The venue prepared for the Age Ceremony stood at the heart of Solum like a monument carved for destiny itself.
It was an ancient ceremonial plaza, older than the Astra Empire, built from white astral stone that faintly shimmered under sunlight. Tall pillars ringed the circular ground, each carved with symbols representing growth, awakening, and judgment. At the center stood the Age Altar—a raised platform of black and silver stone, etched with runes so old that even modern mages could not fully decipher them.
Above the altar, a massive crystal sphere floated in the air, slowly rotating.
The Potential Orb.
An artifact used since ancient times to measure affinity, latent power, and potential.
Around the plaza, tiered seats rose like an amphitheater.
The inner ring was reserved for dukes, royalty, and Magic Tower representatives.
The outer rings were filled with high nobles, lesser nobles, scholars, and observers.
The air itself felt heavy.
Not with noise—but with expectation.
---
Arrival of the Magic Towers
A low murmur rippled through the crowd as the first group arrived.
At the eastern gate, a procession clad in pure white robes embroidered with silver runes stepped forward.
"The White Magic Tower…"
The White Tower representatives moved with calm dignity. Their robes were layered, ceremonial, yet practical—symbolizing balance and order. At their center walked a middle-aged man with silver hair and composed eyes.
"White Tower Archmage, 7th Circle," someone whispered.
Behind them came another group—this time in deep crimson robes, trimmed with gold.
"The Red Magic Tower!"
The Red Tower mages radiated intensity. Their mana signatures were sharp, aggressive, and unrestrained. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with short black hair, walked with the confidence of someone used to power.
Then—
Silence fell.
Silver.
Not gray.
Not white.
True silver.
The Silver Magic Tower delegation entered, their robes woven with faintly glowing silver threads that responded to ambient mana.
At their head walked Tower Master Eldric.
8th Circle Archmage.
His presence alone caused several nobles to unconsciously straighten their backs.
"Three human towers…"
"This is no ordinary ceremony."
"They came personally…"
Whispers spread like wildfire.
---
Arrival of the Dukes
Next came the arrival of the dukedoms.
From the southern gate, banners bearing a lion emblazoned upon a shield fluttered proudly.
"The Lionheart Dukedom!"
Duke Ragnar von Lionheart stepped forward, wearing crimson and black armor beneath a ceremonial cloak. The armor was not decorative—it was real, forged for war. A spear-shaped insignia rested on his chest.
Beside him walked his family.
His son, Lucian von Lionheart, stood tall, wearing a fitted red coat trimmed in gold. His posture was sharp, his eyes focused.
'So this is Solum…' Lucian thought, gaze scanning the venue.
Many nobles whispered when they saw him.
"That's the Lionheart heir…"
"SS+ potential, they say."
"A prodigy spearman."
From the eastern gate arrived another procession.
A banner displaying an open book with a single eye at its center swayed gently.
"Solvaris Dukedom!"
Duke Chris von Solvaris stepped forward, clad in deep blue robes layered with arcane patterns. His presence was calm, almost scholarly—but the mana around him was terrifyingly dense.
An 8th Circle Mage.
Beside him walked his daughter.
Elena von Solvaris.
Golden hair flowed freely down her back, catching the light. Her blue eyes were clear and sharp like still water hiding depth. She wore an elegant white-and-blue dress adorned with magic-thread embroidery.
Nobles turned openly to look.
"She's beautiful…"
"That's the Solvaris prodigy."
"SS+ potential… already third circle."
Elena frowned slightly.
'So many eyes… how troublesome.'
---
Whispers of the Nobles
As more noble families arrived, the noise steadily grew.
"They say Blackthorne's military surpasses the royal family."
"Did you hear? The heir killed bandits at nine."
"No, that's exaggerated."
"Is it?"
Some spoke with awe.
Others with fear.
A few with jealousy sharp enough to taste.
All eyes, however, kept drifting toward the central gate.
Waiting.
---
A Meeting of Heirs
Near the edge of the inner ring, Elena noticed a familiar presence.
Red hair.
Sharp posture.
She approached calmly.
"Lucian von Lionheart," she said. "I didn't expect you'd arrive this early."
Lucian turned, surprised—then smiled.
"Elena von Solvaris. Still as composed as ever."
She folded her arms lightly. "And you still look like you're preparing for a battlefield."
He laughed softly. "Old habits."
A pause.
Both glanced toward the empty central gate.
"So," Lucian asked, "what do you think of him?"
Elena's gaze sharpened.
"Aurelian von Blackthorne?"
She exhaled slowly. "I haven't seen him yet."
Lucian nodded. "Same."
A brief silence.
Then Elena spoke honestly.
"I hope he doesn't disappoint."
Lucian smiled faintly.
'Somehow… I doubt he will.'
---
Conversation Between Dukes
Nearby, Duke Ragnar and Duke Chris stood together, their expressions relaxed in a way few others could manage.
"It's been years," Ragnar said. "Last time we met was on the Abyssar front."
Chris smiled lightly. "You nearly impaled a Demon King."
Ragnar snorted. "Nearly isn't enough."
They both laughed quietly.
Their eyes turned toward the altar.
"And now," Chris said, "we're here to watch the next generation."
Ragnar nodded.
"Let's hope this one doesn't drag us back to war."
Neither truly believed that.
---
The Blackthorne Entrance
Then—
The bells changed.
A deeper tone echoed across the plaza.
The central gate opened.
Black.
Not dull—regal.
A procession stepped forward, banners bearing the silver thorned crown held high.
The crowd fell silent.
Duke Alaric von Blackthorne entered first.
He wore a long black coat with silver embroidery along the edges, his posture straight, his presence overwhelming. His black hair was neatly tied back, his black eyes cold and unreadable.
Beside him walked the Duchess Aria von Blackthorne.
She wore a silver-white gown, elegant yet gentle, her bright silver hair cascading down her shoulders. Her blue eyes held warmth that contrasted sharply with her husband's cold aura.
Behind them, attendants carried the youngest Blackthorne—Alya von Blackthorne, resting peacefully.
Nobles held their breath.
Magic Tower representatives narrowed their eyes.
Even seasoned dukes felt an invisible pressure.
'So this is the Blackthorne family…'
---
Old Warriors Reunite
As Alaric approached the inner ring, Duke Ragnar stepped forward with a wide grin.
"Still walking like a king, Alaric."
Alaric paused—then nodded slightly. "Ragnar."
Chris joined them. "You haven't changed."
Alaric's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Neither have you."
For a brief moment, it felt like old times—men who had once stood together against demon hordes.
---
A Sudden Stir
Then—
A new presence entered.
Slow.
Measured.
An old man walked through the gate.
White hair.
Weathered face.
A sword resting at his side.
The moment some recognized him—
Shock rippled through the crowd.
"…That can't be."
"Is that—?"
"Leonhart von Blackthorne?!"
The retired Sword Emperor.
Gasps erupted.
Magic Tower representatives stood abruptly.
Dukes stiffened.
Even Emperor's observers narrowed their eyes.
Leonhart von Blackthorne had not appeared in public for decades.
And yet—
Here he was.
Walking toward the altar.
His gaze rested briefly on Aurelian.
'So it begins.'
The Age Ceremony venue was complete.
The stage was set.
And destiny—
Was about to move.