The cold marble against Elijah's bare feet was a truth more real than the unfamiliar, softly lapping memories. He sat alone in the echoing gallery of House Morgen, knees pulled to his chest, watching pale sunlight filter through mullioned windows into columns of dust. Three years, the long-serving nursemaids told him, and already he examined the world with a gaze that lingered too long for a child.
The world felt heavy, even this early in the morning. Heavy with expectation, tradition, and—if he was being unflinching in his analysis—danger. He watched the guards move on their pre-assigned patterns, each step measured and silent as their hands traced over enchanted saber hilts. An instinct, or perhaps something recycled from another existence, urged him to observe everything. Know everything. Never trust anything he hadn't examined for himself.
Today was the Awakening Ceremony—the first major test for every noble child of Elaris and its vassal houses. The event was equal parts ancient Magic and modern politics: a ritual designed to reveal each child's potential for body and soul cultivation, to place them on the map of power, and, just as importantly, to display that potential to allies, rivals, and enemies alike.
"Elijah, are you ready?" his father's voice was quiet but carried a weight suited to the Viscount of a border house. Viscount Armin Morgen stood in ceremonial dress, the black cloak of House Morgen pooling at his heels. Elijah nodded and rose without a word, hands folding automatically behind his back. He did not fidget. He did not ask what would happen. He had already deduced the pattern weeks before as he watched older siblings and cousins.
They processed through chilly corridors in single file, Elijah behind his father and mother. Other noble families gathered in the circular great hall—the Valeran, Seithra, Arendyll, Eboncrest, and others, each signaling identity and allegiance by their retinues, paired guards, and subtle magical displays. All of this, Elijah catalogued—the shuffling of feet, nervous glances, whispered rumors about today's tests.
At the center of the dais stood the enchanted pillars: five rune-scribed monoliths representing the primary races. Between them, a sixth, smaller stand was newly installed—a symbol of the Alliance's pact against the looming Abyss Dwellers. It glowed with a faint, unsettling blue.
The ceremony began with chants as old as the kingdom. Nobles intoned the greeting to their ancestors, voices rising as the Archmage stepped forward.
"Bring forth your children," he intoned, "for in the crossing of the rivers of blood and spirit shall we measure the fates to come."
One by one, children were called to the circle, watched by family and rivals alike.
The Resonance Stone pulsed according to soul potential—the greater the light and harmony, the higher the talent. The Forging Rod tested the body's raw potential, heat and hum scaling with physique and latent strength. The Spirit Flame judged balance—any discord could cause the blue flame to flicker or split. All the while, ancestors' spirits flickered at the edge of sight, ethereal witnesses evaluating lineage and endurance. Each child joined the ancestral mark, speaking their Declaration—a vow of ambition, security, or balance.
When Elijah's turn came, he advanced to the circle without a tremor. He pressed small palms to the resonance stone; it glowed with a steady blue-grey, the color of deep water. No dazzling brilliance, no muttered envy from the crowd. The forging rod warmed, pleasant, but there was no sizzle or crackling light to set tongues wagging. The flame burned unwavering: not a prodigy, not a disappointment—perfectly balanced, completely average.
He assessed the reactions, the way some parents' shoulders slumped in relief while others grimaced. Elijah's gaze, though, did not shift from the instruments. Average was good. He had little desire for fame or scrutiny.
After his declaration was spoken—"I seek stability, awareness, and to endure"—the Archmage nodded and marked the results. No one would remember him as the star of the day.
Except, maybe, one. The Everhart family—central line of the high nobility—brought forth Lucian last. The boy was similar in age, dark-haired and upright, with an aura of self-mastery far beyond his years. When his hands met the resonance stone, it blazed with cascading gold, nearly white at the core. The forging rod vibrated with such force the runes sparked. The spirit flame burned not blue, but silver and gold entwined—an impossible harmony symbolizing SSS-rank potential. The hall erupted in whispers.
Lucian did not smile. He met the Archmage's stare without flinching—no fear, no pride.
Afterward, as the children were herded aside, Elijah watched Lucian. Unlike the sycophantic gaggle of other heirs, Lucian moved with independence, gaze assessing the hall, dissecting everything.
Their eyes met from across the corridor. "You're not awed," Lucian observed as they drew closer, voice low. "No reason to be," Elijah replied. "One ceremony isn't a lifetime." The two boys regarded each other; it wasn't camaraderie, not at first, but recognition—one mind, cautious and analytical, mapping another.
They shook hands—a small, perfunctory gesture. But the world tilted.
A golden interface winked into existence at the edge of Elijah's sight:
System Activated
User: Elijah Morgen (Age 3)
Binding Candidate Confirmed: Lucian Everhart
Bonus: 10x multiplier to all power gained from Lucian's training, talent breakthroughs, and cultivation progress. No effects applied to luck, charisma, fortune, or social reputation.*
It was not the miracle some transmigrators daydreamed of. There would be no shortcut to fame or affection—only the uncompromising expectation of slow, precise, lonely work. His advantage could not show itself in the open. If Lucian became a devastating force, Elijah would be a shadow with the same strength. But only in raw talent, only in the climb of ranks.
Use this well, he told himself. Let the world look elsewhere.
Elijah's quick confirmation solidified the bond. He saw a flicker of understanding in Lucian's eyes—perhaps the other boy felt an echo.
Afternoon faded into the grand banquet. The great hall was awash in laughter, polite persuasion, and the clash of subtle ambitions. Dishes laden with roasted meats and transmuted fruit passed between tables. Elijah was placed next to Lucian and other children: Marissa, the insightful Everhart sister; Ayda, a young Beastkin with a biting tongue; Kethin, reserved Dwarf; Seris, fae with unreadable, shifting eyes. Each heir, a potential friend or rival, each watched by their guardians.
Midway, the low tension of the games broke—two older noble children began to spat over a failed magical duel, threatening an explosion. Elijah's eyes flickered to Lucian, who had half-risen to intercede.
He leaned in quietly: "A direct intervention will escalate. Shift it to a structured contest—let the assembly test whose guidance solves the dispute. You win, but your hands stay clean."
Lucian caught the meaning. A few crisp words and a suggestion to the elders, and the "contest" became a formal test judged by the mages. The hotheads lost face, discipline was restored, and no long-term grudges brewed.
Around the table, others exchanged glances. Elijah, only recently a presence, was not the obvious architect, but among the sharpest, respect shaded their assessments. He had not sought friendship or approval, yet neither had he thrown anyone to the wolves for sport.
He listened—always learning the fluid relationships that would shape his life.
Lucian nudged a cup toward him: "You hate waste." "I hate inefficiency," Elijah corrected.
That, for now, was enough.
Night's stillness found Elijah in the Morgen garden, beneath moonlit irises and columns of carved stone, mind sifting through the edges of the day. The system hummed a faint audit:
Awaiting Lucian's first real cultivation advance…
System will multiply all gains x10 for user in training, rank, technique. Does not activate for luck, charm, or glory.
The world's best known path was clear: body and soul, dual cultivation, synchronization or eventual calamity. And though the mighty aspired to final union, his predecessor's memories hinted at fairy tales—powers beyond, unreachable, or perhaps forbidden, by the narrow scope of this world.
Above the familiar constellations, Elijah imagined the dark unknown—realms where power followed yet stranger laws.
But that was years away, and in the meantime, he would map every rule, optimize every edge, and never step forward unless profit, safety, or necessity demanded. Lucian's journey would blaze, but Elijah's was the depthless current—subtle, unfathomable, not to be measured by surface light.
He closed his eyes as the wind shifted, carrying a distant, alien chill—an undetectable premonition of the Abyss and the destinies entangled beyond mere mortal games.
He slept as all children do, but his shadow beneath the moon was long, and the secret of tenfold strength was already quietly at work.