Affinities were not mysteries.
That was the first lie most people believed.
In the Empire, affinities were treated like blessings—divine favors handed down at birth, immutable and sacred. People whispered about them the way peasants whispered about noble bloodlines: with envy, awe, and resignation.
But the truth was far simpler.
And far crueler.
Affinities manifested in two ways.
The first was inheritance.
This was the most common path—so common it defined the system itself. Mana traits passed down from parents, grandparents, distant ancestors whose deeds had carved impressions into bloodlines. Fire mages birthed fire mages. Sword families produced children whose mana resonated with steel. Space, shadow, light—rare, yes, but still inherited.
Predictable.
Safe.
The second way was experience.
And this was the kind the world feared.
Affinities born not from blood—but from survival.
From repeated exposure to a concept so extreme, so overwhelming, that the soul itself bent to accommodate it. People who lived through spatial collapse. Those who drowned in voids and learned to exist anyway. Minds that endured agony beyond reason and did not fracture.
Experience-based affinities were vanishingly rare.
Most people died before they could earn one.
I sat cross-legged on the cold temple floor, breathing slowly as mana circulated through my body in smooth, silent loops.
This place—the Reforging Sanctum—had forced me to confront both truths.
Space had always been mine.
Inherited.
My father's affinity.
Low-grade, barely worth mentioning in noble circles. He could shorten steps slightly, reduce the distance of a charge, adjust positioning by instinct—but never bend space in a way that drew attention.
A convenience affinity.
Nothing more.
I had inherited that.
Low.
Barely noticeable.
But inheritance was only the seed.
Here, in a place where space warped as casually as air currents, that seed had been drowned, crushed, stretched, and folded until it either adapted—
—or broke.
Mine adapted.
Low became mid.
Mid crept toward high.
Not mastery.
But understanding.
I could feel space now—not as a barrier, but as a medium. Something malleable. Something that resisted—but not absolutely.
And the statues had taught me exactly how far I still had to go.
I stood, rolling my shoulders as the Adaptive Sovereign Physique adjusted automatically, micro-corrections rippling through muscle and bone.
Six months had passed since my first encounter with the statues.
Six months of failure.
Six months of being dismantled, crushed, erased, and humiliated.
The statues did not tire.
They did not grow sloppy.
They did not grant mercy.
They existed to test one thing only:
Whether I could learn.
The sword appeared beside me again—simple, unadorned, waiting.
I picked it up.
The moment my fingers wrapped around the hilt, mana flowed instinctively—not leaking, not flaring, but settling into the blade as naturally as blood into veins.
That alone would have shocked the academy instructors.
Mana augmentation of the body was expected.
Mana augmentation of weapons?
That was something most students didn't grasp until years later.
I exhaled slowly.
"Again," I said.
The statues moved.
Shadow struck first.
I was ready this time.
I surged forward, blood roaring through my veins as I triggered a controlled acceleration—not Crimson Vow, not a vow at all, but a blood circulation technique born from my affinity.
My heart beat faster.
My blood pressure spiked.
Oxygen flooded muscle fibers.
I moved.
Not faster than the statue.
But fast enough.
The shadow blade grazed my shoulder instead of piercing my heart.
I twisted, slashing as I moved.
The sword still passed through shadow—
—but space didn't.
I forced a thin layer of distorted space around the blade, anchoring its edge to a fixed point for a fraction of a second.
The blade bit.
A shallow cut appeared across the statue's torso.
The statue recoiled.
Barely.
But it recoiled.
The crystal statue responded instantly.
Space collapsed.
I felt my left side compress, ribs screaming as pressure spiked.
I slammed my foot down and pushed mana outward—not explosively, but directionally.
Telekinesis.
Crude.
Imperfect.
But enough.
The spatial distortion wavered.
The statue's balance shifted by less than an inch.
I took advantage of it immediately.
Blood surged again.
I ducked under a retaliatory strike, rolled, and came up behind the crystal statue—driving my shoulder into its center of mass while reinforcing my body with mana.
The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across its surface.
I grinned.
Then shadow wrapped around my legs and ripped me off the ground.
I hit the floor hard, vision flashing white.
Pain flared—but it didn't stop me.
Six months ago, that hit would have ended the attempt.
Now?
I rolled to my knees, blood humming, mana steady.
I lost that fight.
And the next.
And the one after that.
But something had changed.
I was no longer helpless.
Time blurred.
Weeks passed.
Months layered over each other.
My days followed a brutal, precise rhythm:
Meditation.
Mana circulation.
Physical conditioning.
Statue combat.
Failure.
Recovery.
Repeat.
Each loss carved something away—but also left something behind.
Control.
I learned to augment my muscles without overloading them.
To reinforce joints before impact.
To coat my skin in a thin mana sheath that distributed force instead of resisting it.
I learned to let space flow around me instead of pushing against it.
To use telekinetic nudges—not to throw enemies, but to disrupt balance, timing, angles.
I copied the statues.
Their footwork.
Their posture.
The way they shifted weight before striking.
Swordsmanship wasn't taught here.
It was absorbed.
Imitation became instinct.
Instinct became form.
And one day—
I stood across from the statues again.
Calm.
Focused.
Centered.
The sword felt like an extension of my arm.
The statues moved.
I moved with them.
Shadow struck.
I slipped inside its range, blood acceleration spiking just enough to gain the edge, blade flashing upward.
The shadow parted.
The crystal statue bent space.
I bent it back—just a little—using telekinesis to offset the vector, turning a lethal collapse into a glancing distortion.
I struck.
Once.
Twice.
The statues attacked together now, pressure mounting, movements flawless.
I responded without thinking.
Blood surged—faster.
Space twisted—subtler.
Mana flowed—cleaner.
I slipped between attacks, blade humming with controlled reinforcement, body moving as a unified whole.
The shadow statue shattered first.
The crystal statue followed moments later, collapsing into fragments of light and stone.
Silence fell.
The sword vanished from my hand.
I stood there, chest rising and falling, blood slowing, mana settling.
Then the system appeared.
[TRIAL: COMPLETE]
I closed my eyes.
"…Finally."
The reward manifested not as an object—but as knowledge.
A sword art.
Not flashy.
Not absolute.
Perfectly aligned with me.
Sword Art Acquired
Name:Silent Dominion – First Form
Type: Foundation Sword Art
Description:
A style emphasizing control, minimal mana leakage, precise movement, and dominance of space within striking range.
• Enhances synchronization between body, mana, and weapon
• Scales with mana control rather than raw output
• Designed for prolonged combat against superior opponents
Victory is not decided by strength—
but by who controls the battlefield.
I laughed quietly.
"Figures," I murmured. "It suits me."
Six months later—
I stood at the edge of the amethyst pool once more.
The system unfolded my status screen—expanded, refined, honest.
.===Status=== Name: Aurelian von Edevane Rank : D- Potential : Unmeasured Physique : Adaptive Sovereign Physique (Incomplete) Strength : D Agility : D+ Stamina : D+ Intelligence : C+ Mana Capacity : D Mana Control : A+ Luck : E Charm : A Affinities: • Blood — Peak • Space — High • Shadow — Peak • Mind — Peak Skills: • Sovereign of Silence • Crimson Vow • False Crown • Silent Dominion – First Form ==========
I studied the numbers calmly.
D-rank.
Average.
Painfully average.
For my age.
Prodigies would already be climbing C. Some approaching B.
My older sister—Lyssandra—would be A+ rank by now.
The hero?
Around C rank.
And yet—
My mana control eclipsed them all.
A+.
Untouchable.
I could do more with D-rank mana than most could with B.
I exhaled slowly.
"Good," I said.
Because raw rank had never decided the future.
Control did.
Understanding did.
Adaptation did.
I looked up at the vast temple ceiling, white hair falling loosely around my shoulders.
Six months left.
Six months to consolidate.
Six months to sharpen.
When I returned to the world—
I wouldn't announce myself with overwhelming power.
I would simply exist.
And let the world realize, far too late, that it no longer understood the rules I was playing by.