The first week passed quietly.
Too quietly, some might have said.
Aerin kept his routine deliberately dull. Classes in the morning. Library in the afternoon. Home by evening. No flashy training in public yards, no sudden displays of talent, no desperate attempts to draw attention before the awakening ceremony.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
From the inside, everything had.
The academy library was older than most of the surrounding buildings. Its stone walls bore the faded insignia of a minor kingdom that had collapsed centuries ago, yet the shelves remained meticulously maintained. Knowledge survived even when banners did not.
Aerin sat at a long table, several books stacked beside him.
Foundations of Mana Circulation
Comparative Elemental Affinities
Weapon Forms and Energy Transfer
None of them were advanced. None of them promised power.
That was precisely why he chose them.
Power in Vallorae, he had learned, was often mistaken for intensity. Brighter spells. Faster techniques. Louder victories. But the deeper texts—the ones instructors rarely recommended to first-year students—focused on control, efficiency, and failure cases.
The parts people ignored.
He traced a finger along a diagram illustrating mana flow through the body.
"So it's not about forcing it," he murmured. "It's about letting it move."
The memories of the original Aerin offered little help here. He had never progressed far enough to care about such details. Weak body. Limited stamina. Minimal expectations.
Aerin closed his eyes.
He inhaled slowly, focusing on the faint warmth he felt beneath his sternum.
Mana.
Everyone in Vallorae had it—at least in trace amounts. Awakening didn't create power; it refined what already existed. Those who failed to awaken were not empty. They were simply… unshaped.
He guided his breathing, not trying to draw the mana outward, but to sense its natural path.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No spark.
No rush.
No resistance.
Just a subtle alignment, like discovering the grain of wood beneath your hand.
His lips curved slightly.
"Good."
At home, his evenings were spent differently than before.
The courtyard behind the house was small, enclosed by stone walls and shaded by a lone tree whose roots had cracked the paving over time. It wasn't designed for training—but it would do.
Aerin began with his body.
Push-ups. Squats. Slow, controlled movements that built stability rather than bulk. He focused on posture, breathing, and balance. Each repetition was deliberate, measured.
No shortcuts.
The original body had been frail. Overworking it would only lead to injury. He listened closely to the signals it gave him—fatigue, strain, recovery.
Some nights, Mireya watched from the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're pushing yourself," she said once. Not accusatory. Concerned.
"I'm being careful," Aerin replied, sweat cooling on his skin. "More careful than before."
She didn't argue.
Instead, she brought him water.
Two weeks in, changes became noticeable.
Subtle at first.
Aerin's steps grew quieter. His movements more economical. He stopped bumping into desks, stopped misjudging distances. Even his handwriting improved—cleaner, more controlled.
People noticed.
Not with awe.
Not with envy.
With mild confusion.
"Did you get taller?" Rethan asked one morning.
"Probably just standing properly," Aerin replied.
Lysa watched him from across the classroom, her gaze sharp but unreadable.
"You're conserving energy during drills," she said later. "Most people try to show off."
"I'm not most people."
"That much is obvious," she said, then paused. "It's… effective."
High praise, coming from her.
One evening, while organizing old storage boxes in the house, Aerin found himself kneeling in the back room—a narrow space filled with dust, travel gear, and items that smelled faintly of old leather and metal.
His grandfather's belongings.
The man had been a traveler. An explorer. A fool, according to Mireya. A survivor, according to the stories.
Aerin opened a weathered trunk and sifted through its contents: torn maps, cracked lenses, journals written in uneven script.
Then his finger brushed against something sharp.
"—Tch."
A thin line of pain flared as he pulled his hand back. A bead of blood welled up on his fingertip.
"Great."
He reached for a cloth—then froze.
Something inside the trunk glimmered faintly.
Not light.
Presence.
Aerin's eyes narrowed as he carefully pushed aside the surrounding items.
There, nestled beneath folded fabric and dried leather straps, lay a simple bracelet.
Dark metal. Smooth surface. No ornamentation—except for three faintly visible grooves etched into its inner band.
Old.
Very old.
As his blood dripped from his finger, a single drop fell—
—and touched the bracelet.
The air shifted.
A thin hum filled the room, low and resonant, vibrating not in his ears but in his bones. The grooves on the bracelet ignited with intertwined blue and violet light, forming a circular pattern that lifted itself into the air.
A magic circle.
Ancient.
Complex.
Nothing like the standardized arrays taught in academies.
Aerin didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
The circle rotated slowly, symbols rearranging themselves as if recognizing him.
The blood vanished.
The bracelet dissolved into light.
And before he could even react, a sharp, searing sensation flared at the base of his neck.
He gasped, stumbling back.
The light collapsed inward—
—and the room fell silent.
Aerin pressed a hand against his neck, heart pounding.
No pain remained.
No object remained.
Only the faint echo of something vast and patient, now connected to him.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the empty trunk.
"…I'm not imagining this," he whispered.
Far beneath the academy spire, far beyond the awareness of students and instructors alike, three sealed existences stirred—ever so slightly.
And the preparation Aerin thought was for awakening alone had just taken an unexpected turn.