No one ever remembered the name Eryx Vale.
Not the teachers who rushed through attendance.
Not the classmates who laughed too loudly at cafeteria tables he never sat at.
Not even the city itself, which swallowed people like him whole and never bothered to digest them.
Eryx was nineteen years old, thin as if hunger had carved him carefully instead of cruelly. His uniform was always clean but never new, washed so many times that the fabric had softened into surrender. He lived in a narrow apartment above a closed bookstore, where the windows rattled when the trains passed and the walls whispered stories of tenants who had once dreamed bigger dreams.
Every morning, Eryx woke before sunrise.
Not because he was disciplined — but because hunger did not allow sleep to linger.
He would sit on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. Long fingers. Pale skin. Nothing special. Nothing worth noticing. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed a face that could disappear in a crowd without resistance.
Average.
Invisible.
Poor.
At the academy — a prestigious institution built on marble lies and golden gates — Eryx existed as background noise. The academy taught magic, economics, strategy, and power systems used by the elite to rule the realm of Aurethia. Tuition was supposedly "equal opportunity," but opportunity had a price hidden between lines of fine print.
Eryx paid with exhaustion.
By day, he studied until his eyes burned. By night, he worked — cleaning laboratories, polishing floors that nobles walked across without ever seeing the hands that made them shine.
He watched other students summon light, wealth, illusions of beauty.
Meanwhile, his magic barely flickered.
"Vale," Professor Harlowe once sighed, tapping the crystal tablet. "Your mana output is… disappointing."
Laughter followed. Soft. Polite. Deadly.
Eryx nodded, as he always did. Apologized, as he always did. Shrunk, as he always did.
What no one knew was that Eryx carried something heavier than poverty.
He carried resistance.
Magic flowed easily through those born into wealth. Their souls were smooth, open, greedy. But Eryx's soul was scarred — tightened by deprivation, twisted by survival. Magic did not pass through him.
It waited.
On the night everything changed, rain fell like punishment.
Eryx stayed late at the academy, scrubbing the Hall of Mirrors. His reflection multiplied endlessly — hundreds of versions of himself, all equally small.
One mirror flickered.
Then cracked.
A low hum filled the hall.
Eryx froze, heart pounding. Magical anomalies meant trouble — trouble he could not afford.
The cracked mirror darkened, swallowing its own reflection. From its surface emerged a symbol — ancient, sharp, alive.
A voice followed. Not loud. Not gentle.
"You who have nothing… will you accept everything?"
Eryx stumbled back. "I—I don't have money. Or talent. Or—"
"Exactly."
The mirror shattered completely.
Darkness spilled onto the marble floor like ink, forming a circle of runes. At its center hovered a contract — parchment glowing faint gold.
THE VOW OF ASCENSION
Terms appeared one by one.
Wealth beyond mortal limits
Beauty shaped by desire and destiny
Power earned through trials, not bloodline
But beneath it, in smaller script:
Loss is guaranteed
Identity is temporary
Nothing gained is free
Eryx's hands trembled.
This was fantasy. Madness. A hallucination born from hunger.
Yet when he reached out, the parchment was warm.
Real.
"Why me?" he whispered.
The voice answered, softer now.
"Because the poor understand value.
Because the unseen survive transformation.
Because beauty means nothing to those who never earned it."
Tears burned his eyes — not from fear, but from something more dangerous.
Hope.
Eryx pressed his thumb to the parchment.
The world shattered.
Pain exploded through his veins, rewriting him cell by cell. Memories flickered — starvation, rejection, silence — and each became fuel.
When he screamed, no one heard.
When it ended, the hall was empty.
The mirrors were whole.
And Eryx Vale no longer felt hollow.
Something ancient stirred inside him.
Something wealthy.
Something beautiful.
But above all —
Something awake.
🌒 End of Chapter One