The underground arena lay sixty-seven miles south of Duke Varkheil's mansion. Thalen covered the distance in twenty-five minutes, yet the road stretched longer than ever.
Back in his room, he peeled off his blood-stained shirt and dropped into a chair. Bandages wrapped tight around his torso, each strip standing as a wordless testimony to the battles of the day.
He had treated the wounds himself—dabbing them with a low-tier mana potion before binding them shut.
As an unawakened, he couldn't drink one. The potion's energy would tear his body apart before it healed anything. Even applying it to wounds was forbidden, except when death pressed close.
Yet nothing had ever stopped him. Thalen never walked away from a fight, no matter how deep the scars.
Until now.
Low-grade potions and home remedies had kept him moving before, but tonight felt different. He didn't crave medicine—he craved silence. Something to still the storm in his mind.
His thoughts dragged him back to the arena, to his loss against Zake. The defeat crushed him, unraveling his composure. His hands shook, his focus scattered, and despair gnawed at him. Fighters he once bested cut him down with ease.
He understood why he lost. Understanding didn't ease the sting. Each time he tried to rise again, the will slipped through his fingers.
Since the age of eight, his life had been nothing but training—drills, battles, breaking himself apart only to stand again.
That unyielding resolve carried him for years. But with only two months left before his sixteenth birthday—the day his fate among awakeners would be decided—his strength felt hollow. The path ahead had vanished, leaving only emptiness.
Exhaustion swallowed him whole. He slept in the chair, each shallow breath tugging at the bandages across his chest.
He didn't stir for fifteen hours. The boy who once believed dawn was wasted if not spent training no longer saw the point.
When he finally woke, his body refused to move. Rest tempted him, but restlessness gnawed at him. His hands twitched, his mind churned—idleness remained a stranger he couldn't bear.
He reached for the black device on the mini table beside him—a slim tablet, 9.8 inches tall, 7.1 inches wide. One side fit neatly in his palm, the other gleamed like polished glass.
He powered it on. For hours, he wandered through the internet, watching comedies and skimming trivial articles. Hollow laughter echoed back at him, muffled beneath the weight pressing down on his chest.
No matter where he clicked, yesterday's defeat clawed him back.
Finally, he gave in. Determined to find a way—any way—to fight against fast opponents, he searched every source open to ordinary people. But the specialized network reserved for awakeners remained locked, mocking him with the reminder of what he could never touch.
Frustrated and empty-handed, he set the tablet aside. Hunger drew him to the meal Cain had left earlier when he came to check up on Thalen. Thalen also instructed Cain to prepare a suit for tomorrow's banquet.
Afterward, sleep claimed him again.
The day passed—adrift, wounded in body and spirit, caught between the boy he had been and the fighter he no longer believed he could become.
***
The Summit of Scions
The Summit of Scions was a long-standing tradition in the Kingdom of Aurion, hosted each year within the grand halls of Cathan Moore Palace—an edifice raised by the Royal House Solarian, for such gatherings. It was here that the rising generation of awakeners from noble and elite bloodlines assembled, celebrating the world they were destined to walk into.
Young heirs, awakened or not, could attend from age twelve until sixteen. At sixteen, the banquet doors closed, and they stepped onto the Awakener's path—entering academies to carve their place.
By sixteen, most had reached the Initiate rank in the Balanced phase. They bore the name Regulars.
The gifted few who reached Adept rank in the Tuning phase earned the title Exceptionals.
And the rarest—those pushing into the final stage of Adept or brushing Seeker rank—were hailed as Prodigies.
Each group held its own domain. Regulars could not enter the Exceptionals' grounds; Exceptionals stayed barred from the Prodigies' chamber unless invited. The Prodigies ruled the night, granting or denying passage as they pleased, while Regulars lingered at the bottom.
***
The grand hall glowed under golden chandeliers, light spilling like melted sunfire across polished marble floors.
Music curled through the air—soft, dulcet notes weaving between the chatter of sons and daughters of noble and elite houses.
My name is John Boyce, fourth son of Baron Kewin Boyce. I had spent forty-five thousand units just to be here, and yet every part of me wished I weren't.
What could I gain? As a regular awakener with below-average potential, I was little more than a stepping stone—someone to be ordered around, looked down on, forgotten. Attendance was mandatory, though; the Royal House Solarian made sure of that.
This was my fourth and final Summit of Scions. I'd long since learned: nothing about this event was "friendly."
Still, I had dressed the part. A tailored black suit by Medussa, a designer known even beyond our barony. It felt like armor, though I doubted it would save me.
This hall belonged to Regulars and Exceptionals. Exceptionals sat at the top of the chain here, their presence commanding the spotlight, while Regulars like me clung to the edges. Prodigies, of course, didn't even bother mingling with us—they had a hall of their own, reserved solely for them.
As every regular, I lingered in the corner, swirling the glass in my hand more out of habit than thirst. Apple juice. A poor man's attempt at looking occupied.
"Yo, bastard, hiding here again?"
The voice shattered my thoughts. I sighed and turned. A rotund figure blocked my view of the hall, cheeks stuffed as if he'd raided the banquet table already.
"Finn," I muttered, glaring. "Go somewhere else and eat."
"Whatever." He plopped down beside me, chewing noisily, crumbs clinging to his lips.
I rubbed my temple.
'Did he ever train?' Looking at the fat he accumulated, I thought.
Finn was the third son of our neighboring barony, carefree to the bone. One of the few I could call a friend. Like me, he'd been bullied at past Summits, but unlike me, he still seemed to look forward to them.
"Why the gloomy face?" he asked between bites. "Just enjoy yourself. Stay in a corner. Don't draw attention."
Easy for him to say—his appetite alone was enough to draw stares.
I had just resigned myself to surviving the night when Finn suddenly stood, wiped his hands, and fished a spray of mouth freshener and perfume from his storage ring. A sinking feeling tightened in my stomach.
"Don't you dare—"
Too late.
Finn's grip tightened on my sleeve as he dragged me forward, his eyes fixed on a girl standing near the center of the hall.
Lady Arora.
She wore a soft pink dress embroidered with silver threads, each shimmer catching the light as if it belonged only to her. Calm, poised, untouchable—she had the kind of presence that made others pause before approaching. She was known for her courtesy, yet she never entertained those she deemed unnecessary.
Which is why my stomach dropped.
'Of all people, why her? This pig's going to smash straight into a wall.'
And beside her stood someone who made the entire hall bend with his presence. Marcus Hered—the only son of Count Ron Hered. His maroon suit bore the insignia of a great tree, the crest of his house. Girls flocked to his orbit, and he moved through their stares as if they were nothing.
I swallowed hard.
'This fool's walking straight to his death. And I'm being dragged with him.'
But I followed anyway, helpless, each step heavier than the last.