Chapter 4: Branded by Law

Chapter 4: Branded by Law

The Lexmordant headquarters was not what Chase had expected. After the breathtaking, terrifying view from the balcony—the sterile perfection of New Camelot warring with the gothic decay of its ancestor—he had anticipated something equally grand or decrepit. Instead, the interior was starkly utilitarian. The floors were polished grey stone, the walls were unadorned, and the air hummed with the same contained magical energy as the city below. It felt less like the nerve center of a clandestine order and more like a high-security government building. There was no grandeur here, only function.

Mordred led him down a silent corridor to a circular chamber in the building's heart. The room was empty save for a low, obsidian plinth in the center. Three figures were already waiting for them, their postures radiating a mixture of impatience and apprehension.

Desire: All Chase wanted was a straight answer. To understand the rules of this new game he’d been forced into. He was tired of being a chaotic element; for the first time, he craved a blueprint, a map of the territory, even if it was a battlefield.

Obstacle: His new "colleagues" were the first and most immediate obstacle. They looked him over not as a teammate, but as a bomb someone had carelessly rolled into the room.

The first was a woman with sharp features and hair pulled back in a severe, practical bun. Her eyes, the color of a winter sky, were analytical and cold. She wore fitted, dark grey tactical gear over which a light cuirass was buckled, every strap and pouch perfectly in place. She radiated an aura of crisp, disciplined control that was the polar opposite of Chase's own chaotic shimmer.

Beside her stood a mountain. The man, if he was entirely a man, was a good head taller than Chase and twice as broad, with thick, corded arms crossed over a massive chest. His skin had a faint, stony texture, and his beard was braided with what looked like thin copper wire. He watched Chase from under a heavy brow, his expression a mask of stony neutrality that was somehow more intimidating than open hostility.

The third was younger, a wiry man with nervous energy, his fingers constantly adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose. He kept glancing from Chase to a data-slate in his hand, his eyes wide with a combination of clinical curiosity and pure, unadulterated fear. He was staring at the heat-haze of Chase’s magic like a scientist observing a stellar flare from far too close.

"Elara, Borin, Kael," Mordred said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone chamber. "This is Chase Ambrose. He is our newest recruit."

The woman, Elara, spoke first, her voice as sharp as her features. "This is the sledgehammer you spoke of? He smells of cheap whiskey and desperation."

"His scent is his own affair," Mordred replied smoothly. "His power, however, is now ours. It is time for his initiation. Prepare the Lex."

Kael, the nervous one, scurried over to the obsidian plinth. He made a few precise gestures, and glowing lines of silver light appeared on its surface, forming a complex matrix of runes that pulsed with a low hum.

"What is this?" Chase asked, his hand instinctively going to the hiltless space where a sword might hang.

"A formality," Mordred said, though his eyes suggested it was anything but. "The Lex System is the tool that binds us. It is a communication device, a status monitor, and an anchor. It ensures every agent operates under the same laws and has access to the same tactical information. It will allow us to quantify and monitor your unique energies. For your safety, and for ours."

Chase heard the unspoken words: It will allow us to control you. The offer of a furnace to direct his fire now felt more like the forging of a leash.

Action: "Step forward, Mr. Ambrose," Mordred commanded. "Place your left hand upon the plinth."

His left hand. The one with the scar. Of course. Chase’s jaw tightened. He walked forward, the eyes of his new squadmates boring into his back. He could feel their judgment, their skepticism. They saw a wreck, an unstable burnout dragged in from the gutter. They weren't wrong. He hesitated for a moment, then placed his scarred palm flat against the cold, humming surface of the obsidian.

Result: The moment his skin made contact, the silver runes flared with blinding intensity. A searing, white-hot pain shot up his arm, as if molten metal were being poured directly into his veins. He grunted, biting back a scream, his muscles locking tight. The chaotic magic inside him, the Itch, roared to life, fighting against the invasive force. It was a violation on a metaphysical level, a foreign order being brutally imposed upon his very essence.

He felt the magic tattooing itself not just onto his skin, but into his soul. On his forearm, from wrist to elbow, intricate patterns of glowing, silver-blue lines began to burn their way into existence. They writhed like living things before settling into a complex, interlocking design of circuits and sigils.

The pain subsided as quickly as it had begun, leaving him breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. He stared at his arm. A magical interface now adorned his skin, shimmering with a soft inner light. Runic text and glowing bars pulsed gently.

"Incredible," Kael breathed, stepping closer, his fear momentarily forgotten. He held his data-slate up, which was mirroring the display on Chase's arm. "The energy integration is… volatile, but stable. Sir, his raw power metrics are off the scale. I've never seen a reading this high."

Elara stepped forward, her cold eyes scanning the display. "Raw power means nothing without control. Look at his status diagnostics."

Chase looked down at his own arm. He could instinctively understand the display, as if the knowledge had been injected directly into his brain.

[OPERATIVE: CHASE AMBROSE] POWER LEVEL: 9,240 (Unstable) STATUS: Fatigued, Residual Alcohol Toxicity, Psychological Trauma (Chronic), Mana Wellspring (Chaotic)

He felt a flush of shame and anger. His weaknesses, his failures, his pain—all laid bare, quantified and displayed for them to see. It was the ultimate indignity.

"Psychological Trauma," Elara read aloud, her voice dripping with scorn. "Mana Wellspring (Chaotic). He's not an asset; he's a liability. A walking cataclysm waiting for a trigger."

"He is what we require," Mordred stated, his authority silencing her. "The system is now bonded. It will provide you with all relevant Lexmordant laws. Adherence is not optional."

Turning Point: As if on cue, a new section of the display on his arm lit up.

[LEX REGULATION 7: Unauthorized discharge of elemental force above Class-3 in non-combat zones is prohibited.] [LEX REGULATION 14: Consumption of reality-altering or judgment-impairing substances is subject to review and restriction.] [LEX REGULATION 21: All operatives must maintain psychological stability within acceptable parameters.]

Regulation 14. Judgment-impairing substances. They were going to try and manage his drinking. Regulation 7 was a direct chain on the only way he knew how to solve problems. It was a shackle. Every line of glowing text was another link. He focused on the Itch inside him, trying to summon that familiar, comforting surge of chaotic power. He pushed.

A sharp, electric shock, cold and precise, lanced up his arm from the brand. It wasn't excruciating, but it was absolute. A digital "no." The Lex System actively suppressed the flare-up before it could even begin. He was in a cage, and the bars were now etched into his very skin.

Ending: "Get him kitted out," Mordred ordered, turning to leave as if the matter was settled. "Your first assignment is in one hour. A simple patrol along the perimeter of the Old City."

Elara gave a curt, angry nod. Borin, the silent giant, grunted and finally moved, gesturing with a thumb for Chase to follow. His expression was unreadable, but his wariness was a tangible force.

Chase stared at the glowing brand on his arm. It pulsed with a calm, steady rhythm, a silent promise of control, of order. It felt alien. He had traded the freedom of his self-destructive spiral for a gilded cage. He had come here looking for a target for his rage, a purpose for his pain. Instead, he had been branded, collared, and handed a rulebook. And the first rule was that he could no longer be himself.