The academy changed without announcing it.
No banners. No declarations. Just a subtle shift—like still water disturbed by something moving far below the surface.
Aerin noticed it during breakfast.
Voices were louder. Laughter sharper. Conversations carried an edge they hadn't before. Students compared rankings, sparring results, mana output numbers measured during practice.
Power had become currency.
Aerin ate in silence, listening more than chewing.
The morning class was Applied Elemental Theory.
Unlike Foundations, this course encouraged action.
Professor Lyrien, a tall woman with silver-threaded hair and a gaze like cut glass, stood before a raised platform etched with formation circles.
"Today," she said, "you will manifest."
Excitement rippled through the hall.
"Controlled output only," Lyrien added. "Anyone who loses focus will be removed."
She gestured to the first student.
A fire wielder stepped forward, summoning a small flame above his palm. It burned bright, steady.
"Acceptable," Lyrien said. "Next."
One by one, students displayed sparks of ice, shards of stone, flickers of wind, creeping vines.
When Aerin's name was called, the room grew quieter.
He stepped onto the platform.
Lyrien watched him carefully.
"Element?" she asked.
"Fire and wood," Aerin replied.
A murmur spread.
Dual-wielders always drew attention—especially average ones.
"Proceed," Lyrien said.
Aerin closed his eyes.
He shaped only the surface of his mana.
A small ember formed above his palm—muted, controlled. Around it, a thin ring of green light manifested, feeding the flame without intensifying it.
Fire sustained by growth.
Not explosive.
Stable.
The flame hovered, unremarkable at first glance.
Lyrien's eyes narrowed.
She dismissed him with a nod.
"Efficient," she said. "Sit."
Some students scoffed.
Others frowned.
A few took mental notes.
Sparring followed in the afternoon.
The arena was divided into multiple circles, instructors overseeing each.
Aerin was paired with a lightning wielder—fast, confident, already popular.
The signal was given.
The opponent moved first.
A crack of thunder. A feint. A direct charge.
Aerin didn't retreat.
He rooted his stance and raised his weapon just enough to deflect—not block—the strike, letting the force slide past him.
Wood mana surged into the floor, reinforcing his footing.
Fire flared briefly—not as attack, but pressure.
The lightning wielder overextended.
Aerin stepped inside the opening and tapped the opponent's chest with the blunt edge of his weapon.
The match ended.
Silence followed.
The instructor raised a brow.
"Winner," he said. "Aerin."
The lightning wielder stared, stunned.
It wasn't overwhelming strength that decided the match.
It was timing.
Control.
Understanding.
Word spread faster than Aerin expected.
Not loudly—but persistently.
That evening, a pair of upper-year students approached him near the training grounds.
"Good fight today," one said casually. "You move like someone who's seen real combat."
"I haven't," Aerin replied honestly.
They exchanged glances.
"Still," the other said. "Be careful. People don't like it when expectations break."
Aerin nodded.
He already knew.
Later that night, alone in his room, he meditated again.
This time, the sealed depth responded.
Not with power—
But with pressure.
A distant echo pressed against his awareness, like ancient armor shifting.
Three presences remained silent.
Patient.
Aerin opened his eyes, heart steady.
Still water had cracked.
And something beneath the surface had begun to move.