The ascent was a solitary pilgrimage through a vertical sea of opulence.
While the other children of Sylvaris ascended the heights of the Nexus Academy with the casual grace of the divine, Aether was a grounded creature in a realm of flight. To his left, the 'Physicality' students—thick-limbed Beastmen and stony-skinned Ogre-kin—stood atop the massive, flat palms of a Colossal Earth Golem.
The construct was a mountain given life, its body a patchwork of granite and emerald veins, moving with a rhythmic, tectonic groan that vibrated in Aether's teeth.
To his right, the 'Magical' scions, primarily the Elves and the translucent-winged Faeries, drifted upward in bubbles of shimmering mana or on platforms of solidified wind.
Their laughter trailed behind them like silver ribbons, untouched by the gravity that now claimed Aether's every breath.
Aether was alone on the Stairway of the Ascendants.
The stairs themselves were masterpieces of cruelty—each riser was carved from a single slab of moon-pale marble, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the boy's own haggard, sweat-streaked face back at him.
The sheer scale of the architecture was designed to diminish the soul; the pillars flanking the stairs were so vast that their capitals were lost in the golden haze of the upper atmosphere, carved with intricate friezes depicting the Great Downfall of Man.
He saw stone humans weeping, stone humans kneeling, and stone humans being crushed under the hooves of Centaurs.
One step, Aether whispered in the hollow theatre of his mind. Just one more.
His lungs burned with the thin, ozone-heavy air of the High City. The scent of the forest—the rot, the life, the dampness—was a fading memory, replaced by the sterile, suffocating aroma of incense and ancient power.
His small legs throbbed, the muscles twitching with a fatigue that felt like lead weights sewn into his skin.
"I want to sit down. I want to close my eyes and wake up in the hovel, with the smell of the fire and the sound of Mama's humming. Why did they send me here? To be a spectacle? To be the only thing on this planet that still has to touch the ground?"
"Look at it crawl," a voice drifted down from above.
A young Elf, suspended in a sphere of violet light, peered down at him with an expression of clinical curiosity. "It's like watching a beetle try to scale a mountain. Should we drop a spark on it to see if it moves faster?"
"Don't waste the mana," his companion replied, a girl with shimmering, iridescent skin. "It has no Spectrum to shield itself. You'd just singe the meat."
Aether did not look up.
He focused on the grain of the marble.
He focused on the rhythm of his own heartbeat, which sounded like a drum in the oppressive silence of the stairs.
"Papa said I am a man," he thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached.
The suns of the High City—three glowing orbs of varying hues—beat down on him, casting three distinct shadows that trailed behind him like ghosts of his ancestors.
The higher he climbed, the more the city unfolded below him: It was a sprawling clockwork of impossible geometry, a utopia built on the ruins of his father's world.
He could see the Golden Gates now, looking like a child's toy in the distance.
Beyond them lay the dark, suffocating green of the forest where his parents were currently walking away from him.
Are they looking back? the thought pierced him deeper than any insult. Are they crying, or are they relieved to be rid of the no-use child? "No. Papa wouldn't. Mama wouldn't. They're scared. They're just as scared as I am."
He reached the five-hundredth step. His vision blurred, the white marble turning into a blinding smear of light.
His small fingers, raw from occasionally bracing himself against the steps, left faint, reddish smudges on the pristine stone—a human signature on a monument of Elven perfection.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. It wasn't a student, but a Surveying Eye—a mechanical orb of brass and crystal that floated on a hiss of steam.
It spun its lens, clicking as it focused on Aether's heaving chest and the sweat dripping from his chin.
"Subject: Human," the device droned in a flat, metallic voice. "Status: Struggling. Probability of completion: 14 percent. Suggestion: Removal to the servitude sectors."
"No," Aether wheezed, his voice raspy and dry.
He looked directly into the glass lens of the orb, his hazel eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate heat. "I'm... not... done."
Aether used the remaining energy left in his body to climb—each step was excruciating for a six year old human boy.
One wrong step, and he would fall. Aether was scared. "I want my mom back..."
The orb accompanied Aether during his journey—just calculating silently and sending it back to the Dean.
Aether's final step was not a stride, but a desperate, lunging crawl.
His fingers hooked over the lip of the thousandth riser, his nails scratching against the polished surface as he hauled his trembling frame onto the summit.
He lay there for a moment, chest heaving in ragged, wet gasps, his face pressed against the cool stone—the silence of the plateau was absolute, yet it was not a peaceful silence; it was the expectant, predatory hush of a colosseum.
Aether finally reached the top of the thousand stairs.
He was the last to arrive.
The entire student body was already seated in the Grand Amphitheater, a bowl of white stone that looked out over the edge of the world.
At the center stood the High Dean, holding a massive, swirling orb—the Source of Spectrums.