The Academy of Aurelion did not believe in coincidence.
That was what Aurelian learned the moment he stepped through its gates.
The entrance plaza alone was larger than most towns—white stone terraces descending in concentric layers, each one crowded with examinees, nobles in embroidered cloaks, merchants' children in tailored uniforms, and commoners wearing borrowed confidence like armor that didn't quite fit.
Mana shimmered faintly in the air, shaped by ancient formations buried beneath the ground. The academy did not suppress power.
It measured it.
Aurelian stood among them, cloak simple, posture composed, scars hidden beneath fabric. His hair—now fully white—was tied neatly at his back. His eyes were uncovered.
Royal purple.
He did not veil them.
Not anymore.
The seal was gone.
Not shattered.
Released.
He had undone it at dawn, standing alone in his rented room, hands steady as he let the last threads of concealment unravel. Mana surged through him—not violently, not explosively, but with the inevitability of something long denied finally being allowed to exist.
White hair, unmuted.
Purple eyes, unmistakable.
A presence that no longer bent itself smaller.
He had not slept afterward.
He had simply walked.
Now, as murmurs rippled through the plaza, he felt the weight of attention settle on him like a blade hovering just above skin.
"Who is that?"
"White hair… but not Valemont blue eyes."
"Those eyes—royal lineage?"
"No crest. Strange."
Good.
Confusion was better than clarity.
An academy official raised a hand, mana amplifying his voice across the plaza.
"Candidates will proceed in groups of fifty for Talent Assessment."
This was the first test.
The one that mattered.
The Talent Assessment Hall was circular, its ceiling lost in height and runic geometry. At its center stood a crystalline obelisk, translucent and humming softly, surrounded by concentric rings of inscription.
This was not a test of combat.
It was a test of potential.
Raw, unfiltered, undeniable.
Candidates stepped forward one by one, placing a hand on the obelisk. Mana reacted. The crystal changed color, brightness, resonance. Ranks were assigned instantly.
Aurelian watched silently as results were announced.
"A-rank."
"B-rank."
"S-rank."
"SS-rank."
Each result drew cheers or gasps. Noble families preened. Commoners clenched fists in quiet triumph.
Then it was his turn.
"Name," the examiner said, not looking up.
Aurelian stepped forward.
"Aurelian Valemont."
The hall went silent.
Not the quiet of respect.
The quiet of shock.
Pens stopped scratching. Heads snapped up. A ripple of disbelief spread outward like a stone dropped into water.
"Valemont?" someone hissed.
"That's a duke's house."
"I thought Lucien Valemont died childless."
"Isn't the current head his brother?"
The examiner finally looked up.
And froze.
White hair.
Royal purple eyes.
The man swallowed.
"…Proceed," he said stiffly.
Aurelian placed his hand on the obelisk.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
The crystal sang.
Light exploded outward, not blinding but profound, layers of color unfolding like petals. The runes ignited one after another, spiraling upward as the obelisk's core burned brighter and brighter until the hall itself vibrated.
Mana pressure surged.
Several candidates stumbled backward.
The examiner staggered.
The crystal stabilized—barely—and a sigil formed above it.
SSS+
The highest possible talent rank.
And then—something unprecedented.
The sigil duplicated.
Two identical SSS+ marks hovered side by side, pulsing in perfect synchronization.
The hall erupted.
"That's impossible—"
"There's only ever been one SSS+ per generation!"
"It's tied—he's tied with the top candidate!"
Aurelian stepped back calmly, heart steady.
He felt it—the Soul Sword aligning within him, the Soul Bow humming in silent approval. They did not surge. They did not react.
They simply acknowledged the truth.
The examiner stared at the result as though it had personally offended him.
"…Tied," he announced hoarsely. "Highest recorded talent. SSS-plus."
Eyes burned into Aurelian from every direction.
Not admiration.
Not yet.
Suspicion.
The written and physical assessments followed.
Aurelian did not dominate them.
He did not try to.
He answered efficiently, not brilliantly. He completed physical trials with precision rather than spectacle. Where others pushed for attention, he held back.
By the time rankings were tallied, the result board flickered to life above the hall.
Aurelian Valemont — 9th Place
The reaction was immediate.
Laughter.
"SSS+ talent and only ninth?"
"What a waste."
"Probably all potential, no substance."
"Noble blood getting carried by a crystal."
Someone snorted openly.
"Illegitimate child, maybe. Riding the Valemont name."
That rumor spread fast.
Whispers sharpened.
"The Duke's brother is loyal to his wife—everyone knows that."
"He has two children already, same age."
"So this one must be… outside the marriage."
"Makes sense. Hidden talent, hidden birth."
Aurelian listened without expression.
He had lived through worse.
An academy official stepped forward, voice raised.
"Before dismissal, the top ten will demonstrate a combat manifestation."
The laughter faded.
Combat demonstrations mattered.
They revealed truth.
One by one, candidates stepped forward, summoning weapons, casting spells, displaying affinities.
Then—
"Aurelian Valemont."
The name echoed.
Aurelian stepped onto the platform.
The mocking resumed.
"Let's see the bastard's trick."
"Probably borrowed techniques."
"Watch him crumble."
Aurelian lifted his gaze.
Royal purple eyes swept the hall.
Silence fell—not forced, not commanded, but taken.
He raised his hand.
"Come."
The Soul Sword answered.
Light condensed into form, resolving into a blade of pristine white, its surface unmarred by reflection, golden markings flowing within it like living script. The air around it stilled, as though the world itself adjusted to its presence.
Gasps ripped through the hall.
"That sword—"
"Spirit weapon?"
"No—something else."
Aurelian moved.
Not fast.
Perfect.
The Valemont sword art unfolded—not the simplified public version, but the true form Lucien had never been able to teach with flesh. Footwork without waste. Strikes without excess. Cuts that ended before they began.
Each movement carried intent so clean it hurt to watch.
The blade sang softly.
Aurelian halted.
Then raised his other hand.
The Soul Bow manifested—golden, translucent, etched with alchemical sigils that reconfigured themselves in real time. No arrow was drawn.
Mana shaped itself.
He released.
The arrow vanished mid-flight—controlled to the edge of existence.
The platform remained untouched.
The hall was frozen.
A senior instructor whispered, voice shaking.
"That's… Lucien Valemont's blade."
Another voice followed, barely audible.
"And Elenora Lysandre's bow."
Shock turned to disbelief.
"No one knew Lucien had a wife."
"Or a child."
"Those weapons… they're soul-bound."
A noble in the observation tier stood abruptly.
The Head of House Valemont.
Lucien's brother.
His face was pale.
"That's not my son," he said quietly.
The words carried.
The room shifted.
Aurelian dismissed the weapons.
Light dissolved.
He stood alone on the platform, scars unseen but carried, posture straight, eyes unwavering.
"I am Aurelian Valemont," he said calmly. "Son of Lucien Valemont and Elenora Lysandre."
Silence shattered into chaos.
No one laughed anymore.
No one doubted.
The boy they had mocked was not an illegitimate mistake.
He was a legacy they never knew existed.
And the academy—built to recognize potential—had just been forced to acknowledge something far greater.
Not a talent.
A return.