The aftermath of the localized rift in Sector 4 was a masterclass in Vanguard incompetence, at least from Same's perspective. For a week, the Aegis Preparatory Academy was locked down. Inquisitors swarmed the grounds, waving their crude Mana-detectors over every inch of the arena. They interrogated Instructor Vance, who swore upon his honor that the beast simply imploded. They questioned the terrified children, who could only recount the monster freezing before turning to ash.
Naturally, the Inquisitors concluded that a passing, high-tier ancient fossil—one of the hidden masters of the 49th race—had intervened to save the commander's son and the elite students. It was a comforting lie, one that allowed the Vanguard to maintain their illusion of control.
Same sat in the dim, ozone-scented quiet of the Archives, organizing data slates with mechanical precision. He found the Vanguard's conclusion highly convenient. It kept the eyes of the world looking up at imaginary saviors, rather than down at the seven-year-old "null" sweeping the basement floors.
But convenience wasn't progress. The Void Stalker's sudden appearance confirmed that the spatial barriers protecting Earth were degrading faster than his father's intelligence reports suggested. The Higher Realms were testing the waters. If Same waited until he was an adult to make his move, there might not be a world left to conquer.
He needed a proxy. He needed hands to move pieces on the board while he remained hidden in the shadows. He needed an organization.
That night, exactly at 0200 hours, Same stood in the center of his lavish bedroom in the Linley Estate. The mansion was a fortress, protected by a billion-credit security grid, thermal sensors, and two squads of elite Vanguard guards patrolling the perimeter. To a normal child, it was an inescapable gilded cage.
To Same, with his perfect comprehension and absolute control over Origin Qi, it was a sieve.
He closed his eyes and called upon the compressed ocean of energy near his heart. He didn't just push the Qi outward; he wove it. He manipulated the microscopic particles of light and sound immediately surrounding his body. It was a technique he had synthesized from studying the natural camouflage of high-tier void beasts in the archives.
Within seconds, the space around Same warped. To the naked eye, and to the estate's thermal sensors, he simply ceased to exist. He had created a localized, light-bending shroud. Furthermore, he manipulated his own vocal cords with Origin Qi, thickening them to produce the deep, resonant voice of a grown man should he need to speak.
He stepped out of his bedroom window, his body lighter than a feather, and plummeted three stories. Just before hitting the ground, he released a tiny burst of kinetic force, softening his landing to absolute silence. He walked right past a pair of patrolling guards, so close he could smell the stale coffee on their breath. They didn't even blink.
Thirty minutes later, Same was standing in the Undercity—the sprawling, neon-lit slums that sat beneath the elevated gleaming spires of the capital. This was Sector 9, a place where the Vanguard's laws held no weight, replaced by the brutal currency of black-market Mana-tech, smuggled beast cores, and blood.
Despite his optical shroud, Same moved cautiously, observing the dregs of society through the analytical lens of his photographic memory. He wasn't looking for a gang of thugs; he was looking for a very specific type of desperate. He needed someone with the skills of a Vanguard operative, but the burning resentment of a betrayed man.
He found him in a filthy, rain-slicked alley behind a rundown Mana-bar.
Three large, heavily augmented enforcers were currently taking turns kicking a man curled into a ball on the ground. The man on the ground was Corvus. Same recognized his face from a classified casualty report he had read in the archives. Corvus was a former top-tier Vanguard scout. Five years ago, his squad had been left behind as bait during a botched retreat in the Third Sector. Corvus was the only survivor, but a Higher Realm beast had shattered his meridians, rendering him a crippled civilian. The Vanguard had given him a cheap medal and tossed him into the Undercity to rot.
"You owe the boss three thousand credits, Corvus!" one of the enforcers spat, drawing a crackling, low-grade stun baton. "Since your body is useless for manual labor, we're going to harvest your optic nerves. They'll fetch a decent price on the black market."
Corvus didn't beg. He just spat a mouthful of blood at the enforcer's boots. "Do it, you corporate lapdog. It beats looking at your ugly face."
The enforcer snarled and raised the baton, ready to plunge it into Corvus's eye.
Same decided he had seen enough. The man's spirit was unbroken, even if his body was shattered. Perfect.
Without dropping his shroud, Same flicked his index finger. He didn't use a pebble this time. He simply condensed the surrounding air pressure into a hyper-dense, invisible blade and swung his hand in a horizontal arc.
The stun baton was cleanly sheared in half, the top heavy portion clattering to the wet pavement.
The three enforcers froze, confused by the sudden, silent destruction of their weapon. "What the—"
Same stepped out of the shadows. He allowed his optical shroud to shift, changing from complete invisibility to the imposing, faceless silhouette of a tall man draped in shifting darkness. The spectral starlight crown burned faintly where his eyes should be.
"Leave," Same commanded, his organically altered voice rumbling like distant thunder, shaking the puddles in the alley.
The enforcers, sensing the unnatural, crushing pressure radiating from the shadowed figure, didn't need to be told twice. They dropped the broken baton and sprinted out of the alley, their heavy boots splashing frantically into the night.
Same looked down at the bleeding, broken former scout. The first piece of his empire had just been acquired.