a need that demanded a strength he did not yet possess.

He surrendered to the flow of events. The longest four hours of his life were starting now.

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