The silence had weight now.
The room was simple. Clean. A bed. A desk. A narrow window overlooking part of the grounds. Everything untouched, waiting.
Ren stood there for a long moment.
He felt like a guest in someone else's life.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the allowance pouch resting heavy in his hands, and let out a slow breath.
I made it here, he thought.
And still didn't know if I deserved to be.
After a while, he rose and moved toward the window.
Beyond the academy walls, the land dipped and rose gently in the distance. Not the hill. Not the tree.
But open sky.
Ren rested his hand against the glass.
Just for a second, his fingers tingled faintly—like the echo of something unfinished.
Then the feeling faded.
And Ren stood there, caught between where he had come from and everything he hadn't yet earned.
The academy felt different once Ren walked it alone.
Stone corridors stretched longer than he expected, ceilings high enough to swallow sound. Light filtered in through tall windows, painting the floors in pale bands that shifted as he moved. Students passed him in small groups—some talking, some silent—weapon shapes now resting at their sides with an ease Ren didn't have yet.
A day had passed. Maybe two. He wasn't sure. Time still slipped strangely since waking.
But one thing repeated across every conversation he overheard:
Artifact Hall.
Before classes.
Before schedules became real.
So Ren found his way there with the boarding slip directions still half-remembered in his head, following signs and streams of students until the hall's massive doors came into view.
And outside them—like he'd been expecting Ren to drift off course—stood Lior.
He didn't look surprised.
"You found it," Lior said.
Ren exhaled, not sure whether to feel grateful or embarrassed.
Lior glanced toward the open doors where students were already filing in.
"I was going to come get you," he said simply. "But this is better."
Ren nodded once.
Together, they stepped inside.
The room was not a forge.
That was the first thing Ren noticed.
No heat.
No smoke.
No ringing metal.
The hall was wide and spare, its stone walls bare except for shallow grooves etched into the floor—circles within circles, old and worn smooth by use. Light filtered in from narrow windows high above, pale and steady, like the room had decided long ago it didn't need to impress anyone.
Students stood in a loose line facing a single stand at the center—a waist-high stone pedestal with a hollow cradle carved into it.
Ren's chest tightened as he understood.
This is it.
What everyone else has already been talking about.
What makes it real.
An instructor stood at the center.
She didn't need to raise her voice.
Her presence carried.
"Armsmistress Bryn Hale," she said, voice carrying easily without effort. "If you're here, you passed."
A pause.
"Or you survived something close enough that the difference stopped mattering."
A few students shifted.
Ren didn't.
Bryn's gaze swept the line.
"Every student begins with one," she said. "Not because you deserve it—because the academy needs to know what you are building with."
She gestured toward the single stand.
"You are not here to receive a weapon."
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"You are here to meet one."
Silence followed—not awkward, but attentive.
"Every weapon spirit in this hall began as dead metal," Bryn said. "No name. No will. No purpose."
Her gaze swept the line.
"Some of you may have heard them called sword spirits."
A pause—brief, deliberate.
"That is an old term. From a time when only swords survived long enough to awaken."
She gestured subtly toward the hall around them.
"That is no longer the case."
"Weapons have diversified. So have the spirits they grow."
Her eyes sharpened.
"They are not gifts. They are not rewards."
"They are the consequence of time, intent, and consistency."
She turned slightly, one hand lifting toward the pedestal.
A low hum rolled through the etched circles in the floor—subtle, but real enough that Ren felt it in his teeth.
A core of light appeared above the stand.
Not thrown.
Not yanked into existence.
Placed.
It hovered there like a held breath—bright, contained, waiting.
"Step forward by number," Bryn said. "One at a time. Touch it. Hold. Let it decide what it wants to become."
The first student approached.
They placed their palm against the light and closed their eyes. Their shoulders tensed. Then the glow tightened, condensing inward.
Metal formed—clean and swift—until a curved scythe blade settled into existence on the stand, its long haft aligning beneath it as if the weapon had always been whole.
One by one, the hall repeated that rhythm.
Then Lior stepped forward.
The core above the stand for him was calm—clear light, untroubled. When he touched it, it responded immediately. The glow drew inward with quiet certainty.
Metal formed.
A slim blade emerged, elegant and unassuming. Balanced without excess.
When Lior lifted it, the weapon settled into his grip like it had always belonged there.
Someone near the line exhaled, reverent.
Ren swallowed.
Then it was Ren's number.
He stepped forward, feeling the room narrow around the stand.
The core above it was… hesitant.
Not dim.
Not weak.
Unsettled.
It pulsed unevenly, light stuttering as if testing paths that refused to stay open.
Ren hesitated only a second before reaching out.
The moment his fingers touched the light—
A sharp snap ran up his arm.
Not pain.
A jolt.
Like grabbing cold iron with skin still hot from the sun.
Ren sucked in a breath, shoulders tensing as his hand jerked back on instinct.
The core didn't vanish.
It didn't flare.
It simply hovered—still uneven—still waiting.
Bryn didn't look his way.
No one reacted.
Ren stared at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly.
Did I imagine that?
The core pulsed again, as if answering the question with silence.
Ren reached out a second time—slower now, deliberate.
He didn't force mana.
Didn't demand anything.
He just placed his palm to it and held.
The light responded.
Not eagerly.
Not cleanly.
It condensed with visible effort.
The glow tightened, resisted, tightened again—like it had to choose the shape more than once.
Then metal formed where light had been, thickening unevenly until the glow vanished entirely.
What rested on the stand afterward was—
A blade.
Heavy-spined.
Plain.
Its edge blunt enough to catch the light without reflecting it. No elegance. No sharp lines. No promise of easy cuts.
Ren's chest tightened.
Around him, others lifted their weapons—curved steel, narrow points, a staff that hummed faintly when touched. Each one seemed to fit its wielder in a way Ren couldn't ignore.
Ren wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
The weight surprised him.
Not awkward.
Just… honest.
The blade didn't resist him.
It didn't welcome him either.
It simply existed.
Disappointment flickered.
Then it passed.
This is mine.
The thought came quietly, without justification.
Ren adjusted his grip, thumb brushing the worn metal just above the guard. The blade didn't shine. It didn't sing.
But it stayed.
And Ren, without thinking, held it the way he'd held the stick for years—careful, respectful, as if the weapon could feel the difference.
Bryn's voice carried once more.
"Treat it well," she said. "It will remember."
Ren looked down at the blade in his hands.
Dull.
Heavy.
Unassuming.
He didn't know why, but the thought surfaced anyway—
I'll take care of you.
The blade didn't answer.
But somewhere deep in the metal, something shifted.
Just enough.