The vast gymnasium of Rosen Royal Academy hummed with a different energy. It wasn't just the anticipation of the students from classes 1-1, 1-2, and 1-3 gathered on the polished maple floor; it was the low, almost sub-auditory thrum emanating from the apparatus at the center of the room. The Prana Practical Course had begun.
"Form a circle! Sit!" Herr Blüm's command echoed, brooking no dissent. He stood beside a complex machine of polished brass and frosted crystal, covered in softly glowing runes. "This," he announced, slapping the device affectionately, "is a Level Resonance Scanner. Today, it tells us a story. The story of the prana inside each of you."
He paced before the seated students, his presence magnetic. "Let's start simply. Who can define 'prana' for the class? And don't quote the textbook verbatim. Give me your understanding."
A tentative hand rose from the boys' side. The boy was small, with a delicate, scholarly face, dressed in the simpler, hooded training gear of a scholarship student—pale blue in color, unlike the standard grey of the noble-born.
"Ah, Lukas Reiner!" Herr Blüm boomed, encouraging. "The floor is yours."
Beside Lina, Frieda adjusted her glasses, whispering with academic interest. "We've met at symposiums. His parents are theoretical thaumaturgists. His mind is… admirably precise."
Lina nodded but her eyes were busy, scanning the rows of boys. Where is he? She finally spotted Ulrich near the back, sitting calmly, his expression one of quiet focus.
Lukas stood, his voice clear but soft. "Prana is the fundamental vibrational energy that constitutes and interconnects all living things. It is the breath of the world, flowing through ley lines in the earth and neural pathways in our bodies. Our ability to sense and direct it—our Resonance—determines its utility, from healing to… to kinetic amplification."
A snort of derision cut through the respectful silence. It came from a bulky, red-faced boy named Erik Durer, whose family's wealth in ore mining was as substantial as his girth. "Bravo, the walking dictionary!" Erik jeered, earning a few sycophantic chuckles. "All those fancy words won't help you when you can't muster a spark to light a candle. Real power isn't in books, genius. It's in here." He thumped his chest.
Before Herr Blüm could intervene, another figure rose. The movement was smooth, effortless. It was Ulrich.
He was taller up close, Lina realized, his skin a warm bronze against the crisp purple of his hair, his eyes the colour of a summer alpine sky. But it was the quiet intensity in them that silenced the room.
"Real power," Ulrich said, his voice calm but carrying, "is also in here." He tapped his temple, then levelled his gaze at Erik. "And in here." He placed a fist over his heart. "It's respect. It's discipline. It's not belittling someone for valuing knowledge. That 'walking dictionary' understands the river. You just want to make a splash."
Erik surged to his feet, his face purpling. "You want to fight, scholarship rat?!"
Herr Blüm's grin turned predatory. "Excellent! Conflict is a wonderful motivator. Since you're both so eager to demonstrate 'real power,' you can be our first volunteers for the aptitude test. Then, if you still have energy, we'll have a controlled spar. Agreed?"
The two boys glared at each other and nodded sharply. They strode to the Level Scanner, a circular platform with two palm-sized crystal plates.
"Place your dominant hand on the plate," Herr Blüm instructed. "Close your eyes. Don't push your prana. Just breathe, and let it flow outward, like you're exhaling through your skin. The machine will do the rest."
Erik went first, squeezing his eyes shut with comical effort. A moment later, a cobalt-blue aura, jagged and volatile, flickered around his form. The machine chimed, and holographic runes shimmered above it, resolving into a letter: B.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Level B was solid—above-average reserves and decent control. Erik smirked, puffing out his chest.
Then it was Ulrich's turn. He placed his hand calmly. Seconds passed. Then ten more. No aura ignited. The machine whirred, analysed, and finally displayed a single, stark letter: U.
A beat of stunned silence was shattered by Erik's guffaw. "U?! 'Undetectable'? 'Unquantifiable'? How about 'Useless'?!" Laughter erupted from his corner.
"The hero has no prana?" Thea whispered, genuinely confused.
Klara sighed with theatrical boredom. "Pathetic. All that princely posturing for a null-read."
Lina's heart sank. U? It was the classification for those with a prana reserve so minute it was functionally inert. Her fantasy of a powerful, dashing reunion crumbled.
"Sir, permission to spar now?" Erik cracked his knuckles. "I think I can help 'awaken' his potential. With my fists."
Ulrich opened his eyes, his expression serene. "Permission granted, sir. A practical demonstration might be… enlightening."
Herr Blüm, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the 'U' reading, gestured to a marked square on the gym floor. "Rules: yield, unconsciousness, or my intervention ends it. Begin!"
The gymnasium fell silent. Erik didn't hesitate. "FUSION… IGNITION!" he roared, and his blue aura erupted in earnest, solidifying around his fists. The air crackled as he charged, a bull in a china shop.
Ulrich didn't move. He stood perfectly still; his hands loose at his sides.
"Is he forfeiting?" someone whispered.
"He's terrified! Look at him!"
Erik closed the distance, leaping into the air. "CRIMSON TIGER FIST!" he bellowed, his aura coalescing into the spectral, roaring head of a great cat around his clenched hand. He drove it down toward Ulrich's stationary head.
The impact was a thunderclap of force. Dust and dislodged energy billowed out, obscuring the square.
Lina gasped, hand flying to her mouth. As the dust settled, the crowd leaned forward. Erik was on his knees in the center of the square, groaning, his aura gone, his uniform singed. He looked utterly bewildered.
Ulrich stood behind him, one hand gently resting on Erik's shoulder as if to steady him. He hadn't moved a step. Or rather, he had moved too fast for most to see.
"Wha… what did you do?!" Erik slurred.
Herr Blüm's earlier thoughtful expression had morphed into one of profound shock. He strode forward. "He didn't use internal prana," the teacher announced, his voice hushed with awe. "He drew on the ambient natural energy in the air, in the floor, in the very light around us. He channelled it, shaped it into a kinetic buffer to absorb the blow, and used the redirected force to… reposition. Not a spark of his own prana was spent." He looked at Ulrich with new eyes. "Level U doesn't mean powerless. It means your internal well is sealed. But you've learned to drink from the ocean instead. That, boy, is not just rare. It's revolutionary."
The gymnasium exploded into whispers. Mockery turned to awe in an instant. Ulrich offered a hand to Erik, who, after a dazed moment, took it. Lina's smile returned, brighter than before. Her Ulrich wasn't powerless; he was something entirely new.
---
The tests continued, a parade of flickering auras and projected letters—mostly C's and B's. Then it was Klara and Lina's turn.
As they walked to the scanner, Khara leaned in, her voice a silky murmur. "So, Princess. The mysterious Ulrich. Quite the saviour complex. You're blushing. Childhood sweethearts?"
Lina stiffened. "We were friends. I haven't spoken to him yet."
Klara's laugh was a light, tinkling sound. "Good. Then I don't feel guilty saying I intend to claim him. A boy who turns a weakness into a weapon like that? That's a trophy worth having."
"You can't just 'claim' people!" Lina hissed, her composure cracking.
"Ladies! The drama circle is over there. The scanner is here," Herr Blüm called, tapping his foot.
Flustered, Lina placed her hand on the crystal plate. Klara did the same.
For a second, nothing happened. Then Klara's plate flared with a vibrant, controlled emerald light, solid and strong. The machine chimed: A-. Elite level. A proud smirk touched her lips.
But Lina's plate began to glow. A soft, cerulean light that intensified, then multiplied, spilling out not in a controlled aura but in a raging, torrential cascade. It wasn't a flow; it was a dam break. The blue light flooded from the machine, filling the gymnasium in seconds, a visible tide of raw, untamed power. The air pressure spiked, windows vibrated in their frames, and students shielded their eyes.
"I… I can't control it!" Lina cried out, terror in her voice. The power felt like a wild stallion, bucking and tearing at her grip. It was burning through her, threatening to consume everything.
Just as the light threatened to shatter the gymnasium's crystal skylights, it was snuffed out. Not faded—vanished. As if a cosmic vacuum had inhaled it.
Lina staggered, drained and panting. Standing beside her, his hand not on a scanner but held palm-out toward her, was Ulrich. His expression was one of intense concentration, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He had done it again—not with his own power, but by creating a vortex of natural energy around her, sucking the rampant prana back into the environment.
Their eyes met in the sudden, ringing silence. In his gaze, she saw no judgment, only concern, and a flicker of something like recognition. He understood what it was to be different, to house a power that didn't quite fit.
---
In Geneva, the Shadow of a Signature
The emergency conference had adjourned with a fragile, grim agreement: humanitarian and military aid would be marshalled for Rosen, to be deployed the moment the predicted seismic event occurred. The document was a masterpiece of political caution, full of conditional clauses.
King Alaric von Rosenlicht, a monarch whose noble bearing and white hair mirrored his daughter Lina but was set on a frame of hardened soldier, walked with his queen, Elizabeth, through the sterile corridors. Elizabeth, born of the noble Heler family, possessed the same white hair and keen intellect as their eldest daughter, Theresa, tempered by two decades of rulership.
As they entered their armoured limousine, Alaric's private commlink chimed. A familiar, warmly gruff voice filled the cabin. "Alaric! Your Majesty. Wilhelm here. Just touched down from New York, I arrived yesterday in Rosen city. It's been too long."
A genuine smile touched Alaric's weary face. "Wilhelm, you old fox. Calling to check on me or to sell me something?"
"Can't it be both?" Wilhelm von Morgenfels laughed. On the car's screen, his face appeared—handsome, sharp-featured, hair a distinguished silver-grey, eyes a twinkling violet. "The conference?"
Alaric's smile faded. He transferred the call to the car's main screen so Elizabeth could see. "It's bad, Wilhelm. They're predicting a… tectonic anomaly. Centered on Rosen. We have maybe ten hours."
Elizabeth placed a comforting hand over her husband's. "We've alerted the cabinet. We're preparing."
"My God," Wilhelm breathed, his face a mask of sincere horror. "Alaric, Elizabeth… I'm coming home. As your friend, and as a son of Kleindorfstein, let me help. The resources of Morgenfels Global are yours."
"We appreciate that, Wilhelm, more than you know," Elizabeth said, her voice soft.
"Think nothing of it." Wilhelm waved a dismissive hand. "Speaking of the future… have you and the parliament made any progress on the Succession Act?" His tone was casual, almost too casual.
Alaric sighed. "It's… difficult. Theresa is more in scientific researches than ruling, Lina has the people's heart, but she lacks Konrad's tactical mind for statecraft. The crown council leans toward Konrad."
"Konrad is a strong choice," Wilhelm said smoothly. "A steady hand. But forgive an old friend, my heart is with your Lina. She has a fire I admire."
Elizabeth squeezed Alaric's arm, a silent communication of her own unvoiced preference for their daughter Lina.
"The decision weighs heavily," Alaric admitted.
"I'm sure you'll choose wisely," Wilhelm said. "Now, before I let you go, a small bit of business. To expedite my aid, I need your signature on a new import manifest—advanced construction materials, medical nano-fabbers, the works. My lawyers insist. Bureaucracy, eh?"
A document flashed onto the screen: dense, legalese-filled, twenty pages long.
Elizabeth smiled. "Always innovating, Wilhelm. Your seismic-dampening alloys saved the eastern vineyards."
Trust, forged in their youth and decades of friendship, was a potent thing. Exhausted, heartsick for his city, Alaric didn't read. He trusted. He scrolled to the signature fields, pressing his royal seal digitally to each page. "There. Now get your people moving, old friend."
"At right moment I will" Wilhelm promised, his violet eyes glinting on the screen. "Stay safe." The call ended.
The royal motorcade, one car ahead, one behind, sped onto the Grand Austriac Bridge, a soaring marvel of engineering that spanned a deep, mist-shrouded river gorge. It was the fastest route home.
In his penthouse office atop in a Sky creeper in Rosen, Wilhelm von Morgenfels watched a different screen. A red notification flashed: DOCUMENT R-73-EST "REX" – FULL AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED. ROYAL SEAL VERIFIED.
A slow, chilling smile spread across his face. He turned from the bank of monitors to a luxurious chessboard, where two ornate pieces—a king and queen—stood isolated. With two precise flicks of his finger, he knocked them over. They clattered onto the board.
"Checkmate, old friend," he whispered.
From the deep shadows in the corner of the opulent room, a figure detached itself. It was not that the light avoided him; it seemed to be consumed by his very presence, leaving only the impression of a tall, slender man in an officer's long coat, his face obscured by a high collar and the brim of his cap. His voice, when he spoke, was a dry rustle, like pages turning in a tomb. "The emergency council communiqué has been… neutralized. The relief plan for Rosen dies with its drafters. The Obelisk's resonance will proceed unimpeded."
Wilhelm didn't turn. "And the bridge?"
"Primed," the shadow-man hissed. "A tragic accident. A gas line rupture, exacerbated by the preliminary seismic tremors that what we're going to report. No witnesses, all people present on that bridge were taken in the explosion."
"Excellent." Wilhelm walked to a portrait on his wall—a younger version of himself, arm in arm with Alaric and Elizabeth at university. "You were always so trusting, Alaric. So noble. But nobility is a relic. The future belongs to those who can harness chaos. And with the power of the Obelisk, funneled through the land you so carelessly signed over to me… I won't just rule Kleindorfstein. I will become its new god."
Their laughter, Wilhelm's a cold, arrogant baritone and the shadow-man's a soundless exhalation of malice, filled the dark room.
---
Back at the Academy, the PPC class ended with students buzzing about rankings—Cs, Bs, the spectacular A- of Klara, the curious case of Lina's uncontrolled "S-rank" potential, and the legend of Ulrich's "U."
During lunch break, Lina found Ulrich sitting on a bench under a flowering linden tree. The campus was idyllic, a picture of serene privilege.
"You saved me back there," she said, sitting beside him. "Again."
Ulrich smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made her stomach flutter. "You looked like you needed a lifeline. That power of yours… it's incredible, Lina. Like a star trying to birth itself inside you."
"It feels more like it's trying to kill me," she admitted. "What you did, though… using the world's energy. How?"
"I studied in China when I went there with my adoptive father Wilhem Von Morgenfels. A monk called Hu-Zen was knowledgeable on the matter than most will ever know," he said, his gaze distant. "My own well was always dry. He taught me to listen to the hum of the mountains, the song of the wind, the pulse of the earth. I don't hold power; I borrow it, and return it. It's a dialogue."
"It's beautiful," Lina whispered.
A low rumble interrupted them. Not a sound, but a vibration that travelled up through the bench, into their bones. It was deep, wrong.
Across the campus, students paused, their chatter dying.
Then the world shook.
It wasn't an earthquake in the traditional sense. The ground in the city beyond the academy walls didn't just crack; it sundered, as if a giant claw had raked through the earth. From the fissures, geysers of foul, oily black water shot skyward, accompanied by billowing clouds of phosphorescent green gas. The gas touched the still-billowing plumes from kitchen chimneys, car exhausts, a soldier's lit cigarette on a distant wall.
The first explosion was a thunderous WHUMP that shattered the academy's greenhouse windows. Then another. And another. Rosen, the frozen jewel, was erupting in fire.
Screams erupted on campus. Teachers spilled out of buildings, faces ashen. "Everyone to the Rosen-Heart Hall! Now! It's the designated shelter!"
But before the evacuation could truly begin, the sky filled with a new sound: the thunderous chop of heavy-lift military helicopters, but not in Kleindorfstein colours. They were matte black, unmarked. They swooped low over the city, and from their bays, figures in dark, advanced combat armour fast-roped down. Not to help. To secure.
Simultaneously, on every public screen—the academy's announcement boards, the televisions in the teachers' lounge—the broadcast was hijacked. A man stood in what looked like a command bunker, dressed in the stark grey uniform of no nation they recognized. Behind him, the backdrop was the familiar silhouette of the Western Forest Flag, but now studded with artillery.
His face was stern, scarred, and utterly merciless. The sounds of automatic gunfire and distant explosions punctuated his speech.
"People of Kleindorfstein. Your monarchy has fallen. Your capital is in flames. Your so-called allies have sold you. As of this moment, the Crown State of the Western Forest annexes this territory. All resistance will be met with terminal force. Lay down your arms. Obey all commands. This is not an invasion. This is an ascension. The age of the Rosenlichts is over. Long live the Crown State."
The transmission cut to static.
On the bench, Lina's blood ran cold. The world of aptitude tests and flirtatious rivalry was gone, incinerated in the green fire of chaos. She looked at Ulrich, and in his eyes, she saw the same horrifying hatred as if he knew something. The tremor wasn't the end. It was the starting gun. And the race was for their very lives.