Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 79: The six forms

There was no room for argument. Varun's voice carried authority—the kind that brooked no hesitation, no questions. It wasn't loud, but it didn't have to be. It was the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

Orion's fingers hovered over the screen, the words "Confirm Data Purge?" flashing before him. He hesitated, not out of defiance but calculation. Information was power. Wiping the analysis meant erasing something potentially invaluable. But Varun wasn't someone who gave orders lightly.

A flick of his fingers. DATA PURGED.

The interface blinked once before the screen went dark, as if the act itself carried weight.

Only then did Varun exhale, his shoulders loosening—fractionally. But his eyes remained sharp, watchful, as if scanning Orion for any trace of resistance.

Orion didn't like this.

"What was that about?" His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, a demand for answers.

Varun didn't reply immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and retrieved a small, unmarked identicard. He tossed it onto the table between them, the subtle clink of metal-on-glass cutting through the tense silence.

Orion picked it up. The card pulsed faintly under his fingertips, its embedded security systems recognizing a new holder. The Confederacy's insignia was absent—no rank, no name, just an advanced piece of technology with no clear origin.

"This will give you access to superior computing power," Varun said. "And more secure analysis—something normally reserved for Generals and high-ranking officials."

Orion turned the card over, feeling the weight of it. Not physical weight, but the significance of what was being offered. This wasn't just access. This was trust. A dangerous kind of trust.

Orion's brows furrowed. "Why the hell are you giving this to me? Isn't this yours?"

Varun met his gaze, arms crossing over his chest. "Because if the Confederacy's AI had fully analyzed your movements, it would have been a disaster."

There was something grim in his tone.

A faint pulse of unease ran through Orion. He tightened his grip on the card. "Explain."

Varun studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Right now, the system sees you as an exceptionally gifted five-year-old. Your techniques aren't fully formed. The AI tracks your growth, but because you're still developing, it hasn't categorized your movements as a true martial discipline."

Orion didn't blink. He knew what was coming next.

Varun's voice dropped lower. "But if the system had fully broken down the Wraith's Wrath—if it had mapped every nuance of your technique—it would have been able to simulate counter-strategies before you even mastered it yourself."

Orion's breath hitched.

The realization settled over him like a cold weight. The Confederacy's combat programs—its predictive models, its adaptive AIs—could have dissected his technique, simulated its weaknesses, and begun crafting counters immediately.

His edge, his advantage, would have been stripped away before he had even refined it.

Or worse.

If his style was identified as something new—something formidable—it wouldn't just be analyzed. It would be repurposed. Stolen. Absorbed into the Confederacy's broader martial database. The academy's elite fighters would be trained with versions of his own movements before he even had a chance to refine them.

The thought made his stomach twist.

Orion's gaze lifted, sharp and calculating. "So what now?"

Varun leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Now?" He nodded at the identicard. "You refine your technique away from the Confederacy's prying eyes. You use that access to run private simulations—ones the Confederacy's network can't track. And most importantly..."

His gaze hardened.

"You don't show your full hand until you have to."

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Orion turned the card over once more, feeling its cool metal press into his palm.

Varun stepped forward, his eyes sharp with intent as he motioned for Orion to take his stance again. The air in the training hall was thick with the scent of sweat and metal, the faint hum of the facility's environmental systems the only background noise.

Orion was fast. Incredibly fast. His instincts were razor-sharp, his technique intuitive. But it was raw. Untamed. Every step, every motion, held the foundation of something extraordinary—yet it lacked refinement.

"Your body isn't ready for the full sequence," he said, his voice measured but firm. "It's tearing itself apart trying to keep up with your mind. We're going to break it down. One piece at a time."

Orion swallowed, nodding. He could feel it—the strain in his muscles, the unnatural tension in his movements. He had been pushing too hard, too fast.

Varun began circling him like a predator assessing its prey, his footsteps deliberate. His gaze was clinical, dissecting every inch of Orion's posture, from the way his feet were planted to the minute shifts in his shoulders.

"The issue isn't just speed," Varun continued. "It's the sudden transitions. Your stance, footwork, the way your body shifts—all of it is too much at once."

Orion's grip tightened around his spear. He wanted to protest, to insist he could handle it, but Varun's presence alone kept him silent.

The older warrior exhaled sharply through his nose. "First, let's focus on footwork. Drop the weapon."

Orion hesitated only a fraction of a second before obeying, letting the spear clatter to the floor.

"Wraith's Wrath relies on rapid directional shifts," Varun explained, stepping beside him. "That means you need control over every step. Right now, you're forcing those transitions instead of letting momentum carry you."

Varun moved without effort, demonstrating the technique. His feet barely made a sound against the floor, each step flowing into the next. There was no wasted energy, no excess force—just seamless, calculated motion.

"Watch," he said. "Slow it down."

Orion copied him, mirroring the steps. He felt unbalanced, his movements clumsy and unnatural. It wasn't speed that made this difficult—it was control.

Varun studied him with an unreadable expression. "Good. Now slow it down even further. Hold each stance longer. The longer you hold it, the less strain your muscles feel."

Orion's jaw clenched. His body screamed at him to move faster, to keep going. But he obeyed. Each shift in stance was now deliberate, held just long enough for his muscles to adjust before moving to the next.

What impressed Varun the most wasn't just the technique's speed, but his fluidity.

Even when forced to slow down, to deconstruct his movements piece by piece, he could see its potential.

Minutes passed.

The silence was broken only by the rhythm of their controlled footfalls. Orion's legs burned with effort, his balance wavering with each prolonged transition.

Varun's gaze sharpened as he walked around him, correcting minute details. "Your center of gravity is too high. Sink into it. Breathe with each shift."

Orion adjusted, sucking in slow, measured breaths.

"Better," Varun muttered. He took a step back, watching him repeat the movements. "Now, integrate the rest."

They continued, dissecting every motion—footwork, stance, the angles of his strikes, the way his weight transferred between steps. Nothing was left untouched.

Varun saw room for improvement everywhere.

Varun crossed his arms, nodding slightly. "You have the right pieces. Now we shape them into something unstoppable."

Orion wiped sweat from his brow, muscles trembling from the strain. But beneath the exhaustion, something burned in his gaze.