Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 87: Aryan Alavkin

Orion was discharged from medical care, his body still recovering from the strain. The halls of the facility were quiet as he stepped out, his mind weighed down by everything that had happened.

Meanwhile, Varun and Valeria convened in her private study, a dimly lit chamber lined with interactive data panels and holographic archives.

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"So," she murmured, her voice smooth but edged with curiosity, "you're worried about Aryan."

Varun exhaled sharply through his nose. "Concerned," he corrected. "I'm concerned about Orion."

A slight smirk played across Valeria's lips as she tilted her head. "You think Aryan will break him?" she asked, her tone carrying a hint of amusement.

"He will." Varun finally turned from the window, his eyes gleaming. "And Orion needs it," he said, his voice firm with conviction.

Valeria regarded him for a moment before leaning forward, resting her chin lightly on the back of her hand. "The Alavkin Triplets..." she mused, her gaze flicking to the holographic display hovering beside her. "Aryan, Asrian, Avetik. They've always been outliers."

Varun's mouth tightened. "His gravity manipulation doesn't just control weight. It controls the battlefield itself."

Valeria inclined her head, her gaze thoughtful. "Orion will have to learn—quickly—that raw strength isn't enough," she said, her tone measured. "He's talented, but he's still linear in his thinking. Aryan will expose that."

Varun's jaw twitched, his expression tightening. "Aryan's mastery is beyond anything Orion has encountered," he said, his voice low and firm. "If the boy ever thought training alone could make him powerful, Aryan will shatter that illusion."

The smirk faded from Valeria's face, replaced by something more contemplative. "The Triplets are legends, but Aryan—" She exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "He's different from his brothers. Less disciplined, but more... insightful."

Varun's brow furrowed, a hint of skepticism in his gaze. "Insightful?" he repeated, his tone edged with doubt.

Valeria steepled her fingers. "He's the only one who looks at Hekatryon as something beyond a weapon. He'll make Orion question things."

Varun's fingers curled at his side. "Questioning is good," he admitted.

"True." Valeria's voice softened, though not with reassurance—only certainty.

Varun listened in silence.

"Orion doesn't just need to get stronger," Valeria said finally, her voice quiet but resolute. "He needs to understand that there exist monsters who could kill him with a mere thought."

And Orion had no idea what awaited him.

And so, the next day, he found himself standing before the training chamber.

The moment Orion stepped into the training chamber, he felt it.

A shift in pressure. A subtle yet undeniable force curling around him like invisible tendrils, threading through his muscles, his joints—his bones.

Gravity.

His body tensed instinctively, his breath caught in his throat. The chamber itself was vast, lined with reinforced alloy plating, illuminated by a sterile, artificial glow. But none of that mattered.

Because at the center of the chamber stood Aryan Alavkin.

The man exuded an effortless confidence, his arms crossed lazily over his chest as if he were merely spectating. His silver hair—a signature trait of the Alavkin bloodline—caught the light, making him appear almost otherworldly. His gaze, however, was anything but distant.

It was focused. Predatory.

Then—

His knees buckled.

A crushing force slammed into Orion's body, sending him to the floor in an instant. His face hovered inches from the cold ground as an invisible weight bore down on him, pressing into his spine, his ribs, his lungs.

It wasn't just weight.

It was a suffocating pull, as though the very fabric of space had turned against him, crushing his existence into submission. His bones ached, his breathing shallowed—his mind screamed in defiance.

Aryan's voice, calm and almost amused, cut through the pressure. "Do you understand now?"

Orion gritted his teeth, straining against the force. His Hekatryon flared—Ephemeral Fire, flickering in his veins, burning against the weight. But the moment it surged, the gravity intensified, snuffing it out like a candle under an ocean's pressure.

"If I wanted," Aryan continued, "I could increase the force just enough to make your ribs crack." He tilted his head slightly, watching Orion's struggle with detached curiosity. "A little more, and your organs would rupture."

Orion sucked in a sharp breath, forcing his trembling muscles to resist, but it was like trying to lift a mountain.

He would have to dedicate his entire life to training just to stand a chance at leaving a scratch on him.

That's what it would take to bridge this gap. Maybe even longer.

Then—

The weight vanished.

Orion gasped as the unbearable force lifted from his body. His limbs shook as he pushed himself upright, sweat clinging to his skin. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

But Aryan was no longer standing.

He was seated now, cross-legged on the ground, completely at ease. Beside him, a chessboard materialized from a small rift in space, the black and white pieces arranged in their starting positions.

"Sit." Aryan gestured to the space opposite him. "I want to ask you something."

Orion hesitated, his body still reeling from the earlier demonstration, but the intensity in Aryan's gaze left no room for refusal. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, his breath still uneven.

Aryan lifted a pawn between two fingers, studying it for a brief moment before placing it on the board.

"Do you think chess is infinite?"

Orion blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation. His mind struggled to shift gears.

He frowned. "If you're talking about the number of possible games, then no. Most don't last beyond a hundred moves. And even then, there are only so many logical sequences—most variations ideally keep the position a draw or slightly advantageous."

Aryan's lips curled into the faintest of smirks. "Good."

Then, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "But let's change the premise. Say I start from one move and then begin to explore chess as a whole. Wouldn't the possibilities be near infinite?"

Orion nodded, though his wariness remained. "Yeah, in that sense, yes."

Aryan placed a knight onto the board, his fingers lingering on it. "There's a fallacy called the Chivalrous Centaur. When two unrelated or incompatible concepts are fused together into a singular, unquestioned ideal—despite one or both being fundamentally flawed or even nonexistent. But reality just like Hekatryon, most probably isn't infinite—it's just too large for us to see its limits."

Orion's frown deepened. He wasn't sure where this was going.

"And you're saying Hekatryon is the same?"

Aryan's smirk widened slightly. There it was. The real conversation.

"Hekatryon feels limitless," Aryan said, his tone quiet but firm. "But it isn't. It's finite."

His fingers tapped the knight once, sending it spinning slightly in place.

"And so is your potential."

Something twisted in Orion's chest. His fists clenched.

"Then what's the point?" he asked, his voice lower now, nearly a growl.

Aryan chuckled. "The point," Aryan said, setting the knight down with a soft click, "is understanding the limits so you can break them properly."

"As of now, son of Cassian, you don't even know where your limits begin—let alone how to break them."