The iron gates of the Aetheria Academy groaned as they swung open—a resonance that fell like a death knell upon the hundreds of youths filing within. Within the Kingdom of Grandis, Aetheria was renowned for its flexibility, permitting students to dictate their own destiny: the Path of the Arcane for the pure mages, the Path of Iron for the stalwarts of combat, or the grueling Path of the Dual-Aura for those possessed of the ambition to master both.
Aleric Thorne tightened the straps of his worn leather tunic, the hilt of a standard-issue practice sword bumping against his hip. Scarcely forty-eight hours prior, he had been a man of no consequence—a 'Late Bloomer' who had narrowly escaped the clutches of death. Today was the Manifestation Exam, the trial wherein the masters would decree which path he was fit to tread.
While Aleric possessed a natural aptitude for the weaving of spells, his bladework remained unremarkable—competent enough to parry a strike, yet lacking the refined elegance of the academy's elite. He carried himself with a quiet steadiness, his hands calloused from a style of close-quarters combat that was largely unknown in this corner of the continent, save for the cryptic techniques of the Royal Guard. Yet even their arts bore little resemblance to the fluid, lethal logic Aleric felt in his own limbs.
"Yield the way, peasant!" sneered the voice from behind.
Aleric did not have to turn around to recognize Silas Vane. Silas was known as a "Dual-Aura" student who had fully mastered the Crimson Edge, a complicated skill in which the blades of his swords had to be encased in a thin amount of crystalized mana. What Aleric considered to be his "Slash" was something that took the nobles in the world of Grandis years to master.
He simply stepped to the side, and his eyes ignited with light as his eyes turned fiery crimson. His arrogance will prove to be his undoing, Aleric thought to himself as he observed the noble. His mana control is spotty, and he favors his right heel when he charges. A good strike would knock him flat.
The thought Aleric shoved aside disappeared along with the red light. He led the assembly into the Great Arena. In the center of it stood the Model-7 War-Golem, a giant made of magic-enhanced granite, its fists strengthened by iron.
"Next! Aleric Thorne!" shouted the Instructor. "Approach the arena. Strike the construct with spell or steel, and pray you have the strength to leave your mark on it."
Aleric stepped forward. While others gripped staves or adjusted their grips for heavy knight-style swings or swift, Eastern-inspired draws, Aleric kept his sword sheathed. As he reached the golem, he did not draw his blade. He merely reached out and pressed his palm flat against the golem's cold chest.
Through his touch, and the return of that haunting red gaze, the world transformed. He could see the structural integrity of the stone as if it were glass, the mana pulsing through it. Then, he saw it—the critical flaw. The mana pressure was overloading in the core.
This construct is a calamity in waiting, Aleric realized, his heart quickening. If a student strikes it with a concentrated Slash or a powerful spell, the core will detonate, claiming every life within the arena. I must diffuse it, yet I lack the mana to overwrite such a construct through force alone.
He noticed a minute hairline fracture on that stone. Trusting not in strength, but in the cold calculating mind of his own Audit, he channeled his scant sliver of mana into the pressure valve.
Click.
The internal resonance of the golem ceased. The danger was over, but Aleric's senses began to reel. The manual override had depleted almost all of his reserves. The mana loss was as if his own brain was being squeezed by an unseen hand.
Aleric's knees buckled. He fell to the cold floor before the darkness claimed him. To the observers, it appeared he had fainted from the mere exertion of touching the stone.
"Tragic," sighed the Instructor, writing a zero on his parchment. "Neither magic nor fighting spirit. Have him taken to the infirmary,"
The Infirmary
Aleric came to with the sun setting below the horizon. The infirmary was quiet, with the scent of antiseptic and dried herbs.
"Greetings. You have returned to us, it seems," a voice said.
Aleric sat bolt upright, his head pounding. At the foot of his bed was Professor Elara, one of the youngest instructors within the Academy. She was a woman who had earned respect, not for any title, but for the mastery that she had gained over her own Aura—the life force that every soul within Grandis had, yet very few controlled.
"This golem was meant to explode today," she said softly. "The other instructors noticed a boy who fainted from fear. But I. I noticed your eyes, Aleric. This crimson glow was no commoner's badge, nor that caress an amateur's gesture. You completed an audit of precision on a core of military quality."
Aleric stopped in mid-motion and held his breath as the words seemed to catch in his throat. "I am sure that I do not know of what you are
"Do not think to bluff me. The teacher in the arena has already graded you a 'Zero.' By tomorrow, you will be expelled from Aetheria and returned to the streets of Grandis," Elara said, her figure radiating in the small space.
She tapped a finger against the edge of his bed. "However, as a Professor, I have the authority to alter those records. I can turn that 'Zero' into a 'Distinction' without informing a soul of how you truly achieved it."
Aleric narrowed his eyes. "And what is the price for such a favor?"
"I am currently researching a Lost Vault beneath the capital—a place protected by ancient, shifting mana-locks that my own magic cannot bypass," Elara replied, a small, dangerous smile playing on her lips. "You will accompany me as my 'Assistant.' You will use those eyes to find the flaws in those locks, and I will ensure you remain a student of this academy. If you refuse, you may begin packing your belongings tonight.