Ashes of the Elite

The heavy door swings open, and I step inside.

The first thing that strikes me is the tidiness. For all the power and status an elite holds, I expected something more grandiose, suffocating, draped in excess. Instead, the office is surprisingly neat, almost scholarly. Dark wooden shelves line the walls, each one packed with books, their spines worn but carefully arranged. A simple desk sits at the center of the room, its surface clear save for a single stack of papers and an inkwell. Even the air is different, with no lingering scent of incense or depression from the halls I was just dragged through, just the faint smell of parchment and aged wood. It was nice.

And then, sitting behind the desk, is the man of the hour.

I recognize him immediately. The same blonde-haired prick, Elite, who arrested me. The same one who launched me across the street with a swipe of his hands. Up close, he seems even younger than I remembered early twenties, 23 years old max, modest stature, around 5'9. His blonde hair is neatly kept but slightly tousled, as if he doesn't care enough to fix it properly. But it's his eyes that stand out the most: disgustingly bright blue like I remember, sharp, intelligent, and amused. Like he already knows exactly what I'm thinking. Like he's enjoying the fact that I have no idea what happens next.

I keep my expression neutral, but my gaze flicks past him, drawn to something mounted on the wall behind his desk. A rifle.

For a second, I just stare. A gun, seriously? I snort to myself; this guy fancies himself a collector.

Guns were once the weapon of choice like five centuries ago, before the first Imperial King set foot on Avrael's shores, flanked by his cohort of Elites. Back then, sure, guns ruled the battlefield. But against an Awakened Elite gifted with their mark of power, near superhuman speed, and reflexes beyond human limits, bullets became nothing more than slow-moving nuisances.

And as the Empire expanded, close quarters combat became the standard across the continent. Blades, magic, and raw physical power replaced firearms entirely. Long-range attacks still exist, of course, but only in the form of siege weapons and city-leveling bombardments. Guns? Relics of the past, it's honestly ridiculous he would have one hanging up. And since he's an elite, it's even stranger. The elites see themselves as demigods. Shepherds of humanity, destined to lead the world into some glorious new Golden Age. At least, that's the nonsense King Malik and his damned Inquisitors beat into them at the Academy to convince the damned fools to go and die for him. They believe in honor and duty, blah blah blah. I'll puke thinking about it. Honor is nothing but a word powerful bastards invented to make young fools die and kill for them. Its nothing but a chain that wraps around their necks making them slaves. Similar to the way the Imperial sigil is a serpent that kills by strangling. What fitting irony.

It's also amusing that no one in this country talks about the fact that other nations have their own versions of elites. Well, I suppose that's not true; the Imperial Family simply dismisses them, claiming they aren't blessed by the "true" Gods and have no right to wield the power bestowed upon them from the Rite of Manifestation.

Fanatics. I hate them.

"Surprised?" His voice is smooth and casual, as if we were old acquaintances rather than prisoner and captor. His voice tears me away from my thoughts, and I meet his gaze. I don't answer.