Author's Note
Hello! I'm new to writing and simply wanted to start a story, without any major pretensions. A quick clarification: I use AI to help me write and correct my mistakes. Since Webnovel has a very large English-speaking community, I also use it for translation because I'm not very comfortable in English. Thank you for your time, and I hope you enjoy the story. Don't hesitate to give me advice: I'm open to criticism. Have fun!
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"I am Leon Caelum, son of Regis Caelum, King of Scala ad Caelum."
That is what I should have answered if the man reeking of alcohol in front of me had asked for my name. But in this world, family names are a luxury reserved for those who still possess land and a title. To him, to this restaurant, and to the rest of the continent of Aetheris, I was nothing more than a serial number without a past.
— Two butter beers and a monster stew, kid! And move it faster!
— Right away, sir, I replied in a neutral voice, bowing my head slightly.
I picked up the empty mugs, my fingers brushing the rough texture of the stained apron that now replaced the silks of my former life. Walking through the crowded hall of The Golden Piston, I felt a slight vibration against my chest, just above my heart. It wasn't my pulse, but the mana transmitter hidden beneath my shirt. A technological vestige of my past life.
Five years.
Five years since the Eclipse Pact, the alliance of twenty-eight kingdoms to which my country belonged, had been betrayed. Five years since the Golden Lion Federation had taken advantage of our weakness in recent years to wipe my kingdom off the map.
"Never come back, Leon. Promise me. And survive."
My father's broken voice still echoed in my mind, filtered by the magic static of the transmitter. That day, the Federation hadn't just sent soldiers; they had spread rumors. They accused the Caelums of practicing Diabolization—that mysterious corruption that turns men into bloodthirsty monsters. A crude lie to justify a massacre, but a lie the whole world had swallowed.
I set the tray down in the kitchen, near the mana boiler that hummed loudly.
"Ten more bronze pieces..." I murmured to myself, checking the small pouch hidden in my boot.
At seventeen, my life as a crown prince was nothing more than a distant dream. I had become an expert in the art of vanishing, living like a commoner, surviving on scraps. But the exile was coming to an end. In a month, the gates of the Aetheris Institute would open for the entrance exam. It was the only neutral territory, the only place where a "nameless" person like me could become a magic knight powerful enough to demand the truth.
One week later.
— You're quitting? the owner of The Golden Piston grumbled, handing me my final pay. Good luck, kid. People don't often come back when they leave town with a bag that light.
I didn't answer and left the establishment. I walked briskly through the streets of Valerius, the industrial city of the Holy Empire of Valdor. Here, the air was thick with the smell of coal and magic ozone. After buying a few travel rations and a gazette at the market, I headed for the airfield.
— One ticket for Celestia. The next airship.
The clerk handed me a copper ticket after collecting my savings. An hour later, I was sitting in a worn leather seat aboard the Wind Wanderer. As the mana engine began to drone, I opened the gazette to mask my face.
On the front page, the headline stretched across the yellowed paper:
Border Tensions: The Solarys Empire denounces provocations by the Eclipse Pact.
The articles spoke of troop movements and embargoes, but it was the small snippet at the bottom of the page that made my heart beat faster:
Imperial Emergency Measures: Following the massacre in the small town of Steam-Suburb, the Holy Empire orders the immediate execution of any individual showing signs of Diabolization. Experts still cannot explain the origin of the outbreak.
I closed the newspaper, my hand trembling. The phenomenon was intensifying. The world was going mad, and I was right in the middle of the storm.
A jolt shook the cabin. Through the porthole, I saw the ground of Valerius recede as the airship soared into the clouds, heading for Celestia. Toward my future, or toward my doom.
Two hours had passed since leaving Valerius. Through the portholes of the Wind Wanderer, the mist gave way to a city suspended between the earth and the heavens. Celestia.
Unlike the industrial darkness of Valerius, Celestia shone under the sun. The white stone of the buildings reflected the light, and channels of pure water flowed along the boulevards, fed by immense steam pumps carved like ancient deities. It was the last enclave of the Holy Empire of Valdor before the sacred lands of the Academy.
In the distance, beyond the steep cliffs, a massive silhouette stood out against the horizon: the Aetheris Institute. More than a school, its territory spanned miles—a true sovereign city-state, cut off from the world by impenetrable magic barriers. To ordinary mortals, it was an autonomous kingdom, a forbidden sanctuary whose access was granted only once a year, via a unique armored train, for those who dared to face the entrance exam.
Stepping onto the quay, Leon was struck by the crowd. The smooth stone ground echoed with the footsteps of hundreds of young people his age. There were nobles, draped in velvet capes with gold-embroidered crests, and commoners with faces marked by ambition. Leon tightened the straps of his bag and moved away from the city center, seeking a less expensive district.
He stopped in front of a narrow building whose creaking sign read The Traveler's Rest. The place smelled of old wood and grease. Inside, a massive man with a bald head was cleaning the counter with a questionable rag.
— What is it? the innkeeper grunted without looking up.
— A room. For three weeks, Leon replied in a calm voice.
The man stopped and stared at him, his eyes lingering on Leon's simple clothes but upright posture.
— Three weeks, huh? You're here for the exam, like all those little silk-wearing roosters swarming the city. Except you don't look like you have a valet to carry your boots. That'll be twenty silver pieces. Payable in advance.
Leon placed the coins on the dark wood. The innkeeper swept them away with the back of his hand.
— Room 402. You break it, you pay double. And don't count on room service; there isn't any.
— I'm looking for monster cores, Leon added before taking his key. Quality cores, not junk for tourists. Where are the serious sellers?
The man gave a crooked smile, revealing a metal tooth.
— Ambitious, I see. If you've got money, go to the Iron Market, south of the main square. But if you're broke, avoid the marble stalls. Look for the types with dirt under their fingernails—the ones coming back from the hunt, not the ones reselling other people's leftovers. But be careful, kid: cores are like women. The more they shine, the more dangerous and expensive they are.
Leon climbed the narrow stairs to his room. The space was tiny. A single bed whose straw mattress seemed to date back to the last century, a rickety small table, and a skylight overlooking the city's smoking rooftops. The air was fresh, but the smell of dust was omnipresent.
He sat on the bed and took out his notebook. His birthday had passed three days ago. Seventeen. The age when the Heart of Magic demands its awakening. To succeed, he had to feed his heart with pure mana stored in a monster core. In his mind, he visualized the class scale of cores his father had taught him:
Red: Unstable mana, high impurities. Risk of incomplete awakening.
Orange: The standard for low-rank adventurers.
Yellow: The threshold of the elite. Allows for the awakening of stable elemental affinities.
Green: Very pure, reserved for great noble families.
Blue: Near-perfect purity, offering a chance for extraordinary abilities.
With his savings, Leon knew he could barely afford an Orange core. If he negotiated well, perhaps a low-quality Yellow one. It was insufficient for an heir of Scala ad Caelum.
The next day, he went to the Iron Market. The atmosphere was electric, rhythmic with the cries of merchants and the hiss of steam engines.
— How much for this yellow Steam-Wolf core? Leon asked a pot-bellied merchant.
— Fifty silver pieces, kid. And that's a friend's price!
— It's cracked on the left side, and the glow is dull, Leon countered. It's not worth more than thirty.
— Thirty? You're insulting me! Forty-five!
— Thirty-five, and I won't mention to the guard that you're selling contraband components, Leon slipped in with a gaze of steel.
The merchant turned pale and finally accepted. Leon held the amber stone in his hand, but his intuition tugged at him. It wasn't enough. He needed more.
Suddenly, a dull pain crushed his chest. His heart began to beat erratically—a violent rhythm that forced him to lean against a damp wall. The sensation was strange, as if something in his blood was trying to break a cage. He looked for an anomaly, a sign of diabolization, but found nothing.
He straightened up, his vision blurred. It was then that he noticed a dark alley, almost forgotten by the sun. At the end stood a small shop with a decrepit storefront. The wooden sign hung by a single nail, and the dust on the windows suggested total abandonment. Yet, with every step he took toward this shop, the beat in his chest became more melodious. As if his future Heart of Magic recognized an echo inside.
Leon pushed the door. The chime of a rusty bell announced his entry into a silence of dust and secrets.