The next morning, under a brittle blue sky, Korvak addressed the assembled children. “Your bodies are learning obedience. Now, we see what tools you’ve been given. You will train with weapons. And you will be tested for the spark.”

  Wooden swords were distributed. The children mimicked the officers’ forms—slash, thrust, guard—until their small arms shook with fatigue. It was a baseline, a test of sheer physical willingness.

  Then came the sorting.

  They were led to a cleared space where Selene stood with several stern-faced evaluators. A faint, shimmering ward in the air hummed with contained energy.

  “Line up,” Selene commanded. “You will attempt to manifest magic. Extend your dominant hand. Focus inward. Do not strain. You are feeling for a spark that either exists, or does not.”

  She paced before them, her voice a cold, lecturing drone. “Understand this: all living things have Aether within. But to shape it into magic requires specific, innate channels—a talent.

  That talent is tied to elements, seen as a colored aura when manifesting. Green for wind, red for fire, blue for water, gold for light, and so on.”

  She stopped, making eye contact with a few of the larger boys who were puffing their chests. “You can force Aether through unmolded channels through sheer will. It is possible. But the cost is your own life force—it will drain you to the point of collapse for a pitiful result. A child’s parlor trick. And if you repeatedly overdraw, you will burn out the very nerves that let you move and feel. You risk permanent paralysis, a coma, or a slow, withering death. Magic is not a toy. It is a lethal gift. Now, begin.”

  One by one, the children tried. Most hands remained inert. A few produced faint, colorless wisps of light that sputtered out immediately—the sign of negligible aptitude, condemning them to the path of the blade.

  Then came Rina. Her brow furrowed in fierce concentration. With a small gasp, a vibrant, swirling emerald green light erupted around her hand, followed by a gust of wind that tousled her own chestnut hair and kicked up dust.

  “Wind affinity. Strong manifestation,” Selene noted, her analytical gaze cataloging Rina’s transparent mix of shock and delight.

  Next was Shiro. He clenched his jaw, and a torrent of flickering crimson red flame roared from his palm, fierce and wild, before he snuffed it out, looking surprised at his own power.

  “Fire. Volatile, but potent.”

  Selene was about to comment on the yield when a gentle, steady golden glow emanated from further down the line. All eyes turned to Jean.

  She stood, hand outstretched, watching the warm, honeyed light pool in her palm as if she were holding a piece of the sun. A collective, awed hush fell over the children.

  Selene’s professional detachment faltered for a heartbeat. “A pure light affinity… Healing.” The word was reverent and heavy. She glanced at Korvak.

  He was already there, looming beside Jean. He crouched, his flinty eyes boring into her wide, amber ones. “A healer,” he said, his voice stripping the wonder from the gift and leaving only stark utility.

  “Your talent is not your own. It is a resource. From today, you are responsible for the well-being of your unit. Their blood will be on your hands if you fail to master this. You will train twice as hard. You do not have the luxury of weakness.”

  Jean’s glow flickered and died. Her face went pale. The immense gift curdled into a crushing weight of dread. What if I’m not strong enough? What if they die because I’m slow? Her hands began to tremble.

  Nearby, another girl watched. Miku. Unseen by the evaluators, a faint, deep blue shimmer had momentarily danced around her own fingertips when she focused—a flicker of potent, raw energy. But she had seen Jean’s fate.

  She had heard Korvak’s decree. She saw the cage of expectation being built around Rina and Shiro.

  As the line moved on, Miku subtly curled her fingers into a fist, smothering the telltale glow. When it was her turn, she furrowed her brow in feigned effort, letting only a pathetic, colorless wisp escape—just like the untalented ones. She hung her head in pretended disappointment.

  Inside, her heart hammered. It wasn’t fear of training. It was terror of being seen. Of being singled out, weaponized, and bound like Taro and now Jean was. Her magic was hers. A secret. A future advantage. A debt she would repay on her own terms, not Korvak’s.

  Selene’s eyes swept over the final, unremarkable results. “The rest of you lack the significant spark. Your paths lie in steel, wood, and alchemy. Dismissed.”

  The group dispersed, now visibly divided—the future mages set apart by a glance, Jean isolated under the weight of her gift, and Taro, watching it all, understanding more than anyone the danger of being found special in this place. The system had begun to sort the talents, and the intensity was turning up.

  In the days that followed, the children were hammered into the harsh rhythm of training.

  Mornings meant blistered palms on wooden swords, drilling stances until their muscles shrieked.

  Afternoons were for the spark: Rina and Shiro practicing basic elemental manipulation under watchful eyes, while Jean was drilled separately on healing minor wounds—a strained wrist, a scraped knee—her golden light growing slightly more reliable each day, though her mana pool remained a shallow well.

  Then, one overcast morning, Korvak’s voice cut the routine like a knife.

  “Enough drills. Theory is useless without practice. Today, you spar.”

  A ripple of anxiety passed through the ranks.

  “But first,” he continued, his gaze settling like a weight, “a demonstration. Taro. Selene. Center of the yard.”

  A cold dread pooled in Taro’s stomach. This was no pairing of peers. This was theater. Selene stepped forward, her expression unreadable, drawing a standard-issue wooden practice sword.

  “You may use your own,” Korvak said to Taro, the offer itself a mockery. “The lesson is not victory. The lesson is to understand the gap between knowing a stance and surviving an opponent. Begin.”

  Taro lifted his sword, his mind racing. At least I’ll see her style. I’ll learn something. He took a defensive guard, the one the officers had drilled endlessly.

  Selene didn’t assume a stance. She simply moved.

  There was no flourish, no wasted motion. Her first strike was a blur that slapped his blade aside with terrifying ease. The second was a light, stinging tap to his ribs that felt like a punch. He staggered.

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  “You are holding your sword,” she stated, her voice clinical. “You are not wielding it. It is a dead limb.”

  He tried a clumsy counter. She deflected it with a twist of her wrist, her own sword smacking hard against his forearm. A sharp, numbing pain shot to his elbow.

  The “spar” continued in this vein. It was not a fight. It was a dissection. Selene exposed every flinch, every hesitation. A tap to the thigh tripped him. A sharp rap on the shoulder as he rose made his whole arm go slack. She was precise, controlled, and utterly merciless.

  She didn’t aim to break bones, but to demonstrate absolute, humiliating superiority. Blood trickled from his nose after a glancing blow to the face, and a deep ache bloomed across his ribs.

  Finally, with a swift, disarming flick, she sent his sword skittering across the gravel.

  As he stood empty-handed, panting and bleeding, she placed the tip of her practice sword against his chest and pushed. Not hard enough to injure, but with enough force to make him stumble backwards and land hard on the ground.

  The message was clear: You are nothing.

  She gave him a final, inscrutable look—there might have been the faintest shadow of apology in its depths, but it was buried under the ice of her professionalism—before turning and walking back to Korvak’s side.

  “That,” Korvak announced to the silent, wide-eyed children, “is the difference. Now, pair up.”

  As the others scrambled to find partners, Taro pushed himself up, every movement fresh agony. A small figure with a light brown braid appeared at his side—Jean. Her amber eyes were full of concern.

  “Hold still,” she whispered. Her hands glowed with soft, golden light as she hovered them over his most painful bruises. The warmth seeped in, soothing the deep aches, stemming the nosebleed.

  The immediate, sharp pains faded into a general, heavy soreness. “There… that’s all I can do for now,” she said, her voice tinged with exhaustion. The glow around her hands dimmed noticeably.

  Taro met her eyes. “...Thanks.”

  She gave a small, worried nod before hurrying back to her assigned place, her mana already significantly drained.

  The children sparred in a cacophony of nervous clashes. Wooden swords met with clumsy thwacks. Rose found herself paired with Miku.

  The duel seemed comically mismatched at first. Miku held her sword as if it were a strange, dangerous animal, her movements hesitant. Rose meanwhile seemed almost confused, her strikes awkward and her footwork a step behind her intentions.

  But something shifted as they exchanged blows.

  Rose’s body began to move ahead of her conscious thought. A wild swing from Miku was not just blocked but deftly redirected.

  Rose’s own counter-strikes grew less frantic, more economical. She wasn’t thinking about stances; she was reacting, her body flowing into openings with a natural, predatory grace she didn’t know she possessed.

  It ended suddenly. Seeing a clear line, Rose’s body acted. Her wooden blade cut a sharp, clean arc through Miku’s guard, striking hard across her ribs.

  A sickening crack echoed, followed by a dull thud as Miku crumpled to the ground.

  Silence fell over that section of the yard.

  A bloom of crimson seeped through Miku’s grey tunic. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

  Jean, already pale from healing Taro, rushed over and knelt, her hands flying to the wound. The golden light sprang to life, but it was feeble, flickering like a dying candle.

  She poured the dregs of her mana into it, her small face tightening with strain. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, but the bruising remained deep and angry, and Miku’s consciousness wavered on the edge.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Rose dropped her sword as if it were white-hot. Her confident facade shattered, revealing the horrified girl beneath. She knelt opposite Jean, her face ashen. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know i… Miku, please…”

  Miku’s eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. Her hand twitched, fingers weakly curling—not towards anyone, but as if trying to do something.

  Korvak watched from the sidelines, his arms crossed. His gaze lingered on Rose, a spark of interest in his flinty eyes. A natural. A diamond in the rough, just like the boy. The mansion was proving fruitful.

  And in the center of it all, Taro stood sore and weary, watching Jean tremble with exhaustion, watching Rose shatter with guilt, watching Miku bleed on the ground.

  The lesson of the day was complete: in this place, even their attempts to grow stronger only served to wound each other, and the only one who seemed to thrive on it was the man casting the shadow over them all.

  From the treeline, a low, rumbling growl echoed, carrying with it the scent of ozone and charred wood.

  Everyone froze.

  A beast emerged from the shadows of the pines. It was the size of a barrel, with a powerful, low-slung frame—an Ash Hound. Its coat was a matted gray, like cold ash, but tendrils of smoke curled from its fur.

  Its eyes burned with ember-like malevolence. As it focused on the field, a low growl vibrated in its chest, and patches of its smoldering coat flickered into open flame, casting a hellish, dancing light. The air around it wavered with heat.

  It was drawn to the scent of fresh blood—specifically, the potent blood of Miku. Its burning gaze locked onto Miku, who lay wounded and vulnerable on the grass.

  “Ash Hound! D-Rank! Form up!” a guard barked, steel ringing as swords were drawn.

  But the hound moved with a predator’s terrifying economy. It didn’t charge blindly; it feinted, darted between two closing guards with a burst of speed, and surged toward the children. Its bark was a sharp, concussive crack that sprayed hot cinders into the air, making several children yelp and scramble back.

  From his position, Korvak didn’t move. His arms remained folded, his expression one of detached analysis. He saw the trajectory, the target, the panic. This was an unscheduled variable, a live test.

  His eyes were cold, calculating. He wanted to see what would break, and who would break first.

  Selene’s hand was on her sword hilt, her muscles coiled. Her sharp eyes flicked to Korvak, seeking the barest nod, the slightest signal to intervene. He gave none. Only that same, watchful stillness. A muscle in her jaw tightened, but she held her position. The lesson, however brutal, was his to conduct.

  The Ash Hound closed the final distance, its smoldering jaws opening wide, aiming to clamp down on Miku’s prone form.

  And then—

  A blur of motion intercepted it.

  Taro threw himself at the beast’s path, his damaged wooden training sword held in a desperate two-handed grip. In that split second of pure, desperate need—the need to protect, the need to stop the horror—something within him reached. Not inward like a mage to their core, but outward, yanking violently at the Aether in the air around him.

  A faint, impossible golden flicker ignited in the depths of his honey brown eyes and traced the veins in his body for a fleeting instant.

  It was a crude, desperate mimicry of an Aura—the external channeling like a swordmaster. It lasted less than a heartbeat.

  But it was enough. Empowered by that stolen surge, his speed and strength spiked. He crashed into the Ash Hound’s flank with shocking force, knocking the creature off its line.

  The beast snarled in surprise, twisted with feral grace, and retaliated. A flaming paw swiped. Taro’s damaged sword, shattered into splinters.

  The next blow was a concussive impact to his chest that lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing into Rose and Jean, a tangle of limbs hitting the dirt.

  Taro lay still, a trickle of blood from his hairline, his breath coming in shallow, pained hitches. The brief, illicit power had vanished, leaving only the aftermath of violent strain and exhaustion.

  “Now.” Korvak ordered.

  Selene moved. Her blade cleared its sheath in a single silver flash. She was a phantom of lethal precision. The Ash Hound, still focused on the new threat, had no time to turn. Her sword pierced its neck, severing spine and core in one clean, brutal thrust. The flames on its coat guttered and died as it collapsed.

  Silence, broken only by the crackle of dying embers and ragged breathing.

  Selene didn’t look at the beast. She turned her sharp gaze on Taro’s crumpled form. Her voice cut the air, cold and laced with a frustration that wasn’t entirely professional. “You reckless fool. That was a knight’s quarry. You are a child with a stick. Your death would have been a waste of resources.”

  Miku, weeping freely, tried to push herself up. “No. He saved me! Please—”

  “His actions were insubordinate and suicidal,” Selene stated, her eyes finally flicking back to Korvak. He gave a single, slight nod. The experiment was over; the variable had reacted. “Isolation. One day. Take him.”

  As two guards moved to lift Taro’s unconscious body, Miku’s protests dissolved into helpless sobs against the grass.

  Korvak finally strode forward, his boots crushing the scorched earth. He stopped, looking down at the dead Ash Hound, then at the path of trampled grass leading to Taro. A faint, intrigued smile touched his lips.

  He had seen it. The brief, impossible flicker. The child had reached for Aether externally, without training, without a focus. Not with the control of a swordmaster, but with the raw, desperate will of something… else. A fascinating anomaly.

  “Dispose of the carcass,” he ordered, his voice devoid of concern for the injured. “Resume paired drills. Let this be a lesson in situational awareness.”

  Taro was carried away. The room he was placed in was small, sparse, and windowless.

  A healer came, their touch cool and impersonal, mending the cracked rib, the concussion, the cuts. The physical wounds closed, but the deep, aching exhaustion of a body pushed far beyond its limits—and the strange, hollow feeling where that burst of power had been—remained.

  In the quiet dark, utterly alone, his punishment began. Not just for defiance, but for the unforgivable crime of risking his life.

  Korvak couldn’t yet categorize what he saw, but he was determined to understand, or break it.