“Psionic power is neither good nor evil; It is precisely what its users want it to be.”

  -[Redacted], Unknown Date.

  [Irid il Adina/Valiya il Adina/Adifat il Arna]

  [Planet Adina/Adina Province/Arnan Empire]

  Aevel’s longstanding disdain for his rival, Eura, had never troubled him—until now.

  He could scarce determine which was more unbearable: the fact that she had become his fiancée or that she now stood as his partner in the final trial, the ultimate challenge required to secure his place among the legendary Psions of the galaxy, the Fiddari of the Arnan Empire.

  His task was twofold: to delve into the Arahal, the mysterious Psionic realm, finding the mythical Psionic crystal; all while surviving the woman who’d spent years trying to eviscerate him—and resisting the urge to return the favour.

  When Karitha, his Fiddari mentor, delivered the news, Aevel knew what would follow.

  “What!?” A girl with Ashen hair exclaimed, her Psionic energy flaring like fireworks that scattered training constructs and targets across the ground.

  Troubles had begun to brew even before the first light of dawn crept over the horizon.

  “The Arnan are preparing for the reclamation expedition to Earth, and it will be a long while before any further trials occur,” Karitha explained. “It has been decided that your trial will be accelerated by pairing you together.”

  “Karitha-sama, you know what happened between us!” Eura retorted sharply. “We were always at each other’s throats the moment you looked away—what made you think this was a good idea?”

  “Because you two are betrothed now,” Karitha replied with quiet certainty. “I am sure you will not kill each other.”

  At that, Aevel noted a simmering rage flicker in Eura’s eyes at the reminder. Yet he could not help but accept the truth in Karitha’s words: in the harsh world of the Ashen, survival came first, no matter how bitter the rivalry; their two clans needed this alliance.

  Then, Aevel made a fatal error. He attempted to reason with her.

  “Eu—” he began, but scarcely a breath escaped before a massive Psionic blast nearly shattered him atom-by-atom.

  Aevel leapt aside just in time; were it not for his superhuman reflexes—honed as a powerful Psion—he would have been disintegrated.

  He landed safely, though the spot where he had stood was obliterated by the force. The echo of her blast reverberated through the air with a potency that could awaken an entire city.

  Fortuitously, this small mesa, perched high above the valley, offered a safe distance from the Arnan city below—a curious blend of advanced technology and lush, verdant greenery. Its lights flickered faintly through the dense canopy, resembling distant stars and the soft glow of spaceships in the lingering twilight.

  Aevel braced, muscles coiled for the inevitable second blast—Eura’s signature follow-through. Yet this time, the fury drained from her like water through a sieve, leaving behind only that infuriating, ice-carved neutrality.

  Without further word, she turned and walked away, leaving the two standing together.

  Karitha clapped a hand on Aevel’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, Aevel—she’ll usually come back.”

  Aevel shot him a look so sceptical it could curdle milk. “Yes, she’ll come back… just to kill me, I suppose.”

  “Don’t be like that, sometimes fate turns out exactly as one think of it,” Karitha said with a soft chuckle. “She’s hateful, but not foolish. Trust me, she will return eventually. On the bright side, you now have more time to prepare.”

  More time to prepare.

  Aevel curled his lips in disapproval upon hearing that, as Karitha sent him something he expected:

  A shopping list.

  “Karitha-sama,” he spluttered, “the final trial begins at afternoon. You expect me to squander hours haggling in some flea-ridden market now? I would never, ever, going to—”

  *

  Dawn had finally spilled its honeyed light over the horizon, painting the city’s glass-and-steel skyline in soft apricot hues. Aevel, still clad in his formidable yet supple nano-suit—drifted with aimless strides toward his destination—the supermarket.

  His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a taut line, he might as well have worn a sign declaring his disdain for the mundanity of errands.

  The sliding doors parted with a hum, revealing a cavernous space bathed in warm light, which was still empty this morning.

  A levitating legless humanoid robot, its chassis polished to a mirror sheen, glided forward.

  “Greetings, Aevel. As usual?” it chimed, voice lilting like a rehearsed melody.

  “Yes. As usual—and this,” he muttered, showing the shopping list Karitha had thrust upon him.

  The items intended for both pairs of his buddies—Aisser with Livaeril, and Joerdigar with Saedine.

  Scanning the list, the robot then led him through aisles stacked with gleaming produce and neon-lit items, with Aevel trailing behind like a shadow while the thing sang a song.

  “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.”

  “I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.”

  “It won’t be a stylish marriage.”

  “I can’t afford a carriage.”

  “But you’ll look sweet, upon the seat.”

  “Of a bycicle built for two.”

  The stuff were gathered with brisk efficiency; every essential item Aevel required had been consolidated into a solitary, personal bag of his own.

  Finally at the self-checkout, he tapped his V-tool against the scanner, its holographic payment glyph spinning lazily in the air.

  If only he could conjure a construct to do this, but he wasn’t an Artificer Psion.

  “Thank you, Aevel. Have a pleasant day,” the robot trilled, waving a spindly mechanical arm as Aevel stalked out, groceries clutched in a death grip.

  Outside, the city breathed. Elegant walkways coiled beneath the colossal boughs of trees, their leaves filtering sunlight into dappled emerald pools. Only the skyscrapers—needles of chrome punching through the atmosphere—and the distant spaceport’s orbital tethers surpassed their height.

  Yet Aevel’s jaw remained set, because ahead lay his hardest obstacle:

  The Arnan people.

  Not because they schemed like his Ashen kin, where betrayal lurked in every shadow. No—these people, in his opinion, vexed him with their laziness.

  Their languid smiles, their unhurried chatter, their baffling contentment with… this.

  He’d barely taken three steps when a young Arnan man—jet-black hair tousled, eyes warm as roasted coffee—nodded at him.

  “Vahlan (Hello), Aevel!”

  Aevel froze. He’d never seen this man in his life. Yet here they were: strangers who knew his name, who greeted him as though they shared secrets.

  How?

  He’d introduced himself to fewer than a dozen Arnans, each encounter etched into his memory like a tactical report.

  But such encounter were tame compared to the most dangerous of all Arnans—the children.

  Not because Aevel sought them out—no, it was always the other way around. They had an uncanny knack for finding him, no matter where he went.

  This time was no different. A horde of children descended upon him like a cheerful avalanche, spilling out from a nearby playground. Their voices rose in a chorus of sweet, pleading cries, begging for something this world had never seen—snow.

  “Aevel! Aevel! Snow, please!”

  “Aevel, make it snow! Snow!”

  “Please, Aevel, snow!”

  Aevel remained stoic, his expression unreadable as he continued walking, ignoring their pleas. The children trailed after him, their enthusiasm undimmed.

  “Aevel…” they whimpered, their voice tinged with disappointment.

  Just as the children’s spirits began to falter, a sudden, spectacular explosion of white erupted overhead. A cascade of snowflakes tumbled from the sky, blanketing a small patch of the verdant landscape in a pristine layer of frost. The air grew cold, and the world seemed to hold its breath as the playground transformed into a fleeting winter wonderland.

  “YAAAAAY!” The children’s jubilant cheers rang out, their disappointment forgotten in an instant. They leapt and twirled, their laughter echoing as they scooped up handfuls of the miraculous snow.

  Seizing the distraction, Aevel quickened his pace, slipping away from the scene and their infectious laughters.

  Soon he reached that shop. Its sign flickered—a hologram of a steaming teacup—and the scent of spices ripe on the air.

  In the soft light of the morning, two of his friends were busy serving tea. Fiddari, who, like him, had been mentored under Karitha, moved with practised ease. Aisser and Livaeril, however, were already deep in one of their familiar disputes. Their voices carried across the place, sharp and lively.

  “Come on, it wouldn’t be that bad,” Aisser insisted, scratching his golden Vaetrian hair.

  “No, it’s a terrible idea to take advice from Joerdigar,” Livaeril retorted, turning around and slapping Aisser with her ruby hair. “He always loses two-third of his intelligence the moment Saedine walks into the room!”

  Each time he witnessed them, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disbelief. It wasn’t their arguments or tea—though it was often questionable—that unsettled him. Rather, it was the sheer improbability of their presence here.

  Aisser, a prince of the Vaetrian Empire, and Livaeril, a princess of the Avon Empire, both of whom had crossed paths with the Arnan five years ago, now ran this modest little shop.

  Never in his wildest dreams could he have envisioned individuals of such noble stature embracing a life so far removed from their imperial origins. It was all the more striking to him, given Aevel’s own status as the heir to the esteemed Aoto clan—a heavy role upon his shoulders.

  Just then, Aevel approached, bringing out the item Karitha had requested from his bag.

  “From Karitha-sama,” he announced, placing it on the counter.

  “Aevel! Hello!” Livaeril greeted him with a bright smile. “Thank goodness! What is this?”

  “Mint tea,” Aevel replied simply.

  Aisser peered into the box, his eyes lighting up. “Wow, it’s exactly what we needed!”

  Hearing this, Aevel felt a familiar sense of foreboding. He took a cautious step back. “Very well, my job here is done. I’ll see you—”

  Before he could finish, Livaeril’s hand shot out from behind the counter, grasping his arm with surprising strength. “Wait, Aevel! You simply must try our newest tea!”

  Trapped, Aevel sighed inwardly, resigning himself to his fate. There was no escaping now.

  *

  Aevel settled into one of the shop’s outer seats, his gaze drifting lazily over the street as he waited for Aisser and Livaeril to prepare his tea.

  As the gentle clink of cups and the murmur of brewing filled the air, Aisser glanced over his shoulder and asked, “So, Aevel, what’s your grand plan once you’ve become a Fiddari?”

  “Me?” Aevel replied, leaning back slightly. “I’m going to return to my clan and serve the Shogun, of course.”

  Aisser let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m asking what you want to do, Aevel—not what your clan expects of you.”

  The question made Aevel pause. His thoughts faltered as he admitted, “Honestly… I’ve no idea. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  Livaeril laughed softly. “Aevel, you’re so focused on becoming a Fiddari that you forgot to consider what comes after.”

  Aisser grinned. “Look who’s talking! Weren’t you trying to manage your temper after you become a Fiddari? Instead, they’ve started calling you the Flaming Princess.”

  Livaeril rolled her eyes, smirking. “Oh, and you? If Aevel hasn’t planned far ahead, you barely plan at all. You just drift with the tide like a leaf on water. I remember about that Vaetrian council you had once. You stood there like a lost pup in a den of wolves, fumbling with titles and policies. What did they call you? The Reluctant Prince, wasn’t it?”

  Aisser shrugged, unbothered. “Well, I was never cut out for politics. Besides, that title had a certain charm.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “At least I didn’t inspire palace-wide warnings. Your period were far more infamous.”

  Livaeril’s eyes narrowed, her smile sharp. “Careful, Aisser, or I will show you the sharpness of my tongue.”

  He chuckled, unfazed. “I’m just saying, it’s not every day that the Avonian imperial household sends formal notices to its members: Livaeril is having her period, run for the hill! Entire diplomatic meetings rescheduled. Doors reinforced.”

  She crossed her arms with mock severity. “You just wish you had half the command of a room that I do. Mood swings and all.”

  As their banter continued, Aevel’s attention drifted to the street beyond, now bustling with early-morning passersby.

  “Vahlan (Hello), Aevel!” called a woman’s voice, bright and unfamiliar.

  He turned, blank-faced, and offered a stiff, “Hello.”

  “Vahlan (Hello), Aevel!” a man chimed in moments later, waving cheerfully.

  “Hello,” Aevel repeated flatly.

  Soon, a chorus of greetings swelled around him, each from a face he scarcely recognised. His jaw tightened. Foot tapping restlessly, he schooled his features into neutrality, though his expression grew increasingly pinched.

  Why did everyone here knew him?

  Salvation came when Aisser reappeared, bearing a steaming cup of mint tea. Its sharp, refreshing aroma penetrated into Aevel’s nostrils.

  “Here you are, Aevel,” Aisser said, sliding the cup across the counter.

  “Thank you, Aisser-san,” Aevel replied, mustering politeness.

  He took a cautious sip—and immediately recoiled. The brew was worse than he remembered: bitter, herbaceous, and cloyingly sweet, as though someone had muddled swamp water with perfume.

  How they’d achieved such a feat of culinary sabotage baffled him.

  “Well?” Aisser prompted, expectant.

  Aevel forced a cordial nod. “Thank you. It’s… steps ahead than before.”

  Aevel watched as Aisser beamed obliviously and turned towards the shop.

  “Aisser, where did you put the sugar?” Livaeril asked.

  “Huh? In the cabinet, of course,” Aisser replied cheerily.

  “Where, then? Come on, help me find it,” she insisted.

  The moment Aisser’s back was turned, Aevel ducked behind a potted fern and quietly expelled the vile concoction—along with the whole tea—into its soil.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  *

  “What do I want to do?” Aevel muttered to himself as he trudged towards the Caterpillar—Karitha’s starship, which served as home for him and his friends.

  The cliffside path offered little shelter from the winds whipping across the valley below, though their cool caress was a small mercy.

  He had barely taken ten steps when a thunderous boom rocked the ground, hurling him sideways as though the earth itself had convulsed. Aevel twisted mid-air, landing deftly on his feet.

  “Definitely not that,” he grumbled, brushing grit from his sleeves, his expression unflinching despite the commotion ahead.

  At the cliff’s summit, chaos reigned. The Caterpillar’s hull glinted under the sun, half-hidden by a thriving garden of fruits and vegetables—now trampled and gouged.

  At the centre lay a gargantuan capybara sprawled on its back, unconsciouss. Towering over it was Joerdigar, an Ivaran Fiddari, his blonde hair wild as he spun to face Saedine, his voice booming:

  “What!?”

  Saedine, a Movian Fiddari, clutched her hands to her chest.

  “No! Don’t hurt it!” she cried, sprinting toward the creature, her obsidian braids streaming behind her.

  “Hurt it? It devoured half the garden!” Joerdigar retorted, gesturing at the ravaged crops.

  “We can regrow plants! But if we kill it, no Psionic crystals can’t get it back to life!”

  “Oh, spare me the lecture! These pests are invasive!”

  Saedine fixed him with a glare sharp enough to silence a supernova.

  Joerdigar faltered, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “…Right. Apologies.”

  As Saedine knelt, her palms shimmered with violet psionic energy.

  In moments, the blunt-force wound on the creature’s head knitted itself together, the skin rippling as though time itself unspooled beneath its flesh.

  The capybara stirred, awake, and lurched upright with a groggy snort. Joerdigar lunged between it and Saedine, braced for an attack—only for the creature waddled off, nibbling a stray melon rind.

  “Well,” Saedine sighed, “that could’ve gone worse.”

  “Hello,” Aevel interjected.

  The pair whirled, Joerdigar yelping and jumping backward into Saedine’s arms. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, mortified, before she dropped him unceremoniously.

  “Aevel!” Joerdigar barked, brushing dirt from his tunic. “How long have you been lurking there?”

  “A few moments.” Aevel showed him a box from his bag. “From Karitha-sama.”

  “Huh? What is this?” Joerdigar took the box.

  Saedine peered over Joerdigar’s shoulder as he pried it open. Inside something the galaxy rarely seen today:

  A physical paper book.

  “It’s a terrarium manual!” Saedine breathed, her earlier fury forgotten. “We can build ecosystems! Deer! Butterflies! Bees!”

  Joerdigar’s surliness melted into a boyish grin. “Proper habitats, no more nibbled crops—genius!”

  Aevel watched, bemused, as the two erupted into a dance, their feud momentarily buried.

  The sight was almost… endearing.

  Then Saedine paused. “Oh! Aevel—how’s it going with Eura?”

  Aevel’s stomach dropped. “What?”

  Seeing that, Joerdigar approached him, grinning as he stepped closer, his hands coming to rest heavily on Aevel’s shoulders.

  “Don’t fret, Aevel,” he reassured. “I’m sure things will work out between you two—despite the fact you’ve spent most of your lives at each other’s throats.”

  Aevel stared blankly. The man had the tact of an asteroid collision.

  “Well, what’s the worst that could happen?” Joerdigar shrugged.

  *

  A sudden, deafening psionic blast tore through the mesa, obliterating the very spot Aevel had occupied on the early morning. Again, had he been a second slower, he would have been reduced to nothing.

  Instead, he landed softly on the ground, his grip tightening on the bag slung over his shoulder. His gaze snapped forward, locking onto the figure standing atop the shattered constructs—Eura, her nano battlesuit crackling with raw, violet energy.

  “Shin demo, daiji na shigoto ya nai toki wa chikazukan yuta yaro ga?” (Even if I were dying, didn’t I tell you not to come close unless it’s an important task?) Eura hissed, her eyes blazing with psionic fire.

  Aevel, unfazed, reached into his bag and produced a small box. “Soyakedo, Karitha-sama ga kore motte koi yuute harimashita wa.” (Well, Karitha-sama told me to bring this to you.)

  Given the circumstances, he opted to levitate the box toward her rather than approach. As it floated closer, the invisible rage swirling above Eura’s head seemed to darken, thickening like storm clouds.

  Without warning, a thunderous psionic blast erupted from her, hurling the box back at Aevel with terrifying force.

  Reacting instinctively, Aevel raised a hand, summoning a translucent psionic barrier that shimmered like diamond in the sunlight. The box shattered against it, its contents scattering into countless fragments.

  “Oh……” Aevel murmured, more exasperated than alarmed.

  But Eura wasn’t finished. Psionic strikes rained down on him—thunderbolts, flames, and icy spikes, each conjured from the depths of her mind and hurled with lethal precision. The air roared with the impact of her attacks, each one colliding against Aevel’s barrier in a cacophony of sound.

  Yet, he stood firm, his expression one of weary patience.

  Eventually, her onslaught slowed, then ceased altogether.

  “Saigo no shiren o issho ni sendemo eeshi, kon’yaku shihenkattara, mata anta o koroshi yottayarou ni.” (If we didn't have to do the final trial together, and if we hadn't been betrothed, I’d have surely tried to kill you again.) She gasped. “Nande kon'yaku shōdaku shitan ya? Anta no ie wa kyō dekin yaro—uchin toko to wa chigautte!” (Why did you even agree to our betrothal? Your family knew they couldn’t force you—unlike mine!)

  Aevel considered her words for a moment. “Maa… ee kagen ya to omoten.” (Well… I just think that it would be alright.)

  A sardonic laugh escaped Eura’s lips. “Ee kagen? Aevel, zutto koroshi atte kita yanka. Anta wa watashi o kirai, watashi wa anta o kirai ya—iedoushi no yō ni na. Uchin toko wa jijō de kawatta kamoshiren kedo…… watashi wa kawaran. Anta wa mada inochitori no teki ya de.” (Alright? Aevel, we’ve spent our lives trying to kill each other. You hate me, and I hate you—just like our clans have. Mine might have changed their minds because of some circumstances…… but I haven’t. To me, you’re still my mortal enemy.)

  She straightened, her disdain palpable. “Jaa, meiyo aru shi o kurerun?” (So, are you going to give me an honourable death?)

  Aevel gave silence as an answer.

  “Nara, hottoki.” (Then leave me alone.) she uttered.

  With nothing left to say, Aevel turned and walked away. Behind him, the sounds of Eura battling the Arnan constructs echoed across the mesa.

  He didn’t look back. Then, he noticed his hands trembled.

  *

  The afternoon had arrived, but Aevel’s hands trembled even more as he exited the hypertrain to the trial chamber, nerves fraying with each step.

  The usual ornate Arnan architecture, with its seamless blend of nature and technology—where giant trees wove into gleaming high-tech pathways—would usually soothe Aevel’s mind.

  Now, however, not even its tranquil splendour could calm him.

  Soon, he met his partner for this journey waiting outside the station—Eura.

  It appeared that Karitha had been right all along, and that she had finally come to terms with reality—or at the very least, had ceased denying it.

  Even from this distance, her posture radiated hate; she turned her face sharply away, as if the mere sight of him soured the air.

  But not without saying, “You are ready?”

  The contrast between their earlier conversation highlighted one thing: whatever grievances they had, their duty to become a Fiddari came first.

  “I am.” Aevel replied.

  “Good, let us be on our way,” she declared sharply. “And remember: you and I are a team in this trial, nothing more. Should you ever suggest otherwise, I shall kill you.”

  Aevel merely shrugged in response. “I know that.”

  Soon, the two walk with a reasonable distance, one that told of their seething feud with one another.

  They passed through peoples, throngs of flying vehicles and shuttles flew above as they walked.

  Then, they encountered another group—Aisser, Livaeril, Joerdigar, and Saedine—standing on their way to the destination.

  “What are you all doing here?” Eura asked.

  Livaeril explained, “Your trial is still many hours away.”

  “And knowing how you Ashens always arrive so early, I think we should do something,” Saedine beamed.

  Yet, as Aevel listened, his instincts revealed a different truth: such activity would be nothing but a waste of time.

  *

  Aevel couldn’t decide if he was relieved his trembling had subsided or more irritated that its absence left room for a fresh wave of annoyances. The Arnan indolence, it seemed, had infected his friends like a contagion.

  They lounged around the communal hub, each taking turns to evangelise their idea of fun—a parade of trivialities that made Aevel’s jaw tighten.

  “Aevel,” Aisser drawled, peering over his shoulder at Aevel’s holographic menu, “are you seriously ordering rice and meat again?”

  “They’re efficient,” Aevel replied, thumbing the selection with deliberate indifference. “Nutrients sustain; flavour distracts.”

  “You must learn to enjoy life sometimes, Ae,” Aisser admonished gently. “You are no longer a mundane human—you are now an ageless Psion. It would do you well to live as one does, like Eura.”

  As if summoned, Eura came to the table, bringing a wedge of cheesecake absurdly large.

  Saedine remarked with a wry smile. “That’s the largest cake I have ever seen you eat,”

  Eura’s expression remained impassive. “Well… I suppose it is time to indulge before the trial.” She sank into a seat and began dismantling the dessert with surgical precision, her face as animated as a stone tablet.

  *

  Joerdigar gaped at the pile of fish glistening on the lakeshore, his rod dangling forgotten in his hand. “Aevel, you’re meant to wait for them to bite, not harpoon the entire ecosystem with the hook!”

  “But isn’t the whole point of fishing to catch fish? Here they are.” Aevel replied, a note of wry amusement in his tone.

  Aisser chuckled, “Oh, Aevel—efficient as ever. Never change, Ae.”

  From the picnic blanket, Eura sat rigidly, her teacup hovering midway to her lips as if the scene had short-circuited her famed composure.

  After all, she hated fishing the most.

  Livaeril nudged her, smirking. “Don’t mind them, Eura—boys will be boys sometimes.”

  Eura’s brow twitched—a microscopic crack in her ice. Aevel noted it with perverse satisfaction.

  *

  A cacophony of gleeful shrieks erupted around him as the rollercoaster—an old relic of Old Earth’s bygone frivolity—lurched into motion.

  Aevel clenched the safety bar, teeth gritted, while the others whooped and hollered like over-caffeinated children.

  He’d never comprehend people’s obsession with manufactured peril. If he craved adrenaline, he’d duel the Shogun or bait Eura into incinerating a hillside.

  Not this… farce.

  The cart plummeted into a chasm, wind clawing at his face. Behind him, his friends’ screams crescendoed—a chorus of idiocy, sharp as seagulls squabbling over chips.

  Then, cutting through the din like a blade: her voice.

  Aevel twisted in his seat. There she was—Ryuusei no Eura, the woman who’d once skewered a Psionic leviathan mid-air—arms raised triumphantly, hair whipping wild in the wind.

  The Arnan indolence had claimed even her.

  “Whooooo!” she crowed, shooting him a smirk so smug it could spark another great war.

  Of course she revelled in this. She knew he’d rather chew glass than endure another loop-the-loop. Worse, she’d weaponised it. The cart tilted upwards, gears screeching. Aevel’s knuckles whitened.

  Just survive this, he told himself, and incinerate her favourite food later.

  But Eura’s laugh—bright, mocking, alive—echoed above the track’s roar. Aevel’s resolve wavered.

  Damn her. Damn the rollercoaster. Damn the universe for making her infuriating grin almost… tolerable.

  *

  The group trudged back towards the Arahal trial chamber, their earlier levity simmering into a brittle calm. Save for the occasional laugh, the walk unfolded as it always did—banal chatter, Eura’s glacial disdain, and the ever-looming trial ahead.

  After some times, a figure came to their view.

  It was Karitha, his midnight-black hair and dark eyes mirrored the stillness of the space, while his simple garments shifted gently in the wind.

  He waved his hand at them. “Over here.”

  Aisser halted, patting Aevel’s shoulder with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. This is where we… leave you to it.”

  “Good luck you two, we’ll head inside to find a seat,” Joerdigar said warmly.

  “See you—tomorrow, next week, or next month!” Livaeril added. “Wait, how much time passes in the Arahal realm again?”

  “No one knows. Time flows differently there,” Saedine replied.

  The farewells blurred—clasped hands, stiff embraces, promises Aevel doubted they’d keep.

  Then, abruptly, they were gone, leaving him alone with Eura and the silence. It pooled between them, viscous and charged, until even the air felt combustible.

  Karitha watched, impassive, as they approached.

  Aevel’s boots crunched the ground louder than necessary, as if defiance alone could fill the quiet. Eura matched his strides, her silence a blade honed by years of mutual contempt.

  Their mentor seemed to not be taken aback by the strong hatred emanated by the two, especially since these two were about to count on one another in life and death.

  Instead, he smiled at them, saying:

  “My dear Ashens, I know that things had not gone well between the two of you—”

  The two immediately understood what Karitha was referencing to, their many attempts to kill one another for years as they were trained.

  “—but know this, just because you wish the earth swallow the other, that doesn’t mean that you couldn’t fight together, you two are a team first, everything else came later.”

  Aevel raised his eyebrows upon hearing that, while Eura maintained a neutral emotion, not letting anyone reading her reaction.

  “Now come, you two have a trial to pass.” Karitha said.

  *

  The trio pressed forward until the Psionic training complex loomed before them—a sprawling edifice teeming with Psions of myriad disciplines, their auras intertwining like threads in a cosmic tapestry.

  Yet Aevel’s hands began trembling uncontrollably again, as though the weight of his clan’s legacy and the spectre of responsibility sought to crush him into the earth itself.

  “I’m scared, Karitha-sama,” Aevel admitted, his voice low with unease.

  With face calm as ever, his mentor answered.

  “Good,” he said with a serene smile resting on his lips. “Fear means you’re not foolish.”

  Hearing that, Aevel could sense a twitch coming from Eura’s eyes, as if silently retorting, Since when did wisdom nest in this Ashen’s tongue?

  As they wove through the throng of Arnan Psions, nods and murmured blessings trailed in their wake. Each gesture kindled a fragile ember of courage in Aevel’s chest, though it did little to thaw the ice pooling in his veins.

  “Tell me, Aevel, Eura,” Karitha asked, “when death comes for you, would you fear it?”

  The two pondered the question.

  Aevel soon answered. “If it’s my time, then so be it. Before you took me in, life held little meaning for us Ashen, especially on my wandering Daimyo fleet.”

  Eura’s reply came colder, sharper. “Death would be a mercy to me, Karitha-sama.”

  “Not many Psions would say that.” Karitha replied, eyes glinted with knowing. “You two would do well in your trial.”

  “Why you think so, Karitha-sama?” Aevel asked, curiosity overcoming fear.

  Karitha’s smile deepened. “Because the Fiddari’s final trial doesn’t test Psionic power. It tests the soul. Many great Psions have failed.” He glanced at the two. “But for you to succeed, you don’t need greatness. You two just need to be yourself.”

  Though Aevel’s hands still quivered, a strange peace began to settle within him.

  They soon arrived at the entrance of a great dome-shaped structure—the Arahal Trial Chamber.

  To Aevel’s astonishment, a vast assembly of psions had gathered, their presence solemn and expectant, as though poised for a momentous ceremony within the Arnan civilisation. The air buzzed with quiet anticipation, and Aevel’s curiosity prickled.

  Why are there so many people here? he wondered silently, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.

  As if reading his thoughts, Karitha’s voice echoed to his mind, calm and measured. “They’re here for the two of you.”

  “For us? Why?” Eura asked.

  “You’re the last trainee of this generation,” Karitha explained. “It will be a long time before the Arnan welcomes more from beyond its borders.”

  The remark lingered like a dissonant chord, seeding a growing unease amongst the two.

  Soon, a figure strode forward, grinning widely—Arfall, Karitha’s long-time friend and the commanding leader of all Fiddari throughout the galaxy.

  “Emre!” Karitha exclaimed, his grin widening upon seeing Arfall.

  “Lucjusz!” Arfall replied, embracing him warmly.

  “It’s good to see you,” Karitha said, his voice filled with genuine affection.

  The chamber doors creaked open, and another respected Fiddari stepped forward.

  “Ah, greetings, everyone, may peace be upon you,” Hurayra said, his eyes resting on Arfall. “You didn’t join the expedition?”

  Arfall rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re only opening the portal to Earth for now. No army’s marching just yet.”

  Hurayra sighed. “Well, I understand Karitha’s absence—he’s not a Fiddari—but I should’ve known you’d have a soft spot for this kind of thing.”

  Aevel swivelled toward his mentor, wide-eyed astonishment slackening his features—only for Eura’s voice to pierce the air, sharp as shattered glass.

  “Karitha-sama, you’re not a Fiddari!?” Eura asked.

  Karitha smiled. “No.”

  “But why not? You’re one of the most powerful Psions in the galaxy!”

  “Indeed, but I’m not interested.”

  Eura frowned, confused.

  Hurayra chuckled. “Don’t overthink it, Ryuusei no Eura. Karitha and Arfall are older than even the Arnan people, they had different kind of ways and rules.” His gaze softened. “Now, you two have a trial to face.”

  With a gesture, Hurayra invited them inside.

  They crossed the threshold into the chamber where their final trial loomed.

  Inside, the Arahal Trial Chamber rose before them—a domed colossus of Psionic alloy, its surface shimmering with glyphs older than the Arnan Empire itself.

  Within its shadow, a sea of faces awaited: Psions from many corner of the galaxy, their collective breath hushed in anticipation.

  Tiers of seats rose like a colosseum from forgotten eras, every rows brimming with psions whose murmurs hummed with anticipation.

  Below, the floor lay bare save for a single anomaly at its heart: a circular portal, its surface rippling with ethereal energy—a gateway into the Arahal, the Psionic realm itself.

  Aevel’s breath hitched as he stared into the vortex. The portal thrummed with a low, resonant pulse, its power tugging at the edges of his soul.

  Visions flashed unbidden—scenes of cities crumbling, flames devouring forests, and screams swallowed by void. Though the images vanished as swiftly as they came, their imprint lingered: death and destruction, whispered by something from the realm, as though mocking his resolve.

  A flicker of movement soon caught his eye.

  High above, his friends leaned over the parapets—Aisser, Livaeril, Joerdigar, Saedine. Their farewells arcing across the chasm like pennants caught in a shared breath.

  Aevel’s attention snapped to Hurayra, who had retrieved weapons from an ornate crate with the solemnity of a reliquary attendant.

  First came a blade that seemed less forged than condensed—Psionic swords.

  He extended one of it, its name a whispered call: Antara.

  “Antara now answers to you,” declared Hurayra, thickening the air between them. “May its resolve guide your path where mortal weapons falter.”

  Aevel accepted the sword wordlessly, his fingers tracing the hilt as though it were an alien artefact. The weapon’s presence hummed against his palm, neither warm nor cold, but vibrating with latent purpose.

  Steel hissed as he drew the blade. Its surface swallowed light like the void between stars, yet radiated a paradoxical clarity—obsidian darkness refined into crystalline purity.

  Eura’s blade, Imraa, followed—a sliver of captured moonlight, its radiance so piercing it threatened to scald the shadows themselves.

  “Imraa now answers to you,” Hurayra gave the blade. “May its wisdom guide you when all path led to darkness.”

  Eura accepted the sword with noticeably more hesitation than Aevel. She studied it for a moment before finally taking it, clearly harbouring doubts about why she had been given a sword rather than a fully functional piece of advanced weaponry.

  “You may question its necessity,” Hurayra said, the unspoken doubt hanging like mist. “But know this: there are no munitions in the Arahal realm, and to deplete yours in combat is to court demise.”

  With that, she drew the blade and cast a measured glance at its polished surface, mesmerised by the flawless reflection of her own face, before carefully returning it to its scabbard.

  “It is time,” Hurayra declared in a steady, commanding tone. “Step forward.”

  Aevel and Eura paused only for a heartbeat. Then, took their step forward.

  “This trial will be the most arduous of all. You two must seek out a Psionic Crystal and return with it,” Hurayra declared, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Any final words before you enter?”

  “I am ready for the worst.” Eura said.

  “Careful with your words,” Hurayra warned, his eyes narrowing. “The Great Psionic War may have ended, and there’s been no more news from the hole at the universe’s centre. But that doesn’t mean fate has stopped weaving. The Psionic realm remains full of its threads—intricate, and often dangerous.”

  Upon hearing those words, Eura’s gaze dropped to the ground as she pondered the full meaning of Hurayra's message.

  Then, softly, Aevel said, “I hope… whatever happens, it happens for the best.”

  Hurayra nodded in approval, a small smile on his lips. “May your tomorrow be brighter than yesterday.”

  The words steadied him. Calm flowed into his veins like a cool stream. He drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Hurayra-sama.”

  Now, the two moved with a slight tremor but trusted time’s rhythm. After all, the Psion were ageless, untouched by mortal years.

  When they stared into the portal, its translucent violet shimmer reflected their own faces back, distorted and filled with promise. The pull grew stronger, as though they were on the edge of falling.

  He steeled himself. But as he stepped towards the portal, his hands trembled even more; the unnatural force from beyond made every hair on his body stand on end.

  It was a presence both foul and ancient—as if his very steps had dared to challenge a primordial darkness.

  Then, to his surprise, his partner hesitated as well—Aevel noted that Eura barely moved at all. As he glanced at her, he realised that her flawless composure had concealed an underlying fear.

  For one heartbeat, her mask slipped: fear flickered raw and unadorned in her eyes.

  A smirk then tugged at Aevel’s lips—until her glare reignited, promising retribution.

  Their mutual hesitation did not go unnoticed; the ever-watchful Arnans tracked their faltering progress with keen eyes.

  In response, they provided them with something to fortify the their resolve.

  The Arnan parted their lips in song—not the eloquent cadences of their tongue, but the sinuous vowels of the two’s own language, all to honour them as Ashen.

  First, a lone voice pierced the stillness from a person whose name they never knew. As seconds slipped by, a ripple of voices bloomed nearby, then surged outward until the chamber thrummed with labyrinthine harmonies. The collective resonance swelled, a spectral tide that swallowed the chamber’s hollows.

  In that fleeting instant, they realised something: these peoples had not gathered for a ceremony's pomp, but rather to purely support them.

  “Hōshasen no sora ni, wakusei horobi.”

  (In the sky of radiation, the Planet perishes)

  “Kagayaki mo kieyuku, namida tomoni.”

  (Even its brilliance fades, along with tears)

  “Sue sakura ni. Saigo sakura yo.”

  (For the last sakura. Oh, last Sakura)

  “Yasashisa mune ni kizamu, ikiru kate ni.”

  (Your kindness etched in our hearts, as our strength to live)

  As the strains of the song lingered in the air, Aevel and Eura found themselves cradling a fragile, unfamiliar hope—one they scarcely understood.

  Yet, despite that, courage seep deep into their very bones. At last, they began stepping forward without hesitation, and for the first time since their arrival in the Arnan Empire, smiled in earnest.

  “Kakenukeru sakura, kaze o kanjite.”

  (Running through the Sakura, feeling the wind)

  “Yume o oi hashiru, kaori abite.”

  (Chasing dreams as I run, bathed in its fragrance)

  “Sue sakura ni. Saigo sakura yo.”

  (For the last sakura. Oh, last Sakura)

  “Yasashisa mune ni kizamu, ikiru kate ni.”

  (Your kindness etched in our hearts, as our strength to live)

  With one final look into the portal’s depths, the two surrendered to the portal’s call. They walked forth, courage surging within, and plunged into the sparkling embrace of the Psionic realm.

  But unbeknownst to them, it would be the last time they saw the Arnan people and their civilisation.