Distant tales of the Dichotomy

When Fel awoke, he found himself in a dark and gloomy room consisting only of wet black bricks, a leaky window with bars much too high to reach, and a solid wooden door marked with a crow holding a crown in one claw and a dagger in the other. He had nothing on him but the clothes he was wearing. He touched his pockets frantically, but before he had even a second to understand his surroundings, he heard a deafening knock on the door. As he lifted his head, a voice screamed:

“Wake up! You have been summoned by His Majesty, the supreme ruler of the three realms, high king of Arboritia and tyrant of Sorrows. Make haste or suffer the consequences!”

Confused and in a daze, Fel stumbled toward the door as a feeling of anxiety and hatred rose in his heart. To his surprise, the door, although heavy, was unlocked and slowly creaked open as Fel pushed it with all his might. Beyond it was a grand and vast reception hall with tables and pillars surrounded by torches. However you looked at it, the place resembled a dining hall, the only difference being the multiple doors lining its walls. Fel tried to count them, but they far exceeded the usual number. Many children and young adults sat at the tables, but none uttered a word. They just waited, staring aimlessly at the table in front of them.

“I told you to hurry, didn’t I, boy? Do not make me repeat myself, or you won’t be around to hear it a third time.”

Above him stood a lizard-man with a halberd on his back the size of two men. Shocked by fear, Fel felt his legs give out beneath him, and he sank to the floor. Realizing what had happened, Fel quickly stood back up and began to follow the lizard-man, who was already a few steps ahead. Soon they arrived at a black door with silver lining, so tall that it dwarfed the giant beside him. Before the lizard-man could reach it, the door began to open on its own, revealing a hall filled with beautiful paintings and objects completely unknown to Fel. He also saw giant suits of armor that looked as if they could fit even a Goliath, but thankfully they were all empty.

After turning multiple corners and climbing more stairs than he could count, they finally arrived at their destination. This time, a black-and-golden door awaited them. The lizard-man lifted his right hand above his head, palm facing behind him, put his right knee on the ground, and began to chant in a loud, clear voice:

“His Majesty and dark liege, supreme ruler of the three realms, high king of Arboritia and tyrant of Sorrows, forgive us, for we are but mere mortals. Bless us with the enlightenment that is your presence as we venture into your hall.”

The man closed his hand into a fist and slammed it against the ground, making the whole room shiver. Then, as if by magic, the door opened, and Fel was hit with an aura unlike anything he had ever felt. He began vomiting and gasping for breath, unable to take a single step forward. He knelt, facing the ground, and soon heard another voice, this time a woman’s. It sounded elegant yet filled with dread, and each word struck his soul directly.

“You are now in the presence of the one who stands above all, His great and powerful Excellency, the one and only Emperor Rainord Ortumocorvis, supreme ruler of the three realms, high king of Arboritia and tyrant of Sorrows. Kneel, for he is about to speak the words of gods to you, mere mortals.”

As Fel lifted his head, he saw her. She was beautiful, but at a glance Fel could tell she was definitely not human. She had piercing red eyes burning a deep scarlet that glowed even brighter beneath her paper-white hair. She was dressed in charcoal-colored armor that gleamed exactly like Falling Star. Only her tail protruded from it, and it was more like a whip with knives attached than a tail, to be honest. Fel’s gaze wandered around the room and settled on a huge, majestic curtain made of what seemed to be only the finest materials, white satin with gold lining, covering the throne at the end of the room. Then Fel heard a voice deeper and more vile than any he had ever heard, as if a storm had picked up a stack of swords and smashed them together.

“Felanor TeneDente, fallen heir and child of wrath, you are now my possession, a tool to achieve what has yet to be reached. You possess strength, but your bloodline was forsaken. Merciful as I am, I shall grant you a gift, the gift of dread and sorrow, but also of life. You will train here in the Sanctum of Claws, and if you are acknowledged by your peers and superiors, you will be allowed to serve under me and fight until you fall in battle. If you fail to impress, however, you will be disposed of. Now go forth and fight or lament. Whichever you choose, the destination is the same. Only the route differs.”

The elegant woman knelt, raised her palm, slammed her fist into the floor, and shouted:

“Our lord has spoken! Begone now! You have already long outstayed your welcome!”

The doors closed as fast as they had opened, leaving Fel in a state of awe as he pondered what the man had just told him. Sadly, that did not last long, as the lizard-man stood and addressed Fel.

“Follow me to the barracks. We will pick up your gear and head to the training hall. The others should already be there for today’s lesson. As we walk, I shall explain your position here and what to expect henceforth. Understood?”

Fel quickly nodded and stood up, and they both started walking.

“This is the Sanctum of Claws, a place built by His Highness’s predecessors in the middle of the capital, under the royal castle, in the hope of raising assassins and warriors who have already lost their names and faces to the course of time. Those who do well live and prosper, but those who fail are humiliated and shunned by their peers until their number is called. There are currently 96 candidates living here out of 100. Each of them has a number that corresponds to the number of the previous death before they arrived. You will be known as 4, but you will also be given a title in a year, when the Tournament of Undying Crows rolls around. It is a ceremony that serves both as a reward for those who do well and a punishment for those who are lacking.”

They arrived at a smaller door. This time nothing stood out about it, apart from a sword and shield carved into the wood of the archway above.

“Before we enter, I must tell you three things. First, my name is Isharv, Slayer of Clouds. I am a member of the Reptillars and eighth guard of the Sanctum. I will be your mentor, but do not rely on me, and do not be mistaken: I am here to judge, not to teach. Second, any disrespect to anyone above you in standing can and will be severely punished. Finally, fight with all you have when others are watching. Weakness is a burden you do not wish to carry.”

They opened the door and entered what seemed to be a room filled with equipment of every sort, from mages’ staffs to orc helms and crystal spears. They kept walking until they reached a box labeled “Fallen Heir.”

Isharv bent and pulled out two very familiar swords, Falling Star and Krashing Fyr. Fel’s eyes lit up as his most prized possessions were returned to him.

“Who knew a failure like you would be walking around with two saint swords? What a waste. A brat like you will probably never be able to awaken their latent abilities. Just some pieces of scrap metal in your hands! Wahahahaha!” Isharv snickered bitterly.

“What the hell are you talking about? Don’t you dare insult my sw—”

Fel’s words were cut off abruptly by a swift punch smashing into his stomach at remarkable speed.

“Shut the fuck up, you absolute cretin. Talk only when spoken to, trash,” said the Reptillar, spitting on Fel.

In that moment Fel wanted to bury his sword deep in his arrogant face, but he knew he stood no chance against this behemoth of a lizard, so he decided to simply glare at him, releasing all his bloodlust through his eyes and, sadly, not his fists.

They moved deeper into the room and reached another doorway, this time with no door. Fel could see the other side, and from what he could tell, it was an arena of some sort. The closer they got, the louder the sound of swords clashing and shields bashing against armor grew, causing an intensifying ringing in his head. Upon entering the arena, the Fallen Heir could clearly see five distinct groups, with instructors teaching and sparring with candidates in a multitude of ways.

Isharv pointed toward one of the groups at the end of the arena and said:

“Head over there to group 3. Bring your swords and speak to the instructor. Do not wander around. Your safety is no one’s priority, so do not forget that.”

The boy looked where the man pointed and began to walk cautiously toward it. As he drew near, he saw about twelve candidates lined up facing a single figure. He took a few more steps, but a voice soon called out to him.

“You there!”

Fel stopped as if on cue, startled by the sudden shout. He searched for where the voice had come from, and upon closer inspection he figured it had to have come from the lone figure standing in front of the pack.

“Will you be standing there all day? Or perhaps you will take your place and not delay this session any longer?” the stranger said with spite.

“I’m here by orders, sir. What should I do?”

The small crowd laughed softly as a creepy grin slowly appeared on the stranger’s face.

“Get in line with the others, you buffoon. I’m not sure if you are an idiot or just a brat, but you had best stay quiet, little one. You should work on relying only on yourself, or you’ll fall behind.”

Fel quickly took his place at the right end of the line, and soon afterward the instructor began to speak.

“My name is Kirn Mayfell, Tempest of Daggers and third squadron commander of the Sanctum. From now on I will teach the lot of you to be fierce warriors and tacticians, until you either join the armies of the Ortumocorvis Empire or perish trying. There are currently eight to twelve candidates per group. Each of you has been assigned a number from 0 to 100, based on your predecessor. Every two months, we will eliminate one candidate from each group, until twelve months have passed. The one who ranks last in each squadron after two months shall battle the other losers, and sometimes the remaining squadron members. Whoever wins gets to return to their squadron and continue to strive harder until the end of the year, when the Tournament of Undying Crows begins. The eight winners of the tournament gain the right to join His Imperial Highness’s army and possibly even become one of his saintly crows, the royal guards dedicated to the royal family’s protection.

“Each day I will announce the squadron rankings. Then we will do our routine training session, and shortly after that you will be tested in a challenge of some sort, where points will be awarded to each of you to determine your results. The last Tournament of Undying Crows happened last month, so all rankings are still neutral for another month while we gather the remaining candidates. Understood?”

The whole crowd exclaimed:

“YES, SIR!”

Commander Kirn continued his speech, barely acknowledging the students before him:

“I will now announce the standings and points of each candidate in order of arrival, as we have not yet decided the rankings, nor have any points been awarded.”

#56, Saladin Silverine, 0 points

#19, Marie of Krishcove, 0 points

#74, Ryever Stone, 0 points

#13, Knoxia Lunore, 0 points

#07, Vili Wyrnia, 0 points

#88, Orpheus Sansteed, 0 points

#41, Pegoris of Flatin, 0 points

#33, Loria Dusklight Ortumo, 0 points

#79, Hironori Rain, 0 points

#27, Raza Treetrunk, 0 points

#11, Gobu of Grazingrock, 0 points

#04, Felanor TeneDente, 0 points

After the long speech was over, the instructor took on a stern look and walked much closer to them. He paced back and forth as if thinking while examining his new prospects. Fel also took the opportunity to finally get a good look at this so-called squadron commander. To his surprise, the man looked astonishingly plain. He couldn’t have been taller than 6’2”, a gaunt man with two long, thin cavalry swords hanging at his hip, a stubble of a beard, and the eyes of an old hawk, tired yet aware. He seemed like the old, firm type who always kept everything from everyone. No doubt about it, this man was dangerous, but in his eyes the other two guards Fel had seen seemed much more terrifying, especially the Reptillar, who looked straight out of a nightmare. Finally the instructor settled his pace and addressed the squad.

“Listen up! I have made up my mind and devised an adequate training regimen while looking at your pathetic selves. Training sessions will be divided into four different classes, and as such the squad will be divided into four teams of three. Each week, the teams will alternate between the training styles and methods until each team has covered all four subjects. Here is the schedule and the teams for this week, which will also dictate the general direction of the rest of your year.”

Team A

Members: #88 Orpheus Sansteed, #79 Hironori Rain, #19 Marie of Krishcove

Weekly alternating training subject: Magical aptitude

Team B

Members: #13 Knoxia Lunore, #56 Saladin Silverine, and #41 Pegoris of Flatin

Weekly alternating training subject: Physical aptitude

Team C

Members: #27 Raza Treetrunk, #74 Ryever Stone, and #11 Gobu of Grazingrock

Weekly alternating training subject: Magical equipment and physical enhancement

Team D

Members: #07 Vili Wyrnia, #04 Felanor TeneDente, and #33 Loria Dusklight Ortumo

Weekly alternating training subject: Spirits and conjurations

“Every week each team will rotate training subjects, but the teams will remain the same. Keep in mind that points are scored individually, so your teammates are not friends but rivals to surpass. Losing team members can quickly make a winning team lose all structure and crumble. Half of you will be gone by the end of this year. As such, here are my final words for today: do not be afraid to stand out, but also keep in mind that anyone with a target on their back is bound to get fucking cumquaddled eventually.”

Kirn took a pile of papers from a bag near the wall behind him. From what Fel could see, they looked like ordinary pieces of blank, high-quality paper. The commander laid the pile gently on the floor and waved his hand over it as if wiping something away. The ordinary paper suddenly took on a faint glow, as if a candle had been placed right underneath. Kirn bent down and picked up the papers, and seconds later handed them out individually to each of them. Fel examined his and discovered that it was in reality a map with four distinct points on it, as well as a path leading to those points. Multiple names and locations appeared on the map. Since they were located right under the royal castle, Fel wondered whether it was really safe to hand this over to a group of dangerous kids with bad intentions, but “oh well,” he thought. He wasn’t one to argue about receiving free information.

The squadron commander spoke again:

“Now team up with your squadmates and go to the specified locations on the maps I handed over. Don’t dillydally, or you can be certain your sub-teachers will not be happy. Oh, and everyone whose subject this week is physical aptitude, stay here and do as I say. I am your instructor for this subject as well as squadron commander. Do not take me lightly, or it might cost you dearly.”

After those words, the candidates quickly began to branch off into their separate cliques, just as indicated on their papers. Fel figured he would stand around for a while and let the cloud of dust caused by the frenzy settle. Not long after, a young man a tad taller than Fel started approaching him confidently and introduced himself.

“My name is Vili Wyrnia, seventh prince of the Dichotomy, but most call me V.”

V bowed and offered a courteous gesture befitting a noble.

“With that red-ash hair of yours, I’m guessing you are that TeneDente, #4, whom Mr. Kirn announced earlier. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Felanor, but let me make something clear right off the bat: I will be leading Team D, and I don’t expect a reject like you to step in and oppose me. So just stand back and let me lead us to victory.”

V extended his hand toward Fel. Reacting to what the boy had just said, Fel slapped his hand away and said:

“Another idiotic fancy fool. Play the role of ‘prince’ if you please, but do not include me in your silly little noble games.”

Fel turned his head in dismay and muttered angrily as he walked off toward the marked location.

“Fine! Suit yourself, boy! But don’t expect me to help you out when you come crawling back!” V shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth like a makeshift speaker.

Fel continued walking, ignoring his new acquaintance’s comments, and slowly but surely reached the appointed location. It was a secluded building in a courtyard at the base of the main castle’s first floor. The place was an old mansion stripped of its glory and now plastered with strange papers, signs, and sigils scattered across its exterior walls. He entered the building expecting crazy beings or wild, whimsical decor to be waiting for him, but all he found inside was an empty fortified room dressed in the same weird circles and papers as the exterior. Rather disappointed but also relieved, he advanced, trying to get a grip on what this weirdly vacant room was. The only other feature he could see was a single door in each wall.

Fel decided it would be best to investigate, so he instinctively headed toward the door on his right. Since he was a child, Tori had always told him that if he ever doubted a choice, the only thing to do was go with his gut and never look back, because hesitation only delays a potential failure. Just as his hand was about to grab the doorknob, the door flew open with great force, like a jump scare in a cheap Steam video game, and he felt something bump into his chest. He stared down, and to his surprise all he saw was a black hole. No, not a black hole, but an abyss in the shape of black hair. He jumped backward and reached for Falling Star, but right before unsheathing the blade, he saw the person standing before him: a depressed, red-eyed girl with a deathly aura about her. She stood there glaring at him with frustration and animosity, about to explode into a violent mess. Even though Fel felt his legs shake with fear, he could not help but find the mysterious girl quite attractive. The thought quickly faded as he sensed a bad omen, like lightning about to strike.

He readied himself to attack, but everything went black, and he suddenly felt incredibly dense. The hair stood up on his neck and a cold sweat began to drip from his forehead, as two burning crimson eyes stared him down in the deep void of darkness he was now gazing into. He could also see that her braided charcoal hair was now floating, forming a crown of black sun around her head. The Fallen Heir could only imagine that death awaited him right before his eyes, but for all the bad luck he’d had so far, at least he was quite literally saved by the bell, as another presence appeared in the room, exactly between the two candidates. It was an old man. No, it wasn’t that. He was not really an old man but more of a man with the head of an arctic-white goat, who wore very peculiar glasses and fancy noble attire. He seemed to have regular hands, but his lack of shoes exposed two hooves, and a bit of greyish-white fur poked out of his intricately designed pants. He soon spoke, loud and clear:

“I certainly do not recommend killing your squadmates this early on, especially since not all three of you have arrived yet. Stand down, or I will make certain this becomes a one-person team.”

The air suddenly grew much lighter, and the stench of dread that had been building dissipated slowly, transforming into a more relaxed atmosphere. The girl returned to her prior self. Fel was about to ask her name, but the strange goat-man cut him off before he could even utter a single word.

“I am the Grand Sage Boru of the Forest Shirak, the one known as the Salvation of the Shirakians. I am also the current fourth squadron commander and your instructor for this week. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The goat-man smiled from ear to ear, his strange square pupils peeking out from beneath his round glasses. It gave the air an awkward vibe, making Fel feel quite uncomfortable.

“I do not recommend we start our little gathering before our party reaches its target number of applicants. Well, truth be told, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. I simply hate repeating myself, that’s all,” he said, grinning again, this time holding the unhinged smile in suspension for what honestly seemed an eternity.

Time soon began to run again as the door to the strange mansion swung open, revealing a dashing young man with golden hair. He was a bit taller and broader than Fel and had the looks of a fairytale prince, sporting a condescending attitude that seemed to emanate from him like an aura of douchebaggery. Fel had definitely seen that arrogant face before. It was that dipshit with the shitty tone who had tried to snatch Fel as a minion and steal all the glory for himself. The lad opened his mouth and confidently declared:

“It is I, seventh prince of Wyrnia, Vili Wyrnia, golden heir and servant of the High One. Well, future servant, that is, to be exact.”

Even though the boy had put on quite a show, all his spectators were left speechless, and sadly it was the crickets kind of speechless. Vili coughed into his hand in hopes of breaking the silence and continued his strut inside until he reached the rest of the gathering in the middle. As soon as the boy reached the center, the goat-man spoke once again, with vigor and charisma.

“Seeing as all of you are here, I will now explain and demonstrate this week’s subject and what you will be training in throughout the year. Once again, I truly do not like to repeat myself, so I shall say this once and once only. Whether you understand or not is truly up to you. If you fail to comprehend, that is your fault and yours alone.”

The man stopped talking for a second, shot a quick glance at all three applicants, and signaled them to sit on the ground. They all nodded and sat on the floor in front of him.

This content has been unlawfully taken from NovelPhoenix; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“To begin with, we must start with the basics. There are multiple sources of power in this world, and many of them come from pulling energy from the vast ethereal beings that inhabit our realms. Some are physical, others are spiritual in nature, and some are even divine or demonic forces. Although their powers and effects differ greatly, these beings are classified into three different classes:

Monsters and beasts

Spirits and elementals

Astral titans and primal beings

“Inside each class reside different races of various creatures, ranked from F- to SS+. From F- to D+, these beings are known as Challenger tier. From C- to B+, they are known as Champion tier. A- to S+ is known as Saint tier. Lastly, SS and SS+ are known as Emperor tier.

“To draw power from these beings, one must either compel them to comply or enter into a contract with them. Once one has achieved that spectacular feat, the being you are partnering with will either turn into an artifact of some kind or remain in its original physical form. Some even leave permanent markings on the user’s body. The highest tiers of beings can do all three at will, interchanging forms as they please. Although high-tier spirits rarely manifest themselves in the physical world, it has happened a few times that they have entered our world to help their disciples or to intervene in a world-ending catastrophe. In this class we will be focusing on artifacts infused with magical spirits and conjurations, also known as Artifact Class Beings (ACB). Did everyone get that?”

Without even waiting for an answer, Boru continued his monologue:

“Today, each of you will face an ACB and try either to dominate and subdue it or to bargain with it to earn its benevolence. Be warned, though: it is not easy to take control of an artifact’s power. The journey usually incapacitates most and kills almost as many. The higher the tier of the ACB, the greater the difficulty of obtaining its powers. Each tier is tenfold the power of the previous one, so do not for a second underestimate a being’s tier.

“The three classes of beings also have different rarities. The most common is type 1, monsters and beasts, with about 60% of artifact users having this type. Type 2 is the second most prevalent, with 35% of users having spirit and elemental artifacts. Finally, only 5% of artifacts and relics are astral titans or primal beings, and that 5% is split in half into Blessed types and Cursed types.

“You will each be given a type C or lower tier artifact before we begin today’s class. If you have brought your own artifact, you may use it at your own risk and peril. If the tier you are trying to draw power from is much higher than your own, you will most likely die, so choose carefully but quickly so we can go on with the lesson.”

POV: Felanor TeneDente

The goat-man gave us a few minutes to decide whether we would use an army-supplied artifact or a personal one. To be honest, I had no clue whether the blades on my hips were artifacts or simply regular swords, but a gut feeling and the memory of what the lizard-man had said told me they were saint-tier artifacts. Too uncertain to try my luck, I decided to ask our instructor for his elderly opinion.

“Goat Man…”

“It is Master Boru for you, insolent one,” the sage interrupted in an aggressive tone.

“Mhm.” I coughed. “Master Boru, I am not quite sure whether what I have on me are artifacts or just regular old swords. Could you perhaps take a look at them?” I asked in a polite yet arrogant voice.

Boru snickered and announced:

“I will indulge your request, but first I must warn you that you can control only one artifact at a time, so choose one of your blades very carefully and I shall examine it for you. I will do this once and once only. Do not think I am a simple tool-examination machine, boy.”

It was hard to choose between the two blades. Both were supposedly saint tier, but if I could use only one, I figured effectiveness should come before looks, and I should choose the one I had the most experience with. I slowly unsheathed the raven-black blade that hung on my hip and presented it to Master Boru. The goat-man gasped and said:

“Well, well, well. It seems you have chosen very wisely, boy. This blade is definitely refined and spectacular indeed! I honestly have rarely seen obsidian blades in person, and never have I seen an obsidian artifact this well kept! This blade seems quite ancient and must hold an abundance of power within it. I sadly cannot tell you its class, but by my analysis this artifact must be at least A+ or S tier, and it is well known that saint-tier or higher swords and items cannot be appraised without an Appraisal Eye skill higher than S tier.”

The sage let out a deep sigh and said:

“Unfortunately, I strongly do not recommend using this artifact at your current level, as it will almost certainly lead to a very early death. I guarantee it. Moving on, I suggest using an army-supplied artifact this year, if you want to survive, that is.”

Boru gently rested Falling Star in Fel’s hands and added:

“Whatever you decide to do, the choice is yours and yours alone, young man.”

I questioned myself for a second, but reflecting on what I had heard since my arrival, I decided to take a chance and use the saint-tier sword even if it cost me my life. If I wanted to surpass the others and escape from here, I had to get at least one trump card to help me in times of trouble. I took Falling Star and held it up to the sky, looking at it as if it were my god. I had to succeed, and therefore I would.

POV: Narrator

The instructor noticed that everyone had chosen the artifact they would use, and so he decided to begin his class once more.

“Now, now, gather up once more. I shall demonstrate how to tap into the power these artifacts hold.”

The goat-man waved his right hand toward the ground, and suddenly the tiles beneath his hand turned into a black puddle of mud, from which a strange spear emerged. It looked like a long crystal staff with a spiked, lacerated blade nearly a foot long poking out of the top. He picked it up with his hand, still hovering over the ground, and the puddle slowly dissipated at the same time.

“This is my personal artifact. Its name is Eldritch Heart, and it is an A-tier elemental class type,” said Boru with utmost pride.

“Let me demonstrate how to conjure its powers, more commonly known as Beliefs. Every artifact has its own abilities, known as Beliefs. Although they are usually very similar in ability below B tier, A-tier Beliefs and above tend to be very unique.”

Boru grasped the handle of the spear and began infusing a kind of greenish aura into it.

“You must try to dominate the artifact with your own Beliefs, transferring them mentally into the physical or spiritual form of the artifact. If your Beliefs are stronger than the being residing in the artifact, you will be able to use the first of four forms associated with the artifact: Phase 1, known as spring form, representing a new beginning and the start of the artifact’s assimilation. After each form breakthrough, the user must pass a challenge or trial made and orchestrated by the artifact. This often results in both physical and psychological damage, which can in some cases lead to death, to the transformation of the user, or to the release of the beings themselves. Thankfully, that last option applies only if the being was forcibly trapped in the artifact beforehand. As such, we have built this faculty storehouse with the best seals and restraints that the modern Orcus Magistrate Magical Scientists (OMMS) can offer. If anything tragic were to happen, fear not. I am here to eliminate anything and anyone trying to leave… or enter,” the old goat-man said jokingly, grinning from ear to ear in a sinister fashion.

As Boru infused his aura into the staff, the room began to rumble, cracks appeared in the walls, and finally something emerged from the ground. With fierce intensity, black, wood-like tentacles erupted beneath Boru and engulfed him in an instant. For a few seconds everything was silent. The students looked at each other worriedly, unsure what to do, and remained in stasis as their gazes fell back on the Goat Man. A flash of green light covered the room in a bright daze, and as they came back to their senses, an ominous figure stood in the middle of the room: a solid black wooden knight, menacing, with a sword nearly half its length. The knightly figure must have been ten feet tall. As the students readied themselves to fight the monstrosity, another loud rumbling shook the ground like an earthquake, and more tentacles began to spring out, this time from the back of the menacing knight. Four of the flexible monstrosities hit the ground, causing a puff of smoke that once again blinded the students. Then, as if in a magic show, Boru emerged from the smoke, smiling with confidence and charisma, a showman and yet a comically stern artifacts teacher. He put his hand on his chest and said:

“Let us now begin the introduction to the first form. This behemoth of a knight standing behind me is my beloved Eldritch Heart. I shall now demonstrate my Beliefs. Spring Form: Verdant Horror!”

The students stood frozen, half-blinded by dust and awe, their hands still halfway raised in poorly prepared defensive postures. The Eldritch Heart, as Boru had named it, loomed behind him like a corpse risen too proud to remember it had died.

Its sword groaned as it sank a few centimeters into the stone floor, the weight of its presence undeniable. Green veins pulsed across its obsidian, bark-like armor, a heartbeat in sync with Boru’s own, or perhaps not. Some students noticed the discrepancy and shuddered.

“Spring Form,” Boru continued, pacing theatrically as his long patchwork coat swirled behind him like the trail of a magician or a madman, “is not named for your comfort. Forget fields of lilies and the gentle thaw of snow. No, Verdant Horror is the waking scream of roots tearing through coffins, the sprouting of seed through eyeballs, the wet whisper of fertility where none was wanted.”

He stopped, looking at the class, his eyes glinting emerald.

“Life. Forcefully. Reclaimed.”

Fel, standing near the back, froze as vines crept slowly toward his boots from the cracks in the floor. He did not scream, perhaps because his lungs had locked up under the intense pressure.

Boru clapped his hands, and the vines retracted.

“Control,” he said sharply, “is what separates a Sorcerer from a Scourge.”

Boru raised his hand, and the black knight behind him twisted, not mechanically but like something mimicking movement, a puppet imitating grace. It lowered its weapon with a groan like creaking trees in the dead of night.

“Now,” he said, his voice more academic, “each of you will approach the central stone one by one and attempt a basic Infusion. Do not attempt to imprint a Belief yet, unless your family tree includes demons or apocalyptic deities, or you will rupture. Badly. I’ll know if you try. Eldritch Heart will know faster.”

The knight’s shoulders heaved, as if it were laughing, but its head remained still.

“But before we begin,” Boru added, his voice taking on a curious lilt, “does anyone want to ask the question they’re all thinking?”

Silence.

“What… Belief did you use to subjugate it, Professor?” said Vili.

Boru grinned, that same half-comic, half-maniac grin that always made it hard to know whether to applaud or run.

“I believed,” he said, “that every living thing, given time, becomes monstrous. Even a minuscule sapling.”

He turned his back, walking toward a ring of glyphs that began to glow green at his approach.

“Now form a line, and remember the number one rule of artifact handling…”

The students instinctively leaned in.

Boru paused, then said softly, “Artifacts lie.”

And then the first student stepped forward.

The line of students hesitated. None dared to be first.

Until she moved.

Loria Dusklight Ortumo stepped forward without a word, the soft rustle of her heavy coat and the faint clink of concealed iron chains echoing in the silent room. The torches dimmed as she passed them, though no wind followed her steps. A scent, vaguely reminiscent of grave moss and scorched incense, lingered in her wake.

Her crimson eyes, faintly glowing like coals buried under ash, never left the hulking black knight that loomed behind Boru.

A murmur passed through the students, but none dared speak aloud. Even Fel, still unnerved by the vision he had unwillingly glimpsed, stepped back, swallowing dryly as her shadow lengthened unnaturally, splitting into tendrils that twitched with latent hunger.

Her hair, braided with silver wire and crow feathers, seemed heavier now, subtly lifting as though suspended in water. A crown of void formed around her once again, and light seemed to flee from her presence.

Boru turned in a curious way, one eyebrow arched.

“Ah… Dusklight Ortumo, is it? Royalty, in blood and flesh? No wonder I smelled corpses and ruins on you.”

He motioned toward the central glyph ring.

“Show us your Spring Form.”

Without giving a response, Loria knelt within the ring, and from within the folds of her coat she withdrew her artifact.

It was bound, sealed in what looked like torn parchment inscribed with high-dwarven blood script, glowing intermittently from within as if a dying fire still struggled to breathe. It was a demonic handgun, jagged and ancient, its barrel shaped like an open, snarling maw. Three unblinking crimson eyes ran along the chamber, each blinking slowly, as if only just waking from centuries of hibernation.

Three-Eyed Cerberus.

A relic of execution and dominion from the fallen Ortumocorvis line.

Boru’s tone shifted, reverent and sharp:

“Artifact type: demonic possession class. A tier. That thing has quite the firepower. If it howls… hold on to your spine.”

Loria placed both hands on the artifact and whispered a single phrase in the dead dwarvish tongue. The glyphs flared.

She inhaled and tried to infuse.

At first, nothing at all. Then way too much.

The room snapped into darkness.

A single heartbeat later, the silence was broken by a howl, metallic, layered, and inhuman. From the center of the circle erupted three hellish flames, spiraling around the weapon as the paper seals disintegrated in an instant. The handgun pulsed like a cursed organ, and tendrils of shadow-fire burst outward without warning.

One struck the wall, melting stone.

Another grazed her shoulder, and her flesh roasted instantly.

She staggered, and a stream of blackened-red blood dripped down her arm, burning holes in the floor where it touched. The scent of scorched metal and ozone filled the room.

Boru didn’t intervene.

Instead, he folded his arms. “You’re drowning it. Infusion isn’t rage, child. It’s conviction!”

She clenched her teeth, her eyes burning brighter.

The weapon hissed in her hands.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she spoke again, her voice colder than any funeral bell.

“I am the Ortumo graveborn… and you are mine.”

With a sudden pull of aura, this time steadier and deeper, the artifact ceased thrashing. The three eyes blinked in unison. A rift of burning sigils etched itself around her in a perfect circle of black flames. Her bleeding stopped. The glyphs turned dark.

The weapon twisted, then reshaped itself, no longer bound but focused.

A whisper spread across the floor:

Spring Form: Hell’s Gate.

The gun clicked once. Its barrel opened wider, revealing a glowing chasm of infernal light. The scent of sulfur now filled the air.

“Target?” she asked quietly, raising the artifact.

Boru smiled, gesturing to the black knight.

Loria didn’t hesitate.

She fired.

The recoil launched her back a full meter, slamming her into the wall hard enough to dent it. Her arm sizzled, steam rising from where skin met metal, and the knight staggered.

The bullet hadn’t pierced, but it had scarred. A long, molten line burned across its chest plate, greenish sap leaking from the wound.

The knight responded with a guttural moan, its sword twitching toward Loria instinctively.

Boru raised a hand, and the knight froze.

“Well done,” he said, eyeing her still-smoking form as she stood upright again, shaking yet defiant. “First attempt? No control. Second attempt? Painful, but worthy.”

He looked to the others, his expression hardening.

“Let this be your example. Artifacts will hurt you. They are not friends. They are beasts with ancient teeth and memories full of murder. You do not tame them. You impress upon them. You dominate them with who you are.”

He walked past Loria and whispered, low enough that only she could hear:

“But be warned, Ortumo… if you keep pulling power like that, your soul won’t be yours much longer. And some of us will start to notice.”

The tension in the chamber hadn’t yet settled from Loria Ortumo’s trial. The scent of brimstone still clung to the stone walls, and the shadows cast by the torches danced like spirits still whispering her name. Even Eldritch Heart had not yet relaxed, its towering frame coiled like a beast waiting for a second strike. The students murmured, some in awe, others in fear. None dared move.

Then…

Click. Click. Click.

The rhythmic tap of polished boots echoed from the far end of the chamber.

Golden. Glimmering. Proud.

Vili Wyrnia stepped forward with the poise of a stage actor and the disdain of a bored god. His uniform was pristine, a shade too opulent for the bloodstained stone beneath him, and every step he took seemed to leave a faint shimmer in the dust. His golden hair flowed like spun sunlight, tied back in a loose, regal tail. His eyes were the pale blue of winter skies: beautiful, distant, and utterly without warmth.

He stopped just short of the glyph circle, letting the silence wrap around him like a cape.

Then, with a too-wide grin:

“That was… adorable, Ortumo. Truly.”

He turned, lips curling as if savoring some private joke. “But drowning your artifact in blood and fire? How barbaric.”

Loria said nothing. Her smoldering weapon lowered, but her crimson eyes never left him. Neither did the crown of void.

Boru raised an eyebrow, but his smile returned.

“Ah,” he said. “Royalty walks again.”

He clapped once, slow and dry.

“Let us welcome His Highness, Vili of House Wyrnia, the seventh golden disappointment of a rotting sun.”

Some students snorted. Others flinched.

Vili, unfazed, dipped into a lazy, ostentatious bow.

“I do not require applause. I’ll earn it shortly.”

From his back, he drew his artifact, a halberd so ornate it bordered on obscene.

Chimera.

Its blade gleamed gold and silver in delicate whorls, but beneath the beauty lurked something else, something primal. The weapon hummed with an ancient, reptilian cadence. Its handle coiled subtly like a serpent ready to strike, and as Vili gripped it, the faint shimmer of moving sand began to trickle down its length like an hourglass in reverse.

“Let’s begin,” Vili said, stepping into the glyph ring without being told.

He raised Chimera with both hands and closed his eyes.

The halberd pulsed.

A swirl of golden particles burst outward. It was sand, not conjured but stolen. The stone beneath him cracked and crumbled, fragments rising into the air and breaking into granules that spun around him like a personal storm. Glyphs flared.

Vili didn’t speak. He simply willed.

Infusion initiated.

Chimera responded immediately.

The storm intensified. The halberd’s shape shifted, its blade warping and distorting. For a moment it looked like a jagged scythe, then a serrated whip, then a crown of swords coiled together. The environment groaned: tiles warped, the walls bled sand, and the air shimmered with heat.

Gasps filled the room.

Fel whispered, “He’s reshaping the testing chamber…”

Indeed. Vili’s Spring Form was not just flashy.

It was dominance.

“Spring Form: Shapeshifter,” he finally intoned, his voice rich with arrogance. “Let me demonstrate the flexibility of true lineage.”

The halberd’s blade collapsed into a molten spike, and with a flick, he hurled it forward, but not at Eldritch Heart.

He targeted the glyph ring itself.

A wave of sand exploded, tendrils of glassy earth reforming into bladed chains that shot into the walls. The circle reformed, twisting upward into a raised platform beneath his feet, a throne of stone and grit rising like a deity’s pedestal.

Boru blinked once, then chuckled.

“Interesting tactic. You’re rewriting the very foundation of the chamber,” he said. “But form isn’t showmanship, Wyrnia. Let’s see what the knight thinks.”

At that, Eldritch Heart moved.

Like a black nightmare come to life, it surged forward with unnatural grace, its blade dragging sparks across the stone, green sap still leaking from its scarred chest.

Vili didn’t flinch.

Instead, he spun his halberd in a perfect arc.

The sand beneath him liquefied, then surged forward, a tidal wave of morphing stone, swallowing the knight’s legs and halting its charge mid-step.

The creature roared.

Vili smiled, narrowing his eyes.

“Did you think gold was for softness?”

He leapt forward from his risen platform, the halberd reforming midair into a double-ended glaive, golden blades spinning at either side like clockwork saws.

He struck.

Once.

Twice.

Eldritch Heart reeled, not wounded but redirected. Each blow reshaped the terrain, redirecting the knight’s momentum into new ground that Vili molded mid-combat, like a conductor sculpting a symphony from chaos.

The room tilted. Some students nearly fell as the floor beneath them shifted, becoming loose dunes or jagged spires with each sweep of Chimera.

“His Belief…” muttered the girl, her voice tight, “…it’s not in strength.”

“It’s in entitlement,” Fel whispered. “The belief that everything can and should bend to him.”

And it was working.

Chimera shrieked, reforming again, now into a drill-tipped lance spinning with razor sand. Vili plunged it into the knight’s torso, not deep enough to destroy but enough to hollow out a cavity of rapidly crumbling bark and green rot.

The knight screamed.

But this time, not in pain. In laughter.

The sound was wet. Ancient.

The black tentacles erupted again, trying to wrap around Vili, but he twisted the sand beneath him into a whirling cocoon, grinding the tendrils into dust.

“Enough,” Boru called suddenly, his voice slicing through the chaos.

He clapped his hands. A shockwave spread through the room. The sand stopped. The knight froze.

Vili landed with a theatrical spin, letting the halberd rest lazily on his shoulder. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Boru walked forward, eyes narrowed, hands behind his back.

“You wield your Belief like a whip,” he said flatly. “You don’t partner with the artifact. You don’t even tame it. You just… command.”

He looked at the halberd.

Chimera was still changing, even now, flickering between dozens of forms in microseconds.

“You will be powerful,” Boru said. “But unstable.”

Vili smirked, brushing invisible dust from his coat.

“Power rarely asks for permission,” said the cocky knight.

He turned, sauntering off as if the battlefield were a ballroom. As he passed Loria, he gave her a low, mocking bow.

“Try not to get lost in your own graveyard, Ortumo.”

She didn’t reply. But her shadow, unnaturally long, curled just slightly toward him.

Boru, watching it all with his usual sardonic grin, clicked his hoof once and murmured, half to himself:

“This year’s class… may just kill us all.”

And then the next student stepped forward.

The room held its breath once more.

The dust from Vili’s reshaped battlefield still drifted lazily in the stagnant air.

The training chamber had quieted again. Eldritch Heart stood half-recoiled, its bark-like plating charred, scarred, and leaking pulsing green ichor. Boru paced along the perimeter. Silence reigned for a beat longer.

And then…

“Felanor TeneDente,” Boru said, without looking up.

Every head turned.

Fel blinked. “Me?”

Boru finally stopped pacing and gave a single nod. “You’ve been glaring holes into the floor for the past hour. If you plan to set it ablaze with your brooding, at least do so within the glyph ring.”

A few students chuckled.

Fel adjusted the strap on his worn shoulder pack, half out of habit, half to hide the slight tremor in his hand. His uniform was slightly more rugged than the others’: scuffed boots, worn gloves, and faded buckles strapped over a dark coat too long to be standard issue. An adventurer in semi-school attire.

He didn’t speak. He stepped forward.

The air seemed to recognize him before any person did. A subtle shift, a pressure.

Fel drew the blade from his hip.

It was black.

Obsidian black: matte, silent, hungry. A sword with no reflection, save for thin, winding veins of silver that pulsed faintly like starlight buried in volcanic stone.

Falling Star.

No one recognized it. Not even Boru.

“Fancy letter opener,” Vili muttered.

Fel ignored him.

He stepped into the center ring, planted his feet, and gripped the weapon with both hands.

Then he tried to infuse.

Nothing happened.

No glyph flared. No pulse of aura. Not even a whisper of resistance.

Just… void.

The students exchanged confused glances.

Vili tilted his head. “He’s doing it wrong.”

Boru’s eyes narrowed. “No… it’s reacting differently.”

Fel gritted his teeth. He poured more of his will into it, his Belief, his memories, everything he had ever touched and ever seen, all that his life would ever be. He poured it all into this moment. His body trembled.

Still nothing.

And then…

Everything stopped.

No sound.

No breath.

No time.

The torches had frozen mid-flicker. The drifting dust hung perfectly suspended. Eldritch Heart no longer bled. Boru, eternal in his swagger, had been reduced to a statue of motionless flesh.

Fel tried to move.

He couldn’t.

His arms wouldn’t lift. His eyes refused to blink. His lungs wouldn’t draw air. It was sleep paralysis, magnified. Only his thoughts stirred.

Then…

Footsteps.

Slow. Elegant. Barely touching the stone. Yet each step landed with the weight of prophecy and fear.

She emerged from behind him, or perhaps from inside the blade itself. He couldn’t tell. She was beautiful, painfully so, but not like a lover or a muse.

She was older than those concepts.

Her skin was pale as powdered bone. Her hair was like ink flowing through water. Her gown, or was it lingerie, was impossibly expensive, tailored with the subtle weavings of languages never spoken aloud. Her eyes were dark, not black, not brown, but the color of falling asleep in fear.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, as if afraid to wake something older still, and yet it echoed in his bones.

“You’ve touched it. The blade. Me. You want to move, to fight, to prove. But power is never given, Felanor TeneDente. It is a bargain.”

She drifted closer, brushing a long-nailed finger against the flat of Falling Star.

“I am known by many names. But for now… you may call me Silence.”

He could finally speak, but only in his mind.

What are you?

She smiled, and in that smile was universe-ending mercy.

“Your benefactor. Your curse. Your partner. For now.”

“I offer you the first form, mine and yours. In return… each time you call upon me, you will fulfill a request of mine.”

Fel hesitated.

What kind of requests?

“Small, at first. A name spoken. A path not taken. A secret kept.”

“And then… more.”

He wanted to refuse.

But something inside, something forgotten, something buried in blood and fire, reached out.

Deal.

Time resumed.

With a roar.

The torches burst back into flame. The air shook. The glyph ring exploded with black light. The stone cracked in spirals, forming ancient runes in a language no one recognized.

Fel’s eyes were glowing silver.

The blade in his hand pulsed, its veins flaring into constellations.

“Spring Form,” he whispered.

“Silence.”

At first, he stumbled.

The shadows around him twisted unnaturally, and the air distorted like heat waves. Eldritch Heart charged, its sword already raised, its speed terrifying.

Fel vanished.

He reappeared behind the knight, his movement instantaneous, like a stutter in reality.

He swung.

The blade passed through empty air.

Missed.

Too slow.

Eldritch Heart turned with surprising agility and backhanded Fel across the chamber. He hit the wall hard, coughing blood.

“Still just a brat,” Boru muttered, stepping forward.

But before he could act, time stopped again.

Three seconds.

Fel now moved like a wraith through stillness. He could see the individual cracks in Eldritch Heart’s bark, the way the green sap pulsed through its chest. He stepped behind it and swung again, this time cutting deep into a glowing weak point.

Time resumed.

Eldritch Heart staggered.

It roared, and attacked.

The knight’s blade screamed downward. Fel dodged, barely, shadow-stepping into a crouch. He vanished again, reappearing at the top of the chamber wall.

And then he stopped time once more.

This time, he leapt from the wall, and midair the blade in his hands extended unnaturally, forming a thin obsidian arc like a crescent moon.

He carved straight through Eldritch Heart’s shoulder.

Time resumed.

Sap sprayed.

The knight reeled.

Fel dropped to the ground, breathing hard, the blade twitching in his hand. Blood dripped from his nose.

He kept going.

More shadow steps. More frozen seconds. Each time, Silence whispered a new movement in his mind, a new cut, a new way to bend the rules of motion and place.

He was learning.

Improving.

Evolving.

And then he became unstoppable.

He slashed through bark, armor, glyph, and air itself.

The shadows clung to him like a second skin. Wherever the light thinned, he vanished.

Until…

With a final frozen moment, he surged forward in a flash of black starlight, drove the blade into the chest of the knight, and, with a scream of defiance and Belief, shattered its core.

Eldritch Heart collapsed.

Dead.

The impact cracked the floor in every direction.

Boru moved instantly. He clapped his hands, forming a golden seal midair that caught the spreading destruction and stopped it just before it could bring the ceiling down.

“Enough!”

Fel stood amid the ruin, the blade humming, his body trembling.

And then…

Blood erupted from his nose, his mouth, his ears, and his eyes. He staggered and dropped to one knee.

Then he collapsed.

Unconscious.

Silence reigned once more.

Boru slowly approached the fallen boy, kneeling beside him, frowning.

The blade had returned to normal, inert, simple, dead-looking.

But Boru touched its hilt… and immediately withdrew, his fingers smoking slightly.

“Falling Star…” he whispered.

“By the Ancients… what have they hidden in you, boy?”

Loria clenched her fist.

Vili simply stared, for once silent.

And deep beneath the school, something old and wise smiled in arrogance and envy.