CHAPTER 162: QUIET MORNINGS.

(A/N Big thanks to everyone for the Power stones and Golden tickets, they mean a lot. As usual, please don’t hesitate to comment or drop a review. ENJOY)

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Morning light filtered through the curtains in thin gold threads, falling across Orion’s face as he stirred. He grimaced, shifting under the sheets—not because he was sore, but because he could feel the weight of sleep still clinging to him. A late night out always came with consequences, and even though his body was stronger than most, fatigue was still fatigue.

He blinked slowly until the room came into focus.

Late.

Much later than he expected.

He exhaled through his nose, sat up, and ran a hand through his hair. The long silver strands—normally combed or at least neat—fell messily across his forehead, far too unruly for his liking this early.

He stretched once, then stood with a yawn and rolled his shoulders before stepping out of the room. His steps carried him automatically toward the balcony.

Caelum was there.

Of course he was.

The boy sat on one of the cushioned balcony chairs, posture relaxed, a thick book balanced neatly in one hand. Morning breeze tugged at his short, ear-length silver hair—cut specifically to avoid any distractions during training—but somehow making him look even more composed. He’d grown taller over the years, now standing at 5’7 at just fourteen. His frame had begun to stretch out, his features sharpening into something that drew too many glances for a certain person’s liking.

With that aloof expression and those sharper ice-blue eyes, Caelum had become the type of boy the academy’s girls whispered about.

He didn’t care, of course.

He cared about the story in his hand.

Orion leaned against the doorframe for a moment, observing him. Four years, and he still didn’t know how Caelum fell into the habit of reading fiction. One day he had been a quiet, literal-minded kid who stuck to training manuals and research papers, and the next he was carrying novels in his pockets. All Orion knew was that a senior—someone already graduated—had introduced him to it, and Caelum had somehow ended up in a book club.

Orion understood the love for fiction. Completely. The right story could hook someone for hours, days, weeks. He understood the addiction too—but he already had an addiction of his own, a far older one. There was simply no room in his heart for two.

Still, the sight of Caelum flipping a page brought an old memory bubbling up.

Alice.

And the Ivory incident.

He shoved that thought away immediately, the same way he always did. No need to dwell on it.

He groaned softly, rubbed his face, and scratched at his scalp, ruffling his hair even more. Caelum didn’t react. Didn’t look up. Didn’t greet him. He didn’t need to.

They were long past morning greetings.

Orion walked into the bathroom, washed his face, and returned with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. He joined Caelum on the balcony, leaning over the railing as he brushed, letting the breeze wake him up properly.

Caelum flipped another page.

Orion spat the toothpaste into a small disposal cup, wiped his mouth, and walked back inside to change—except he didn’t bother. Pajamas were fine. He was going to grab breakfast from downstairs anyway.

He returned a few minutes later with a hot sandwich-like meal—thin roasted meat layered between thick slices of toasted bread, drizzled with a mild sauce—and a cup of herbal tea steaming in his hand. The scent was crisp, minty, and refreshing enough to push away the last remnants of sleep.

He settled into the chair beside Caelum and began eating quietly.

The minutes passed in companionable silence.

There was no need to talk.

They didn’t need to fill the air with unnecessary conversation.

This—quiet breakfast together—was enough.

He took a sip of tea and glanced at the time on his bracelet.

9:30.

They were scheduled to meet at 2 p.m.

Plenty of time.

Too much time, perhaps.

He looked sideways at Caelum again. The boy hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted, hadn’t even blinked more than necessary.

’He already has his free time arranged,’ Orion thought dryly.

He envied it a little. The ability to sink so completely into something and not be bothered by anything else. He had once been like that—on Earth, hunched over screens, books, or whatever hobby had held him at the time.

But here?

Here his mind never stopped moving.

Despite how similar his position might seem to Caelum, even while reading, his mind never stopped wandering, at this point he was starting to think it was a curse.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose as the morning breeze swept over them.

Operation Mimic the Streak...

His attempt to phase through matter.

His newest obsession.

Difficult. Tedious. Frustrating. But possible.

He let his mind wander to the memory of yesterday—collisions of frequency, distortions collapsing, that stubborn wall he kept hitting again and again. He had made progress. Subtle progress, yes, but progress nonetheless.

Still...

It was surprising the system had not reacted yet.

The system always responded to resolve.

To clear intention.

To determination bordering on obsession.

And he was determined.

He had enough resolve to split a mountain in half if that were the requirement.

But no quest had appeared.

Odd.

He brushed the thought aside for now. Thinking about the system too deeply often led nowhere unless it decided to show him something.

His thoughts shifted again—to the origin of the technique. To Thaddeus. To the spatial veil he had once tried so hard to break. To the mission that had taken years and had nearly broken his patience. But he had done it. He had succeeded. And he had gained something from it, something far more useful than bragging rights.

His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of the chair.

The world felt too still this morning.

Too quiet.

He was so lost in thought that Caelum’s bracelet vibrating cut through the silence like a dropped blade.

Caelum’s eyes finally lifted from the page.

He glanced at the glowing interface hovering a few inches above the bracelet—expression unreadable, posture perfectly calm.

Orion turned his head slightly, not intruding, simply acknowledging the shift in attention.

For Caelum, a contact this early meant something unusual. The boy was not popular enough to receive constant messages, nor careless enough to allow random students to add him. His circle was small.

Very small.

Which meant whoever was contacting him had a reason—and likely an important one.