The palace bells tolled again, this time at dawn, their deep notes rolling across the capital like a summons from the gods themselves. Edran stood at the window of his modest chamber, watching the sun bleed gold over the tiled rooftops of Seravonne.
Today was the first day at the Imperial Magic Academy — the crown jewel of the empire's education system. It was where the children of nobility, foreign dignitaries, and the empire's most promising young mages were trained in the arts of power. For princes and princesses, attendance was mandatory. It wasn't about learning. It was about display — who shone brightest, who commanded the most respect, who bent others to their will.
Edran had no illusions. For most of his siblings, this was a stage on which to flaunt their already formidable abilities. For him… it was a coliseum, and he was expected to be the entertainment.
The journey to the academy was a show in itself. The royal procession wound through the capital, banners snapping in the wind, guards in silver armor flanking a line of lacquered carriages.
Edran's carriage was the smallest, drawn by a pair of black horses whose eyes looked almost apologetic. He sat alone, listening to the faint creak of the wheels and the distant cheers for the carriage ahead — the one bearing Crown Prince Alaric.
By the time they reached the academy gates, the cheers had died into murmurs. Students in finely tailored robes and polished armor stood in clusters, their conversations halting as the royal family approached. The academy's central courtyard was vast, dominated by a towering statue of the first Emperor, one hand gripping a sword, the other raised as if blessing the city.
Headmaster Veylan, a man whose beard was as sharp as his reputation, stepped forward to greet them. His robes shimmered faintly, runes stitched in gold thread.
"Your Highnesses," he said, bowing. "The academy welcomes you." His eyes flicked over the assembled royals, pausing on Alaric with warmth, on Selene with admiration… and on Edran with polite indifference.
"As tradition dictates," Veylan continued, "all new students must demonstrate their abilities before the assembled peers."
There it was. The public test.
Alaric went first, stepping into the center of the courtyard. He summoned a storm of silver fire that spiraled into the sky before shattering into a rain of harmless sparks, each one forming the imperial crest before fading. Applause thundered.
Selene followed, weaving threads of illusion into a garden of roses so real the air smelled of petals. A noble's son tried to touch one and yelped as his hand passed through it. The crowd laughed, charmed.
Others followed — blades of wind, walls of stone, conjured beasts roaring at the edges of the courtyard.
And then… Edran's name was called.
He stepped forward under the weight of a hundred expectant stares. Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Isn't that the sickly one?""I heard he can't even light a torch without collapsing.""Why is he even here?"
Edran ignored them. He had no flashy spells to cast, no overwhelming force to display. His Spirit Root was still fractured, his cultivation barely at the first stage. But what he did have was control — painstakingly gained over sleepless nights of Ninefold Circulation.
He raised his hand, drawing on the tiny reservoir of mana within. The threads of energy resisted at first, but he guided them through the repaired channels, coaxing them into shape.
A small orb of pale blue light bloomed above his palm. It was no storm, no illusion garden. But it was steady, and it did not flicker.
He began to compress it. Slowly, deliberately, the orb shrank, its light intensifying until it was no larger than a coin — but brighter than any torch in the courtyard.
Gasps came from a few of the sharper students. Compression was a sign of refined control, something most first-years couldn't manage without months of training.
But before anyone could speak, a voice cut through the air.
"Adorable," Darius, the second prince, drawled from the sidelines. "A night-light for his sickbed."
Laughter erupted.
Edran let the light fade. He bowed slightly, as if the jeers were applause, and walked back to his place.
Inside, he burned — not with humiliation, but with resolve. This was the beginning. They would laugh now, yes. But one day, that laughter would choke in their throats.
The rest of the morning was consumed by formalities — dormitory assignments, schedules, introductions to instructors. Edran was placed in the House of Crowns, the academy's division for royal and noble heirs. It was both privilege and prison; the politics here were sharper than any blade.
His dormitory was a modest suite compared to Alaric's grand quarters or Selene's silk-draped rooms. He didn't mind. Luxury made one soft.
He spent the afternoon in the library, a sprawling cathedral of books that smelled faintly of old parchment and candle wax. Here, away from prying eyes, he searched the shelves for anything that might blend the principles of cultivation and mana manipulation.
Most texts dismissed the idea outright. Mana was said to be volatile, while cultivation energy — what they called aether qi here — was steady and slow-growing. Combining the two was considered impossible.
Edran smiled to himself. Impossible was just a word people used when they lacked imagination.
His solitude didn't last.
A shadow fell across the table, and a voice spoke."You're Edran, right? The one with the… light trick."
He looked up to see a girl about his age, her copper hair tied back, a rapier hanging at her hip. Her uniform bore the crest of a viscount's house.
"I'm Lyra," she said. "And before you ask, no, I'm not here to laugh at you. That was… impressive control."
He raised an eyebrow. "Compared to what?"
She grinned. "Compared to the idiots who only know how to blow things up. I like precision."
It was the first genuine conversation he'd had since arriving. More importantly, it was a potential alliance.
When evening fell, the House of Crowns gathered for dinner. The hall was a glittering trap, every table a cluster of rivalries and alliances in the making.
Edran had just taken his seat when Darius strode in, smirking.
"I've been thinking," Darius said loudly, drawing the room's attention. "The House of Crowns should have a… demonstration duel tomorrow. For morale."
Murmurs rose. Demonstration duels were allowed — and encouraged — as a way to establish dominance. It was clear who Darius intended to challenge.
"I nominate Edran," he said, his grin wide. "After all, we should see if that little light of his can survive in the dark."
Laughter filled the hall again.
Edran met Darius's gaze without flinching. Inside, he was already calculating. He couldn't overpower Darius — not yet. But there were other ways to win.
"Very well," Edran said evenly. "Tomorrow."
If they wanted a spectacle, he would give them one.
But it would not be the one they expected.