The silence of the infirmary felt heavier once Professor Elara had departed. Aleric remained motionless upon the cot, his gaze fixed upon the vaulted ceiling where the flickering magi-lamps cast long, distorted shadows. He had secured his place within Aetheria—a 'Distinction' in the Manifestation Exam was a feat that would silence the likes of Silas Vane—yet the weight of the bargain pressed against his chest like lead.
I have traded my anonymity for security, Aleric thought, his brow furrowing as he felt the slow, rhythmic pulse of his own Aura. To be the 'Assistant' of a woman like Elara is to walk upon a blade's edge. She seeks a master technician for her vault, but she has found something far more volatile.
He sat up slowly, the lingering ache in his mind—the 'Brain-Strain'—receding as his mana reserves began their agonizingly slow recovery. To test his coordination, he slipped from the bed and stood in the center of the small room. He did not reach for his practice sword. Instead, he moved through a series of low, fluid stances—shifting his weight with a precision that defied the traditional rigid posture of a Grandis knight. His movements were silent, his hands cutting through the air in short, explosive bursts.
In this world, men relied on the reach of their steel or the distance of their spells. None expected a foe to step within their guard and strike with the bare palm. As he moved, his crimson eyes flickered briefly, analyzing the flow of his own Aura. He was competent with a blade, yes, but here—in the space between heartbeats—he was something else entirely.
The following morning, the Academy was abuzz with a fervor that bordered on madness. The official results of the Manifestation Exam had been posted upon the Great Pillar in the courtyard.
"It is impossible! This must be a clerical error!" a voice shrieked, cutting through the morning mist.
Aleric navigated the crowd with practiced ease, his leather boots silent upon the cobblestones. Standing before the pillar was Silas Vane, surrounded by his usual retinue of sycophants. The noble's face was flushed a deep, indignant purple as he stared at the parchment.
[Aleric Thorne: Path of the Dual-Aura – Grade: Distinction
"Aleric? That is the lad who collapsed?" Silas sneered, turning his head to notice Aleric. "What kind of sorcery did you use to fool the teachers? You did not even unsheathe your blade. You simply laid your finger on the construct and collapsed like a servant girl. My 'Crimson Edge' cut three inches deep, yet I am graded behind a collapsed peasant?"
Aleric met the noble's gaze with a cold, unwavering stare. "The masters of this Academy value results, Silas. Perhaps they saw a depth in my strike that your technique simply could not reach. A Slash is more than just mana and edges; it is knowing exactly where the world is ready to break."
The surrounding students gasped. To speak so boldly to a Vane was a death wish for a commoner. Silas reached for the hilt of his sword, his Aura flaring in a chaotic, fiery orange that scorched the air around him. "You dare? I shall show you the difference between a true warrior and a charlatan. Draw your blade, Thorne!"
"Enough."
The voice was not loud, yet it carried the weight of a mountain. The crowd parted instantly as Professor Elara stepped forward, her silver-trimmed robes snapping in the wind. She did not look at Silas; her cold, crystalline eyes were fixed solely upon Aleric.
"Master Vane, if you want to dispute the grading set by the faculty, you can exercise that right by the challenge trials that will take place next month," she declared with no warmth in her voice whatever. "In the meantime, Aleric Thorne is in my direct care for a special study project, and he must be elsewhere."
Silas's hand trembled on his hilt, but even he was not foolish enough to defy a Professor. "He is a fluke, Professor. You waste your time."
Elara ignored him, gesturing for Aleric to follow. As they walked toward the deeper, more ancient sections of the Academy, Aleric broke the silence.
"You have yet to explain, Professor. Why me? There are mages in this city who can level mountains. Why seek the aid of a student who can barely pass a bladework drill?"
Elara stopped and turned, her gaze piercing. "Because those mages are like hammers, Aleric. The Lost Vault of the First Architects is protected by 'Reactive Mana-Locks.' The more power one exerts upon them, the more the locks reinforce themselves. My own Aura is too vast; the moment I attempt to probe the mechanism, the vault seals itself ten times tighter."
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But you... when your eyes turned that shade of crimson, you didn't just see the golem. You saw the 'thread.' You found the one point of failure that required almost no mana to trigger. You possess a 'structural sight' that bypasses security by its very insignificance. You are the needle that can thread the eye of a storm I would only cause to rage."
Aleric looked at her, understanding the danger. He wasn't chosen for his strength, but for his ability to see the "cracks" in things that were supposed to be perfect.
"Under the cover of moonfall, we depart," Elara continued. "The Royal Guard patrols the lower districts, but they are blind to the paths I walk. Prepare your mind, Aleric. Tonight, we do not break the lock. We persuade it to open."
Aleric watched her walk away, his mind already beginning to map out the possibilities. He was a prisoner of her bargain, but as he felt his mana returning, a different thought occurred to him. Every lock had a flaw. Every Professor had a weakness. He just had to find them.