In the heart of the city, beneath the shadow of the towering Umbra Tower, stood the Cathedral.
Its black stone walls, carved spires piercing the sky, and stained glass filtering the morning light into shafts of purple and crimson gave the place an aura both mystical and solemn—a space between the sacred and the hidden.
At the back of the hall, the silent presence of the goddess's statue completed the scene: a marble figure draped in a long mantle, holding a harp in her left hand, a chisel in the right, her face veiled.
Silent. Imposing.
Even without visible eyes, it was impossible not to feel her gaze.
Every glance inevitably returned to her.
Inside, hundreds of children waited anxiously for their names to be called — each anticipating the moment of great revelation.
Among them sat Luck, legs dangling as he perched on the edge of a carved wooden bench like all the others, lined up before the goddess's altar. Around him, boys and girls of his age stared at the floor, the stained glass, or their own fingers, as though afraid a stray glance might cost them something.
Luck lost himself in the endless possibilities that might unfold for him.
'What if I can shoot fireballs from my hands?'
'Or maybe lasers from my eyes… beams that shatter the ground in a blink…'
'Or… what if I can fly?'
'Well… breaking stones with my bare hands, like Grandpa, wouldn't be a bad choice either…'
Imagination ran wild. That was what the Rite did to everyone. For eleven years, they had grown up hearing stories of great heroes slaying mythical beasts and explorers obtaining legendary relics.
Men and women who shaped history with the power they bore.
And now… it was their turn.
This moment would decide the course of their lives. Those who awakened a coveted attribute would find doors open. Those who revealed nothing useful… well, they should prepare for a discreet or disposable future.
For most, it was enough to inherit the same attribute as their parents and follow in their footsteps. To be accepted by the clan, the guild, or at least carry the family name with dignity.
In this world, power and prestige went hand in hand.
And nearly everything revolved around the core.
From farmers to soldiers, healers to builders — everyone depended on their attributes to perform their roles. Each craft demanded a specific affinity.
Luck's thoughts wandered again:
'I just hope it's not Darkness or Flora… I don't want to become a bandit. Or worse: a gardener.'
'Grandpa said it has to do with who I truly am, so it shouldn't be either of those. But just in case, I donated a few coins to a beggar on the way here… and also pulled out some sprouts from the garden. Hope he doesn't find out…'
Meanwhile, names continued to be called, one by one. The pace was quick, but with so many children present, it would still take time.
'When are they going to call my name? It's taking forever…'
'The old man didn't even stay with me… just dropped me off here and ran back to the guild. Said he'd come fetch me later.'
Name after name, the pressure mounted. Until finally:
"Luccas Sunrise."
Luck stood abruptly, every eye turning to him. After all, his surname was no small matter. There was likely not a single soul present who hadn't heard it. The hall, once wrapped in sepulchral silence, burst into a wave of whispers too hushed for adults to catch—but loud enough that Luck couldn't ignore.
"Sunrise? Like the Goldenback?"
"The founder… is he the grandson?"
"Look at the way he walks… born thinking he's better."
"Hope he gets a rotten attribute. That'd be hilarious."
"Didn't his cousin awaken a double last year?"
"Yeah… along with that girl from Shadow Embrace. They were the only ones in that batch."
"If he's anything like his grandfather, no one here will want to cross him…"
"Or he'll just be another pampered, useless clan brat."
Ignoring the chatter, Luck walked toward the temple priest who awaited him.
At the altar, he climbed the dark stone steps with steady strides, though his heart pounded faster with each one. From the top, he cast one last glance at the goddess's statue.
'Wish me luck…'
Without a word, the priest gestured and opened a side door hidden in the wall behind the altar.
"This way, young master. Follow me."
Luck took a deep breath and followed, disappearing through the passage.
The man led him down a long corridor. Several rooms lined the way — each guarded by a sentinel. Multiple ceremonies were taking place simultaneously.
Then they reached his room.
At the center stood a spherical structure: a circular platform about one meter wide, with curved metallic rods interlinking its edges—forming a hollow sphere, like a cage.
Attached to the base were fifteen orbs, each radiating a distinct color. A thick cable linked the structure to a control panel, where a technician monitored the data and operated the machine.
"Step up. Stand in the center of the platform. The process will be smooth, as long as you remain still."
Luck obeyed.
The ritual began.
Inside the sphere, the outside world fell silent, replaced by a distant, piercing hum. All fifteen orbs lit at once, the air grew heavy, and the machine began to emit beams of light in every direction. Colors crossed the air like living rays—each beam passed through Luck's body, sinking into his skin without pain, leaving only a faint shiver. A sharp chill climbed from his legs to his stomach, and his chest grew lighter, as though something were being pulled out of him.
The beams danced around him, striking from every angle as if searching for something. Then, one by one, the lights began to fade.
The first to vanish was dark green.
Then shades of blue and earthy brown, followed by the warm colors — each glow disappearing as it extracted the boy's core essence.
Gray, black, purple… White lingered for a while, but eventually gave way.
Until only one orb remained lit.
The metallic rods retracted, the systems powering down with a faint hiss. The process was complete.
Luck stepped down, slightly dazed, his legs heavy, heart racing, skin tingling as a subtle magenta aura emanated from him.
The technician noted the data on his clipboard, then spoke in a neutral tone:
"Not very common… Congratulations, Mr. Sunrise. You possess a psychic core."