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Chapter 1 – Part 7C
(Classroom of Cores & First Spark)
The classroom smelled of old paper, ink, and faint traces of elemental residue. Sunlight fractured through the cracked windows, casting striped patterns across worn desks. Each desk bore a story of countless students, etched glyphs, and small scorch marks where cores had misfired.
Jofyn stepped in quietly, robe settling softly over his shoulders, shards pulsing faintly with anticipation. The murmur of students halted as eyes turned toward him. Some glimmered with curiosity, others with ridicule. Nobles strutted, their cores faintly glowing, hands poised as if ready to display mastery at a moment's notice.
"Forge Core, first layer," a noble muttered with a smirk. "I'll bet he can barely light a spark."
The robe on Jofyn's shoulder hummed. "Ah, yes. And yet here he is, ready to shock a few egos. Delightful."
"I'm not here to impress," Jofyn whispered, adjusting his stance. "Just to learn."
The instructor entered—broad-shouldered, tall, and lined with age. Greenish sparks danced faintly around his wrists. He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on each student briefly before settling on Jofyn.
"Settle," his voice cut through the quiet. "Today, you will demonstrate core harmony and elemental control. Titles, birthright, or borrowed power mean nothing here. Only mastery earns recognition."
Nobles whispered amongst themselves, dismissive yet attentive. "This farmer boy? He won't even light a flame."
Jofyn felt the subtle pulse of his convergence core, the hum of shards in his robe. It was faint, a whisper, a heartbeat in the air. He focused, hands brushing lightly over his desk, weaving the faintest rhythm into the surrounding energy.
A gentle glow appeared, almost imperceptible, tracing subtle glyphs in the air—patterns not seen in any book, born of instinct and practice.
The classroom froze. Nobles leaned forward, skeptical eyes widening. Commoners whispered, eyes shining.
The instructor's gaze sharpened. "Interesting."
The robe whispered, voice soft but teasing. "Well, well… quiet, clever, and already making ripples. I like it."
Jofyn allowed himself a small, controlled smile. He hadn't yet proven greatness, hadn't yet earned recognition. But in that moment, among whispers and dust-laden sunlight, he felt it—the first acknowledgment of something unique.
The day continued with minor exercises, sigil etchings, and elemental manipulations. Nobles displayed elegant control, commoners struggled, yet Jofyn's attempts carried the rhythm of creation, subtle but undeniable.
By the final bell, murmurs followed him through the classroom doors. Some mocked quietly, some whispered hope. Amidst it all, a shadow lingered in the far corner—an older professor observing silently. No words were exchanged, yet Jofyn felt the gaze like a spark striking flint: recognition without judgment.
The first spark had ignited. And in Ashen Hollow, amidst cracked windows and faded banners, a farmer boy's journey toward mastery had truly begun.
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