The streets of Misty Town were slowly waking.
Market stalls yawned open. Shopkeepers swept their thresholds. The scent of rising dough and roasted grain filled the air, mingling with the crisp morning breeze that still carried a trace of mist.
Lin and Silver walked side by side, schoolbags slung over their shoulders.
Neither spoke for a moment. They didn't need to.
---
"She's going to collapse one day," Lin finally said, voice quiet.
"She won't," Silver replied, without looking at him.
"She's too stubborn to die."
Lin gave a faint, humorless smile.
"That's not comforting."
Silver shrugged, her silver hair catching sunlight like wire-threaded silk.
"Then take comfort in this: you got fifteen hours before you're ranked for life."
"What if I fail, I can't afford that if not how will we afford the pyro implant for mom," Lin muttered.
Silver gave him a side glance.
"Sometimes something is not within our control we only hope for the best."
"That's worse."
---
They passed a group of younger students racing up the hill, laughing and talking about tomorrow's Awakening Ceremony like it was a birthday party.
One of them shouted:
"I'm aiming for Rank 15! Maybe a fire talent or something with claws!"
Silver raised a brow.
"Hope his talent doesn't slap him with an earth snail."
"That happened last year," Lin said. "Girl cried for a week."
---
The main road bent slightly, revealing the school walls—tall stone trimmed with vine and age, built before anyone could remember when, and reinforced with subtle rune work that buzzed faintly when you got too close.
A crowd had already begun to gather near the front gate. Uniforms, chatter, the shuffle of feet—nervous energy disguised as routine.
Above the archway, carved into old marble, were four clean-cut words:
Primordia Preparatory Institute
"Primordia," Silver murmured.
"Where your talent matters more than your grades."
"And where your grades determine if you ever matter at all," Lin added.
They stepped past the gates—into the waiting noise, eyes, and expectations of their final day before everything changed.
The courtyard of Primordia Preparatory Institute buzzed with noise.
Students gathered in uniform clusters—by classes, by families, by power alignment. Laughter overlapped with nervous talk. A few showed off early awakening signs—tiny sparks, minor telekinesis, glowing eyes.
But the moment Jack Frie stepped through the gate, the atmosphere tilted.
He didn't walk. He strode. Tall, sharp-jawed, flame-toned eyes that flickered slightly even when calm. His hair was a tousled amber-red, streaked with gold—natural signs of his bloodline's fire affinity. His blazer hung open, confidence draped across his shoulders like armor.
Students turned.
"That's Jack," someone whispered.
"From the Frie Clan."
"He beat the combat dummy to pulp last week."
Jack soaked in the attention like air.
But his eyes flicked immediately toward Silver as she and Lin entered the courtyard.
And they lingered.
Her silver hair shimmered in the morning sun, her silver-gray eyes scanning the courtyard calmly. Every step she took made heads turn—even the upper classmen slowed their pace.
Jack straightened his posture slightly. Then casually walked her way, pretending it was spontaneous.
"Silver," he said, with a tone that tried—and failed—to sound effortless.
"Looking radiant as always. Ready for your Awakening tomorrow?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," Silver replied smoothly, eyes flicking past him.
"Jack."
Lin stood at her side, adjusting his glasses, mostly ignored—until Jack's eyes slid toward him.
"Still tagging along, Lin?" Jack said, voice light but edged.
"Still trying too hard, Jack?" Lin replied with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Jack's smile twitched.
---
Not far away, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and impeccably pressed uniform, Stella Ling watched it all.
Her long black hair was tied in a perfect braid down her back, a silver brooch clipped just above her collar—mark of the Ling Merchant Guild. Her eyes, a sharp violet, watched Silver like she was inventory she couldn't afford—but desperately wanted to outclass.
"They act like she's the Empress already," she muttered under her breath.
A nearby friend chuckled nervously.
"She is pretty though."
Stella's gaze snapped sideways—dagger sharp.
"So are roses. Still get crushed."
Her eyes moved next to Lin, lingering with that specific blend of disdain and suspicion reserved for those who didn't belong.
"And him…" she exhaled slowly.
"hmph."
She snorted as she walked away.
---
From above, a bell chimed once.
Students began moving toward the main assembly ground.
As they walked, Silver leaned slightly toward Lin.
"They're watching us," she said under her breath.
"They always do," Lin replied, voice quiet.
The bell rang again—twice this time.
Students began filing toward the open assembly square, where a raised platform stood. At its center, a single figure waited: hands clasped behind his back, long gray coat fluttering faintly in the breeze.
He didn't need a microphone.
His presence was enough.
Headmaster Kings.
A man in his fifties with a sharp face, steel-gray hair, and eyes that had seen too many awakenings to be impressed by noise. His rank was unknown. His past, rumored and debated. His authority? Unquestioned.
He scanned the crowd.
"Tomorrow," he said simply, "is not a celebration."
Silence.
"It is a sorting. Of paths. Of strength. Of truth."
He stepped forward.
"Some of you will awaken great power. Others, very little. Some—none at all."
"None of that defines you."
"What defines you… is what you do with what you're given."
He looked out over the rows of students. Lin felt those eyes touch him for just a second.
"I expect discipline, not drama. Composure, not chaos. Report to your year halls."
Then he turned and walked off without a word more.
---
Final-Year Combat Theory Class – Instructor Mike
The senior class moved through the stone halls of Primordia, chatter dying down. The final-year section was quieter, heavier. The Awakening was hours away now, not days.
Inside Class A, the door creaked open.
Instructor Mike walked in—tall, broad-shouldered, short beard and military-cut hair. His uniform was tight at the collar and his boots always clean. He dropped a thick tablet on the desk.
"Sit," he said. "Now."
The class stilled instantly.
"Let's not pretend you're focused. We're about fifteen hours from Awakening. So let's make this simple."
He turned and tapped the whiteboard, which lit up with glowing script.
---
TALENT CLASSIFICATION: Overview
"Talent is everything," Mike began.
"It determines your growth speed, compatibility with spirit forces, and your ability to evolve skills. But don't get blinded—talent doesn't guarantee strength. Hard truth."
He tapped the screen again.
---
Two Broad Talent Types
1. Celestial Talents
"Mind-based, ethereal, or elemental types that affect space, time, light, or spiritual control."
"They're rarer—roughly 1 in every 200 awakenings—but not necessarily stronger."
"Mages, mind-users, illusions, energy manipulators. Think elegance and chaos."
2. Terrestrial Talents
"Physical, elemental, and action-based. Fire, earth, wind, speed, strength—the roots of combat."
"More common, more stable. These are your frontline warriors."
Special Talents
"There are talents that straddle the line—part mind, part muscle. Spatial blades, shadow-fire, soul-armor types. Rare. 1 in 10,000. Still doesn't mean you're strong."
"If you awaken a rare type and slack off, someone with mud talent will still break your ribs in three seconds."
---
He turned, eyeing them all.
"And talent means nothing if you don't grow it."
The 11 Main Stages
"Every awakened being progresses through stages. These are broken into:
1. Basic rank 0-9
2. Intermediate rank 10-19
3. Advanced rank 20-29
4. Master rank 30-39
5. Grandmaster rank 40-49
6. Lord rank 50-59
7. King rank 60-69
8. Emperor rank 70-79
9. Empyrean rank 80-89
10. Saint rank 90-99
11. Transcendent (above Saint) rank 100 and beyond
"Each level requires breakthroughs—mental, physical, or through lucky encounters. Your talents and awakening cores evolve with you."
"There are seven known Saints alive today."
"Three known individuals have transcended even that—but they stay off the grid. Their influence? Undeniable."
"Nations shift if they move,and mountains are overturned."
He tapped the board one last time.
"Some of you might get there. Most of you won't."
---
After a long lecture for 3 hours he looked up.
"That's it. Class dismissed. Go home. Meditate. Pray. Or sleep."
"Tomorrow… the real test begins."
---
Later – The Library
Lin and Silver left through the southern gate. They didn't talk much on the walk.
The library stood at the town's heart—a wide dome with stone gargoyles carved into the spines of the roof. Inside, the scent of dust, parchment, and cooling incense wrapped the air.
They found her easily.
Ms. Rose, seated at the front desk, reading a faded record by candlelight, still in her cloak, still pretending not to be tired.
Lin dropped his bag.
"You promised to rest."
Ms. Rose looked up. Gave a guilty smile.
"The records don't organize themselves."
Silver crossed her arms.
"Your ribs almost froze this morning."
"And yet here I am, above ground."
"Not for long," Silver muttered as her voice cracked , pulling her cloak off gently.
"Come on."
They walked her home, no arguments accepted. She leaned into them more than usual.
---
Evening – Their Home
The fire was low. Tea was hot. She sat wrapped in a blanket, Lin and Silver curled around her like sentries.
She told them old stories—of awakenings gone wrong, of talents choosing children, of people who defied fate.
"The world doesn't give power," she said quietly.
"It gives opportunity. You choose the rest."
They didn't speak much after that. The stars glimmered outside.
The day ended the way it began: quiet, warm, heavy.
And tomorrow?
The world would change for them.
?????????
??????????
The air was still. Thick. Wrong.
A faint hum pulsed beneath the stone floor, rhythmic like a heartbeat that didn't belong. Twelve robed figures stood in a ring around a low obsidian pedestal—its surface smooth, yet stained with ancient ash.
None showed their faces. None spoke—until the flame at the center flared a deep violet.
"The vessel draws near awakening."
The voice was low, sharp, and echoing.
Another answered, dry as bone:
"We were promised the bloodline was broken."
"Promises were made by fools," said a third.
"The seal frayed. The last spark lives."
"And the guardian?" someone asked.
"Closer than expected."
A pause.
"Then both must be erased."
"Quietly. Before the Awakening takes root."
The flame pulsed once. The shadows deepened.
"Retrieve the fragment," one ordered.
"Secure the site. Delay the tide."
Then another voice—calm, steady, unmistakably in command—spoke from the far end of the chamber.
"I will see it done."
Silence followed. Heads turned, bowed once—not in submission, but in acknowledgment.
No more words.
The figures turned and disappeared one by one—fading into shadows as if they had never stood there.
The last figure stood alone.
The flame dimmed.
And in the absence of light… there was only purpose.