Chapter 16 : The Lesson of the Proud

  The Vael’Tareth estate stood silent in the pre-dawn dark, its spires wrapped in a cold mist. Within the ancestral courtyard, Lord Kaerith waited in full regalia, a ceremonial blade at his waist, his storm-grey eyes focused on the boy before him.

  Raen stood with his arms folded, unblinking. Beside him, his mother knelt, adjusting the folds of his travel cloak, her hands trembling slightly. She said nothing—just touched his cheek one last time, as if memorizing the shape of her son before letting go.

  Kaerith stepped forward, placing a hand on Raen’s shoulder.

  “You may not understand now,” he said calmly, “but Nytherion will not be the punishment you imagine. It is a crucible—and in it, you will find your equals.”

  Raen scoffed openly, pulling away. “Equals? You think I’ll find one of those among children who still wet their beds?”

  Kaerith didn’t flinch. “That arrogance is my doing. I gave you too much freedom. Too much love. I raised a storm and believed it would only hit where I directed it.”

  Raen lifted his chin. “No one is greater than me, Father. No one.”

  A quiet beat passed between them.

  Kaerith's expression didn’t change. “Then prove it.”

  Raen didn’t respond. He simply turned, his cloak snapping behind him, and walked away from the only home he had ever known.

  ---

  They traveled for days.

  Raen rode in a dark-paneled carriage drawn by steeds bred from night-blooded horse—creatures said to see through illusions and walk on mist. His uncle, Lord Therion—his father’s younger brother and former commander of the Spectral Vanguard—rode ahead as escort, eyes sharp beneath his shadowed hood. Behind them trailed a lone servant, a silent man named Ives, who spoke only when addressed and never twice.

  They passed through the Myralan foothills where winged beasts circled overhead, through the bone-laced ravines where the earth sang with whispers, and finally, beyond the jagged cliffs of the Eastern Divide.

  At night, Raen stared at the stars.

  “Do you think the Academy can teach me anything?” he asked once, his voice low.

  “No,” Therion answered. “But it may teach you patience.”

  Raen smirked. “Useless skill. The world bends to power, not patience.”

  ---

  On the sixth morning, the mist parted—and there it stood.

  Nytherion Academy.

  Set into the side of the Whisperfang cliffs like a fang in the jaw of the world, the Academy loomed in marble and blacksteel, veined with glowing ley-lines that pulsed like slow lightning. Enormous archways stretched into the sky, gates wrought from starmetal and shadowwood, guarded by silent constructs that shimmered between worlds.

  Sprawling towers clawed toward the heavens, some twisted like spirals of bone, others crystalline and humming with ancient energy. The academy grounds floated slightly above the earth—hovering on anchored wards—an island of power amidst the mists.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Students in robes of every color sparred and meditated across wide, terraced fields. Strange beasts roamed the perimeter, leashed only by sigils burned into the air itself. And at the highest spire, a bell tolled once—long and low—announcing the arrival of selection trials .

  Raen stepped from the carriage.

  He looked at it all—and smiled.

  Not in wonder.

  In anticipation.

  The air reeked of pressure—raw, unyielding.

  Thousands of hopefuls stood on the Skyfang Plaza, each one marked with an ethereal glyph on their forearm, denoting their entry into the Selection Trials of Nytherion Academy.

  Raen stood among them, arms folded, cloak fluttering in the ley-born wind. He scanned the faces—many older-looking boys and girls, cloaked in armor-light robes, eyes burning with quiet purpose. Then he saw them.

  Children from Myralis, from noble houses, even distant cousins from his own bloodline. Their eyes met his, cold and sharp with long-harbored resentment. They saw a spoiled prince playing warrior. He saw insects.

  But that changed quickly.

  The sun had not yet risen when the gates of Nytherion Academy groaned open. Thousands of children stood beneath the dawnlight, their faces etched with the sharp lines of ambition, fear, and pride.

  The gates rose like the ribs of some forgotten god, towering high enough to scrape clouds. Floating spires drifted overhead, connected by bridges carved from moonstone.

  Above the archway, an inscription shimmered in the sky:

  > "Where Talent Meets Trial, Kings are Born—or Broken."

  ---

  The Selection Trials

  Only fifty would be chosen from over four thousand applicants. And the process was ruthless.

  1. Theory

  The first trial took place within the Library of Echoes—a building made from living crystal, its walls shifting with written memories.

  Each applicant was seated before a rune-etched tablet. Questions formed in real-time: historic battles, elemental fusion theories, spiritual resonance problems, riddles drawn from ancient sect scrolls.

  Raen’s quill danced. His father had ensured he studied under three scholars . Every answer came swiftly.

  When scores floated into the air, his name glowed First.

  He allowed a smile. As expected.

  ---

  2. Talent Evaluation

  In the Vault of Souls, ten glowing pillars stood waiting. Each candidate was to stand within the Circle of Measure—an ancient formation that judged one’s Aether Seed directly.

  When Raen stepped into the circle, a silver-white light surged through the pillar. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

  Silver-white : Celestial Grade Potential.

  He turned, triumphant.

  Then came the others.

  Ten more stepped forward, one after another—and every one of them surpassed him.

  Yue Lian – a blind girl from the Temple of Hollow Flame. Her pillar bled violet fire.

  Cassian Duskvale – a boy with golden eyes and no aura, from the Ashen Choir Sect. His pillar pulsed black and gold.

  Mei’Ren – from the hidden Verdant Glass Garden, her seed was floral and luminous emerald.

  Thorne Crelle – a silent boy in obsidian robes from the Ebon Crown, who caused two pillars to light at once.

  Sereya Kael – a girl with silver hair and aether-burned skin, from the lost Skybreaker Refuge.

  Riven Anor – born with an artifact fused to his spine, from the Thundering Maw Clan.

  Aelric of the Hollow Sea – who sang his name into the circle and whose voice bent light.

  Nyra Vey – twin horns hidden beneath a veil, her energy unnatural, laced with demonic tint.

  Zephiel Nocturne – a pale boy who walked with a shadow that blinked out every glyph near him.

  Kato Shin – a calm, slender youth who simply stood, and his pillar turned gold, then transparent.

  Raen watched. Breath caught in his throat. Each was his age or younger.

  Each burned brighter.

  But I placed first in theory... doesn’t that count?

  ---

  3. Combat

  The Arena of Wills was a massive illusionary dome, where terrains shifted from lava-plains to frozen ridges to jungle temples with every duel.

  Top 100. Elimination format. No death allowed—but injury was not only accepted, it was expected.

  Raen won his first match easily. And the second.

  Then came the third.

  Yue Lian stood across from him. Blind. Barefoot. Eyes covered in mirrored silk.

  "Yield," Raen warned.

  She said nothing.

  The duel began.

  Three steps later, Raen was flat on the stone, his ribs cracked, his breath gone. Her fingers hadn’t even touched him directly—just bent the air.

  He limped through the rest of his matches. Lost to Thorne, then to Nyra, then Cassian.

  Each defeat cracked his pride like thin glass.

  When it was over, and the rankings etched themselves into glowing sigils on the Hall of Ash, Raen stood among the crowd, bleeding, confused, humiliated.

  12th Place: Raen Vael’Tareth.

  He stared at it for minutes.

  Twelve? How... how could I be twelfth?

  His breath came ragged. He couldn’t look at his uncle. Couldn’t lift his head.

  His father’s words came back, like iron against bone:

  “You will meet your equals.”

  “No, my son… you will meet those greater than you.”

  And now, Raen knew it was true. The world was larger than Myralis . His power was not absolute—it was barely enough to scrape into the elite.

  That night, alone on the training grounds, he punched the stone until his knuckles bled.

  “I will never lose again,” he whispered to the stars. “I swear it.”

  ---

  But the Trials Were Not Over.

  On the final day, as the Headmaster rose to announce the accepted fifty—

  The sky darkened. Not with stormclouds, but with silence.

  A figure appeared.

  No one had seen him enter.

  Cloaked in void-gray robes, the stranger stepped into the Arena with no invitation.

  It was ... wrong. Out of rhythm with the world. Even the air recoiled from him.

  The ten prodigies turned, alert.

  The Headmaster frowned.

  “Who are you .”

  No response.

  Then the stranger lifted a hand—just one finger.

  And the Arena shattered.

  Not in light. Not in explosion. But in stillness. Everything froze. Birds, wind, mana itself. Time fractured.

  Raen fell to his knees, gasping, his Aether Seed screaming.

  Then, a voice—not spoken, but placed directly in their minds:

  “I am not here for your rankings.”

  “My student merely requires... training.”

  The cloaked figure turned, as if motioning to someone hidden in the shadow of the spires.

  “Let them witness the gap.”

  And just like that, the presence vanished—leaving behind a silence far heavier than before.