"Contractor. It appears the humans in this city are engaging in rebellion."
With a groan, Vael vanished from the bed in a ripple of distorted air, reappearing at the window. The fragile moment of solace shattered.
"What are you talking abou—"
The words died on his lips.
The street below was alive—a roaring, seething river of bodies and rage. Hundreds, maybe thousands, moved as one. Torches threw jagged light across faces twisted with anger and hope. Banners snapped in the wind, each one bearing the same image: a serpent, black as polished onyx, coiled not in menace, but in majesty. They weren't mocking it. They were worshipping it.
Vael threw on his long coat—still stiff with dried blood and forest grime. Oculor slipped back into his socket, small as a whisper, the eyepatch following.
A blink of spatial distortion, and they stood at the crowd's edge. The noise hit like a physical blow—shouts, chants, the raw sound of discontent.
Vael approached an old woman, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and resolve.
"Miss—what are they protesting?"
"The Church, boy!" she shouted over the din. "And its poisoned words!"
"What's wrong with the Church?"
"The nobles force it on us! Use its 'holy' texts to keep us docile! They say we'll never reach Hand'na if we question them. It's a leash, not a blessing!"
"So you're rebels."
She gave a weary smile. "I'm just a grandmother. This won't change my life. But my grandchildren? They deserve better than a future written for them."
Vael nodded. "Thanks, miss."
As he stepped back, the truth settled in his gut like a stone.
This wasn't just a protest.
It was the first breath of a revolution.
And it bore Oculor's face.
Or did it?
Two questions burned in Vael's mind:
The Obvious: Did Oculor have some hidden history with this Church? Was the serpent in their doctrine his serpent?
The Subtle: Why worship a symbol the Church called "Evil Incarnate"? Were they reclaiming it—or had the Church lied all along?
He reached inward, the question sharp through their mental link:
'Oculor. Is this your doing? Did you know about this?'
The serpent's reply was a low, intrigued hum. 'I have slept for millennia, contractor. Many things have been done in my name—or against it—without my knowledge. This… is new.'
Vael turned to Kiera, her face pale but focused amidst the chanting crowd.
"Why worship the devil they fear?"
Her eyes swept the banners, the fervent faces. "The fastest way to break a symbol's power," she said, voice cutting through the noise, "is to wear it yourself. They're not worshipping evil. They're spitting in its eye."
The rebellion wasn't just fighting the Church.
It was stealing its devil.
And crowning it as their new god.
"Woah. This could be big."
"Yeah," Kiera said, her gaze still locked on the crowd. "But right now, we've got a reunion to attend."
No time to linger. They slipped from the city's edge like shadows, retracing the path they'd carved just hours before.
Eclipse and Sundance exploded into motion—twin blurs on the sun-drenched road, hooves pounding like war drums. Wind whipped Vael's coat, still smelling of blood and rebellion.
Under the harsh noon sun, two riders and their legendary mounts—and a primordial serpent hidden behind an eyepatch—raced toward the Academy.
Whatever awaited them there—celebration, judgment, or something else entirely—would have to wait.
The world was shifting beneath their feet, and they were already late.
Now that they were alone, Ash's departure laid to rest for the moment, Vael finally voiced the question hanging between them.
Kiera didn't hesitate. "Alright. I'll tell you what happened." She took a sharp breath, eyes fixed on the road. "It's simple. In the last five minutes, I thought I was safe. I'd shaken everyone off. Just had to wait it out."
Her knuckles whitened on the reins. "But I stumbled right into its path. The fourth-stage beast."
A cold, hollow look returned to her eyes. "I wouldn't have stood a chance even at full strength. Manaless? Exhausted? Starving?" A dry, humorless laugh. "I was disqualified in seconds."
The words hung in the air—not with shame, but grim, resigned fury. She hadn't just been beaten. She'd been erased.
"It shredded my body to pieces and ate me alive." Her voice was flat, detached, as if narrating someone else's death. "Took the system all five minutes to put me back together. Felt every second."
Vael had guessed it. Only the fourth-stage beast—or Arconis—could have done that. And since Arconis had been with him…
"…How do you feel?" he asked carefully.
"It hurt. But I've survived worse." No bravado. Just a bleak fact.
"Sure…"
When they arrived, the courtyard felt emptier than expected. Many hadn't shown—their shame or disappointment too heavy. Only around 800 candidates remained, faces a mix of hope, arrogance, and exhaustion.
The air was thick with unspoken judgment. Today, the worthy would be chosen. The rest forgotten.
They waited a few minutes, the last stragglers slipping in.
Then, without fanfare, a podium materialized. Simple dark wood, tall enough to command attention, it faced the crowd, away from the Academy—authority without spectacle.
For a moment, it stood empty.
A hush fell. Vael's gaze swept the area. He'd seen no cameras during the exam—they'd been masterfully hidden—but now they hovered everywhere, orbs and mounted units scanning the crowd with insect-like lenses.
Then, footsteps echoed.
Davy Noleman emerged, every inch the showman. Gone was the casual commentator; in his place stood a man in a perfectly tailored brown suit, the Academy's crossed sword-and-feather emblem gleaming on his lapel.
The sky deepened to moody grey, clouds swallowing the sun as if on cue.
"Well hello, candidates—and viewers at home!" His voice rolled over them, powerful and clear without visible amplification. Mana, surely. "I know, I know… you missed me. But I've been here since the start, and I'll see this through to the end!"
His bearded grin was all teeth.
"This year's cohort was… unique." His smile widened. "A spectacular display of skill, control, and utter chaos. Truly unforgettable."
Blue light shimmered. A massive mana-screen flared to life behind him—blank for now, waiting for judgment.
"But remember, kids," Davy added, leaning in conspiratorially, "points weren't everything. So if you scored higher than someone who passed… no hard feelings, eh?"
A ripple of tension rolled through the crowd. Shoulders squared. Breaths tightened.
Except for four.
Four who didn't need hope.
Vael. Kiera. Arconis. Hefla.
Hefla stood slightly apart, plain-faced and plainly dressed, sword and shield on her back. Her posture radiated quiet, unshakable confidence. She'd done what others hadn't: seized her moment. Luck? Maybe. But luck counted.
"Arconis. Serpes. Elana. Hefla." Davy's voice boomed. "Get up here! You four passed—and that's hardly breaking news, is it?"
A ripple of laughter. Nervous, eager. The real selection was about to begin.
Since Vael and Kiera had arrived last, they stood near the front. They mounted the steps first, the old wood groaning beneath their boots.
Behind them, the massive screen split in two.
Left: Vael.
A montage of spatial carnage—blinking behind foes, rapier flashing, bodies dissolving. Rinse and repeat. A ghost harvesting lives with terrifying efficiency. His final hours: manaless, hunted like a fox, then the climax. Bernard's severed hands. The surgical mutilation. The mercy kill as the clock ran out.
Right: Kiera.
Her fall, controlled at the last instant. Shadow tendrils spearing opponents from the dark. The brutal clash with Arconis—ending in decapitation. Then the chase: thirty hunters on her heels, her evasion a desperate, masterful ballet.
For those who hadn't seen the finale… Vael's last act wasn't a highlight.
It was a warning.
A ripple of uneasy silence spread. Some looked away. Others stared—horrified, mesmerized.
On stage, Vael and Kiera stood side by side—two demons written in blood and shadow.
Their clothes still stained with dirt and dried gore, they looked less like students and more like veterans stumbling off a battlefield. Vael, with his eyepatch and jagged scar, was especially fearsome.
Next came Arconis.
The screen shifted, now solely his.
His fall. No evasion. No soft landing. He cratered into the earth, bones surely shattered—only to rise moments later, body knitting itself whole.
Then the slaughter. Not flashy. Not emotional. Efficient. Inevitable. The scythe moved like it had its own mind, each swing ending a life with chilling precision.
The final twelve hours played like a casual stroll. While others ran, hid, broke, Arconis walked. Hunted. Unbothered.
And then—the finale. His sudden appearance in the clearing, not as competitor, but as savior. Dominating without even trying.
The crowd didn't cheer. They watched, silent and sober.
Finally, Hefla.
Where others faltered under hundreds of judging eyes, she moved with calm indifference. No pride. No fear. Only focus.
Her highlights began modestly—clean kills, solid defense. Competent, but unremarkable.
Then the moment that defined her:
Cornering a drained Kiera. Morphing earth into magma beneath her opponent's feet. The shield hurled as a distraction. The killing strike perfectly timed.
Not Arconis's raw power. Not Vael's spatial mastery. Not Kiera's shadowed lethality.
Something just as dangerous: battle IQ.
Now all four stood side by side—a killer, a survivor, a titan, and a tactician.
Davy spread his arms wide, grin wolfish.
"Our top four! Rarely does the Academy admit students before the exam ends… but rarely do we see legends in the making."
A deliberate pause. Anticipation thick.
"And true to our word," Davy declared, "we intend to grant Miss Hefla the reward she earned."
The massive screen shimmered, collapsing on itself again and again like divine origami until it condensed into a hovering cube of soft blue light. It stopped before Hefla.
A sealed box of shifting runes.
The crowd leaned in. A weapon? A relic?
Hefla didn't hesitate. Palm flat. The runes flared, then died. The box opened without a sound.
Inside lay a single book.
A murmur of disappointment from the ignorant.
But those who knew fell silent.
Deep green cover. Silver-etched title. The unmistakable aura of age and power.
Not just a book.
"The Unbreaking Forge"
A text thought lost for centuries. The life's work of the last great Magma Shaper:
Archmage Denis Handa.
A Soummaran legend whose name was written in volcanoes. A genius who bent rivers of lava, fortified cities in obsidian, vanished mysteriously with his secrets.
Not just a book. A legacy.
A legacy to turn a clever earth-weaver into a magma master. No one more suited than Hefla.
And only the Academy—with its deep vaults and deeper ambitions—could unearth such a treasure and call it a prize.
The message was clear: here, knowledge was the ultimate weapon.
And Hefla had just been handed a forge to reshape the world.