Chapter Two: The Scent of Steel and Blood
Morning light broke across the spires of the Academy, flooding the training fields in gold. The bell tower tolled, and students poured into the courtyard, summoned for their first test. Noosemaker stood among them, boots planted, shoulders relaxed. His blindfold was freshly tied, the crimson cloth taut against his cheekbones.
Though sightless, he cut a figure impossible to ignore. Black hair fell loose over his brow, stark against his pale skin. Scars crossed his arms and chest beneath the simple academy tunic, though only a sliver showed at his collar when the wind shifted. His build was not bulky but defined, each line of muscle carved by hardship, functional as a forged blade.
He smiled faintly as whispers buzzed around him. It was not a nervous smile but one of quiet confidence—handsome, sharp, unyielding. That smile unsettled some, drew others in.
But what truly silenced the crowd was his presence.
The moment he released it, the air turned heavy. His bloodlust spilled into the courtyard like smoke from a battlefield. Students nearest to him froze, eyes wide, breaths shallow. For the inexperienced, it was as if the weight of death itself pressed against their throats.
A girl to his left dropped her staff, trembling. Another boy stammered, trying to step back but finding his legs locked. Even the boldest among the novices dared not meet his aura head-on.
Only the stronger ones managed to stand firm—though even they shifted uneasily. A boy whose fire magic flared bright clenched his fists too tight, knuckles whitening. A girl with frost in her veins narrowed her eyes, studying him like prey she wasn't sure she could best.
They recognized it. He was close to them in strength. Perhaps stronger. And strength was everything here.
---
"Enough," a sharp voice cut through the tension.
The aura of authority pressed against his own like a shield. Noosemaker drew his bloodlust back in, folding it into himself as cleanly as sheathing a blade.
He turned his head toward the source—the woman who had spoken. She stood at the head of the field, a teacher, her robe dark blue trimmed with silver. Her mana burned cold and disciplined, like a glacier's heart. Her presence alone cowed the crowd into silence.
Yet when her eyes flicked back to him, her discipline faltered for a single breath.
She had noticed what others had: the way his tunic clung to the cut of his chest, the corded lines of his arms, the scars glimpsed at his collar. Her gaze lingered, longer than it should have.
Noosemaker tilted his head slightly. He could not see her, but he felt her watching—felt the way her composure cracked. A slow, knowing smile curved across his lips.
The woman drew a sharp breath and turned back to the class. "Form lines," she commanded briskly. But the faint warmth in her aura betrayed her.
---
The tests began.
Pairs of students stepped forward, demonstrating their raw talents before the instructors. Fireballs crackled, winds howled, stone rose from the earth. Illusions shimmered, arrows of light streaked across the yard.
Noosemaker waited, patient. Each display fed his understanding of his peers. He measured their strengths, their flaws. Some were impressive. Most were unpolished.
When his name was called, the field grew quiet.
He strode forward, boots ringing against the stone. His pale face was half-hidden by the crimson blindfold, but the confident curl of his mouth was plain. He inhaled, drawing mana into himself. The world around him sharpened—the breath of the crowd, the thrum of the wards overhead, the whisper of grass in the breeze.
He raised his hand.
Mana condensed, coiling tight, sharper and denser than any spell the novices had displayed. With a sound like a hammer striking iron, a weapon bloomed in his grasp—a longsword of raw energy, edge gleaming with deadly clarity.
Gasps broke the silence.
One of the instructors leaned forward, whispering to another. "That's not conjuration."
"No… it's forging. Saints preserve us…"
The blade hummed, its resonance so steady it seemed alive. Noosemaker swung once, slow and deliberate. The arc of energy carved the air, splitting the earth at his feet in a shallow line.
Then, just as calmly, he closed his fist. The weapon dissolved, threads of mana sinking back into his veins.
The silence stretched, thick and reverent.
At last, the woman instructor spoke. Her voice was controlled, but her eyes had betrayed her earlier, and Noosemaker had not forgotten. "Impressive," she said. "Very… rare."
He smiled again, faint but undeniable, and inclined his head. "It will do."
---
As he left the circle, whispers rippled through the students. Some muttered in awe. Others in fear. A few with jealousy sharp enough to taste.
But one truth had settled over all of them:
The blindfolded boy was not ordinary.
He was a blade among stones.
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End of Chapter Two