The Temple of the Sun was an architectural display of power. It wasn't just large; it was imposing. The marble was blindingly white, and the air around the colossal structure felt subtly different—thicker, cleaner, almost buzzing with an invisible energy that made the small hairs on Daemon's arms stand up.
"Look at that!" Gareth muttered, his voice a strained mix of awe and aggressive envy, staring at the perfectly sculpted statues of warriors and priests that lined the great avenue. "That's what real power looks like. Not that hovel of Barnaby's."
Daemon paid no attention to the aesthetic. His mind was focused on the energy signatures. The building was constructed not just of marble, but of focused magic. He theorized the shape, the stone, the sheer size—it was all designed to serve as a massive mana accumulator, storing ambient energy to facilitate the difficult process of Awakening. The whole place was a giant battery for ritual.
A stern-faced Novice, dressed in crisp white robes, led the four orphans past massive bronze doors and into a cavernous hall. The noise of the city vanished. The air inside was cool, silent, and heavy with the scent of burning incense and polished stone. Dozens of other sixteen-year-olds, mostly nervous children from other, better-dressed orphanages or struggling commoner families, stood along the walls. They were all silent, their faces pale with anticipation and fear.
A raised altar dominated the center of the hall, glowing faintly with an inner light. Flanking the altar stood the Temple Priesthood—older men and women in elaborately embroidered robes, their faces serene and their posture radiating a quiet, undeniable authority.
Daemon immediately recognized the power dynamic. These weren't mere religious figures; they were the first gatekeepers to the system he intended to master. He scanned the priests' aura, looking for signs of magic use, but they were too controlled, their energies internalized.
The ceremony began with a slow, hypnotic chant from the lead Priestess, her voice ringing perfectly through the vast hall without any visible amplification—likely a subtle form of Body Application Magic.
They were instructed to approach the altar one by one. The first two children, strangers from a different district, were tested. They placed their hands on the glowing stone, their bodies trembling. The stone pulsed violently, then dimmed. Failure. They were escorted away, their faces broken by disappointment, already earmarked for the tanneries. Daemon filed away the data: failure meant immediate, systemic rejection.
Then Gareth was called. He strode forward, his massive ego overriding his nerves.
"Gareth, son of none. Place your hands upon the Sunstone," the Priestess commanded.
Gareth slammed his thick hands down onto the cold, glowing altar. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, visibly trying to force the outcome.
The Sunstone roared. Not a quiet hum, but a sharp, fiery expulsion of energy. A sheet of violent, uncontrolled orange flame immediately shot out from Gareth's palms, licking the air above the altar. Gareth himself cried out, not in pain, but in sheer, primal triumph.
"Fire," the Priestess announced, her voice filled with moderate satisfaction. "An Elemental Affinity. Powerful, though crude."
The room buzzed. Gareth was pulled back, his face split into a triumphant, arrogant grin. He was a success. He was a genius in the eyes of the commoners. He had secured his future. He shot a look directly at Daemon, a glare of pure, dominant challenge.
Data point: A single, powerful Elemental affinity is the benchmark for success. Matthew noted that Gareth's mind, focused on raw power, had manifested exactly what his temperament dictated: destructive force.
Elara was next. She approached tentatively, placed her hands on the stone, and closed her eyes in fervent prayer. The stone pulsed with a gentle, steady silver light.
"Body Application," the Priestess declared. "Minor Augmentation. Strength and Endurance. Acceptable."
Elara wept with relief. She was safe. She would serve, she would survive, but her genius was functional, not groundbreaking.
Finally, the Priestess fixed her calm, powerful gaze upon Daemon.
"Daemon, orphan of The Hearth. Approach."
Daemon walked forward. He felt the cold, polished marble beneath his cheap, thin boots. He didn't pray or force himself. His approach was purely analytical. He placed his hands on the Sunstone, not with hope, but with a question: How does this mechanism work?
He felt the energy of the stone immediately—a massive, neutral, raw force attempting to search, categorize, and resonate with the energy pathways latent within his body. He opened his mind not to the gods, but to the system. He focused on the pain from his malnourished muscles, the scars on his skin, the systemic exhaustion of Daemon's former life.
The Sunstone pulsed softly beneath his palms, and a wave of cool, gentle energy flowed up his arms. It was restorative, calming. A small, green-tinged light settled over his hands.
Healing Magic. The identification was instantaneous. A non-combatant, support ability. Strategically, this was excellent: self-repair, subtle control, necessary in any system. Daemon felt a flicker of cold satisfaction.
The Priestess opened her mouth to speak, ready to categorize him as a functional Healer, when the second surge hit.
Daemon had not asked for the energy; he had merely left his mind open to the raw power of the stone. His high-IQ mind, accustomed to rapid-fire problem-solving and focused control, instantly grasped the sheer potential of the system. He focused a sliver of that analytical desire on the raw, destructive power he had witnessed in Gareth.
The green light vanished. Without warning, a sheet of pure, violently unstable crimson flame erupted from his hands, leaping two feet into the air. It was far more controlled than Gareth's, held in a perfectly defined sheet, but exponentially hotter.
The hall gasped. The Priestess's face, usually impassive, broke into an expression of astonishment. "Elemental Fire! Dual affinity! This is unheard of for a commoner!"
Daemon felt the raw, thrilling surge of destructive power, a magnificent, chaotic force that bent to his will. His heart, Matthew's heart, sang with intellectual triumph. He had not just awakened; he had over-delivered.
But the Sunstone wasn't finished. The raw, ambient energy of the Temple, still coursing through the channel he had opened, found another, less obvious pathway. It resonated with the part of Matthew's mind that craved flow, balance, and control—the scientist who sought to contain and manipulate.
The crimson flames did not die. Instead, a sheet of liquid, brilliant sapphire light—a flowing, contained energy that felt heavy and cool—began to coalesce directly beneath the sheet of fire, emanating from the same hands.
Fire and Water. Two elemental opposites, perfectly stable, perfectly controlled, channeled through the vessel of a starved sixteen-year-old orphan.
The hall erupted into gasps and murmurs. A high-ranking Priest shouted a single, reverent word: "Tria!"
Daemon felt the triple energy signature humming within his new, fragile core—Healing, Fire, and Water. It was a chaotic trinity, a biological impossibility, an immediate ticket to the highest echelons of this magical kingdom. He had not just succeeded; he had broken the statistical model. He was the one in ten thousand, a catastrophic anomaly.
He pulled his hands away from the Sunstone. The colored energies vanished, leaving his hands steady and cool.
Gareth, watching from the side, was no longer arrogant. His face was pale, his eyes wide, consumed not just by surprise, but by a sudden, violent realization of his own, immediate mediocrity compared to the boy he had just shoved aside.
The lead Priestess, her composure regained but her eyes glittering with profound professional excitement, stepped forward. She looked at Daemon not with spiritual awe, but with the keen, sharp focus of someone who had just found a priceless resource.
"Daemon, son of none," she intoned, her voice now ringing with formal authority. "You are blessed beyond measure. You are immediately enrolled in the Royal Academy's Advanced Study Track. You are the future of the Kingdom of Berlin."
Daemon gave a slight, respectful nod, the perfectly measured response of a grateful orphan. Internally, Matthew was running simulations. His cover was blown. He was no longer a commoner needing to stay low. He was a high-value asset. The system had just handed him the perfect key to its most guarded knowledge. He had traded a life of silence for a life of intense scrutiny, but the trade-off was worth the ultimate prize.
He had secured his seat at the high table. His work began now.