Chapter 5 – The Path Begins
The clang of steel echoed through the Ashborne training yard.
Sweat rolled down Arthur Ashborne's temple as he swung the wooden practice sword for what must have been the thousandth time that day. His red tunic clung to him, his breath ragged, yet his crimson eyes burned with unyielding determination.
Not a robe. Not some ceremonial outfit. Just a plain, well-stitched set of scarlet medieval clothes. He wanted to move as freely as possible—comfort mattered more than appearances when you were carving out your future.
Seven years, he thought. Seven years of bleeding, training, failing, and standing back up. All for this moment.
When he was eight, Kael, his instructor, had told him that becoming a Master was the bare minimum for one with Ashborne blood. At the time, Arthur could barely circulate mana through his limbs without collapsing. Now, at fifteen, he stood at the Adept level, his body tempered, his mana veins reinforced through endless discipline.
And most importantly—he was not just manipulating one affinity.
Arthur sheathed his practice sword and extended his hand. With a breath, a glowing thread of light and shadow interwoven spiraled from his palm, shaping itself into a small crystal orb.
That was Creation.
The orb pulsed like a newborn star before he clenched his fist and shattered it, causing a small shockwave to ripple through the yard.
That was Destruction.
He then closed his eyes, letting his awareness stretch outward. The wind slowed. The world seemed to hesitate—grass bent sluggishly, droplets of sweat hovered instead of falling, even the chirping of birds paused. For the briefest of instants, Arthur had nudged Time itself.
He released it quickly, panting as his body trembled. Blood dripped from his nose.
Still unstable, he cursed. But even that moment… it proves I can wield it.
Kael, who had been silently watching from the shade, stepped forward. His rugged voice carried authority.
"You've grown, Arthur. Creation and Destruction suit your bloodline. Time, however—" He narrowed his eyes. "—that will consume you if you're reckless."
Arthur wiped his nose with the back of his hand and smiled faintly.
"Then I'll just have to be less reckless."
Kael smirked, though his gaze remained sharp. "The Ashbornes produce prodigies, Arthur. But remember, prodigies are hunted. Do not reveal Time until you can hold it without bleeding."
Arthur nodded. He understood well enough. The world was cruel, power was coveted, and weakness was nothing more than an invitation to be trampled.
Later that night, Arthur sat at his desk, candlelight flickering across his notes. In the quiet of his room, he pulled out a worn notebook—a remnant of his past life's memory, something he had recreated page by page. It contained summaries of the novel he had once read: Wake of a Hero.
It was that same story that had guided him through his second life, and now into his third.
His hand tightened around the quill.
Revenge. That's what brought me this far. But revenge needs a foundation. A castle cannot stand without stones beneath it.
He remembered the ones who had betrayed him in his second life—their smiling faces as they drove blades through his back. Many of them had studied at the Academy during their youth.
And that was where Arthur would start.
Not by striking the strongest first.
Not by rushing headlong into a dragon's maw.
No—he would start with the little ones. Their siblings, their friends, the young heirs they protected. Break the branches first, and the tree would weaken long before he swung the axe at its roots.
His crimson eyes glowed in the dark.
"The Academy…" he whispered. "My path begins there."
The Academy gates towered before him a week later, ancient stone carved with runes older than kingdoms. A massive arch bore the inscription: "To wield power is to bear burden. To bear burden is to face eternity."
Arthur stood among a crowd of youths his age, each wearing finery befitting their station.
Silken coats from Ignis Dominion.
White cloaks embroidered with golden suns from Aurelia.
Dark leathers trimmed with silver from Nyxveil.
Flowing tunics of sea-green and azure from Thaloria.
Arthur, by contrast, wore his scarlet Ashborne attire—practical, sharp, yet humble compared to the peacocks surrounding him. Some glanced at him with respect. Others with disdain.
He noticed immediately that the crowd was divided:
Primordial Family heirs standing proudly at the center.
High Nobles forming a loose circle around them.
And then, on the edges—Common Nobles. Children with some mana affinity, but without political power. They looked both eager and nervous, trying not to draw attention.
Arthur smirked faintly.
So this is the exalted class. Not just heirs, but everyone with potential. All climbing the same mountain.
A man stepped forward on the academy platform. He was tall, clad not in robes, but in a simple double-breasted coat of black trimmed with bronze. His voice rang out across the courtyard:
"Welcome to the Primordia Academy. From this day forth, you are all candidates for greatness. But first—you must prove you deserve even to step foot inside."
The crowd murmured. Arthur folded his arms, watching intently.
"The Entrance Exam is simple," the man continued. "Show us your affinity. Show us your strength. And show us your will."
He gestured toward a set of massive, rune-carved obelisks that shimmered with faint light. Each obelisk was attuned to one of the Primordial Affinities.
"Step forward, one by one, and channel your mana. The obelisk will record your level and affinity. From there, your class will be decided."
Arthur's heart thumped once, steady and strong.
This was it. The beginning of everything—his revenge, his rise, his path toward the prophecy that haunted him.
As the first student approached the obelisk and unleashed a flare of fire, Arthur closed his eyes.
This time… I will not be the one betrayed. I will be the storm that reshapes this world.