By the time the last tables were wiped and the lanterns outside the inn were lit, Lucien felt the familiar pull of the streets calling him away. He said his goodbyes to Castion, accepted a nod that carried equal parts pride and worry, and stepped out into the capital as evening settled over Aurum. The city changed at this hour. The noise softened without disappearing, replaced by low conversation, clinking cups, and the distant rhythm of patrol boots on stone.
He walked without hurry, letting his thoughts stretch forward instead of circling the past. Power was no longer an abstract desire or a vague dream. He knew what was coming. The four nations would clash, whether openly or through shadows, and when they did, the weak would be crushed without ceremony. This time, he would not be swept along by forces he barely understood. He needed strength enough to stand alone if necessary, enough that survival did not depend on allegiance or mercy.
That path began with his first trial, the moment he turned sixteen. He could feel the deadline pressing in on him already.
Trials were never safe, no matter how they were dressed up by recruiters or officials. The one he intended to pursue was especially unforgiving, a path that demanded more than courage or raw talent. It required survivability. Endurance. The ability to adapt when something went wrong, because something always did. Walking into a trial unprepared was a gamble with terrible odds, and Lucien had no intention of relying on luck.
The simplest way to improve his chances would be imprints, though simple did not mean accessible. Imprints were often guarded more closely than the trials themselves, hoarded by large powers as leverage and legacy. They were the tools through which ascended shaped their strength, and the difference between someone who merely survived a trial and someone who dominated afterward often came down to the quality and compatibility of their imprints.
Strength was measured in two directions. How many trials you had passed, and what you carried with you through them.
Imprints could be acquired in a handful of known ways, though only two were common enough to be discussed openly. The first was to learn them from others, through manuals, scrolls, or direct instruction. This was the most widespread approach, but it was far from easy. Comprehension mattered as much as access. An imprint poorly understood could be unstable, inefficient, or even lethal to its user.
The second path was creation. Forging an imprint of one's own required a deep and often dangerous understanding of the natural world, its laws, and the forces that bent them. Those who succeeded gained something uniquely suited to them, something that could grow in ways borrowed power never could. Very few managed it, and fewer still survived the attempt.
There were exceptions and rarer paths. Beasts and nonhuman races were sometimes born with imprints etched into them by the heavens or older entities, and certain ascended learned to copy or adapt these patterns for themselves. Other methods existed, whispered about rather than taught, but they were unreliable and often came with costs no one wanted to pay.
Limits mattered. A person could only bear three imprints per trial rank. A First Order ascended could hold three. A Second Order could add three more. Those who had not yet undertaken a trial were typically barred from imprints altogether, though scions of major powers were sometimes granted one in advance, a quiet advantage that set them apart from the start. Each imprint aligned with one of three aspects of life: body, mind, or energy. One imprint per aspect was the standard, and exceeding that limit usually locked someone out of their next trial unless they found a way around it.
Every imprint was permanent. Their depth and potency grew alongside the ascended who carried them, but they never left. Among them existed rarities that defied the usual rules, sentient imprints born from strange origins, which did not count toward the normal limit and were coveted beyond reason. Most people would never even see one, let alone claim it.
Lucien slowed as his thoughts carried him deeper than the street around him. He knew all of this because he had lived it once, paid for it in blood and bone. This time, he would choose with care.
He stopped in front of an armory tucked between a cloth merchant and a closed apothecary. Its windows were crowded with steel and wood, blades and polearms stacked with practical intent. Inside, mercenaries haggled over balance, soldiers checked fittings, and merchants inspected wares meant for guards hired by the week. Rogue ascended passed through often enough to make the place worth watching.
Magic weapons were rare here. True enchanted arms required crafters with specialized imprint powers, and such creations were almost never sold to commoners. They were commissioned, inherited, or stolen, not displayed behind a counter. Still, chance existed, especially for those who knew what to look for.
Lucien stepped inside, the smell of oil and metal settling around him. He scanned the racks without urgency, eyes lingering where others would not. He was not looking for a blade that impressed at first glance. He was looking for something specific, something overlooked, something tied to knowledge only he possessed.
And if it was here, hidden in plain sight, he intended to find it.