Rain fell over Vallorae's capital in thin, patient lines.
The academy's stone paths darkened, mana-lamps glowing faintly as dusk settled in. From the upper balconies, the city looked calm—orderly towers, measured lights, disciplined movement.
But beneath structure, currents shifted.
Aerin walked alone through the outer training corridor, rain tapping softly against the open arches. He wasn't avoiding people—just drifting where his thoughts led him.
Since the sparring match, eyes followed him more often.
Not admiration.
Assessment.
A notice board near the east wing had drawn a small crowd.
"Voluntary Field Assessment — Ruins Classification: F to E."
Aerin slowed.
Field work.
Real terrain. Unscripted variables.
The words lingered longer than they should have.
An instructor stood nearby, observing reactions more than answering questions.
"First-years may apply," the man said. "Selection is limited."
Whispers rose immediately.
Most first-years hesitated.
Ruins were unpredictable. Even F-ranked ones carried risk.
Aerin wrote his name.
The instructor glanced at it, then at him.
"Average dual-wielder," he said mildly.
Aerin met his gaze.
"Yes."
The instructor's pen paused.
Then he nodded.
That night, Aerin dreamed.
Not clearly.
Stone corridors stretched endlessly. Ancient markings pulsed faintly along the walls. Chains rattled—not restraining, but waiting.
A wing brushed against darkness.
Thunder rolled without sound.
A figure in armor stood still, head bowed, sword planted into the ground.
When Aerin reached out—
The dream shattered.
He woke with rain still tapping against the window.
His neck burned faintly.
He touched the mark.
Gone.
But the sensation lingered.
The next day, training intensity increased.
Instructors pushed harder. Mana exhaustion was no longer an excuse—it was expected.
Aerin adapted quickly.
Not by output.
By efficiency.
He learned when not to cast.
When to let an opponent's strength work against them.
When to retreat half a step instead of charging forward.
Some students started imitating him.
Others grew irritated.
A tall second-year named Kareth confronted him after practice.
"You're holding back," Kareth said, arms crossed. "Why?"
Aerin wiped sweat from his brow.
"Because wasting strength is stupid."
Kareth laughed.
"You think you're smarter than everyone else?"
"No," Aerin said calmly. "I think most people fight for pride."
The laughter stopped.
They didn't fight.
But something settled between them—unfinished.
That evening, Aerin received confirmation.
Field Assessment Approved. Departure in five days.
He folded the notice carefully.
Five days wasn't long.
He didn't plan to be exceptional in the ruins.
Just alive.
As he lay back on his bed, mana slowly circulating through his body, the sealed presence stirred again—ever so slightly.
Not awakening.
Not yet.
But like a blade being tested inside its sheath.
The academy slept above stone foundations centuries old.
And beneath those stones, unseen currents continued to flow.