The moment the final blow was struck in the test, silence claimed the battlefield. Not Thorne's battered body, not Nerion's young heart — just silence, vast and endless.
And then… the world shifted.
His soul drifted, severed from the scarred flesh of Commander Thorne. There was no ground, no sky — only the endless black sea of cosmic stars, cold and quiet. Slowly, light threads wrapped around him, weaving the shape of his real body back into existence. His limbs, once hardened by borrowed war, felt smaller now, thinner — his own.
But his mind was not ready.
A storm of memories raged inside him:
The disciplined thoughts of a seasoned commander — the blood, the loss, the cold decisions.
And the confused, fragile wonder of a sixteen-year-old boy named Nerion Ophirein.
Who am I…? Where am I…?
The question repeated like a heartbeat, until a soft sound chimed through the dark.
[System Notification]
Stabilizing player's mind…
Purging residual trauma…
Filtering gore-bound memories…
Emotional overload reduced. Mental stability restored.
A wave of peace swept through his thoughts, like cool water on a fevered brow. The weight of Thorne's life was lifted, leaving behind only fragments: skills without scars, knowledge without grief.
Now whole but still adrift, his soul floated gently in the starlit void, until something stirred ahead.
A gate — vast beyond imagining — cracked open before him. No walls, no ceiling, no limit to its height. A door that led somewhere only souls could walk through.
And in that moment, Nerion understood:
The real journey had just begun.
The gate didn't just open — it split reality wide open. A blast of white light hit Nerion like a hammer to the skull, burning through his mind and drowning the stars behind him. Sight, sound, feeling — all ripped away, leaving nothing but the machine's voice echoing through the emptiness.
[System Notification]
First Test Completed.
Reward: 10 Soul Cards.
New Rank- Ember Rank
Impossible Rank Test — First Attempt: Success.
Bonus: First Mana Circle Unlocked.
Bonus: Mana Circuit Activation Commencing.
The words were clean, sharp, and sterile. But what came next was anything but.
The pain struck like a blade, deep and merciless. His body — or whatever was left of it in this place — began to tear apart from the inside. It wasn't just muscle and bone. It was his soul. He couldn't see himself, couldn't move, couldn't scream. He only knew the feeling of his own blood draining away, drop by drop, as if something unseen had cut his throat and left him hanging there, helpless.
And then it came.
A flood of something — heavier than air, sharper than steel. It forced its way into him, like molten iron into a shattered mold. His veins felt like they'd split open, his bones like they'd crack under the pressure. Mana — raw and violent, the kind that didn't care if the vessel lived or died.
The system didn't pause. It didn't care.
And Nerion — caught between two lives, between two selves — could only endure.
The Awakening wasn't a gift. It was a butchering.
And this was only the beginning.
Time lost all meaning. Floating between the cracks of life and death, Nerion's world was nothing but darkness and cold silence — until it wasn't.
A faint breath stirred his chest. His fingers twitched, stiff and numb like dead branches coming back to life. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes.
The world returned in fragments — the scent of moss and damp stone, the rough feel of earth beneath his palms, and the iron taste of blood still clinging to his tongue. His hands, trembling, moved on their own, brushing across his chest, his face, his arms — as if confirming that this wasn't another illusion, another test.
His body was real. Broken, but real.
The confusion hit him next, sharp and dizzying. Where was he? Who was he?
And then — like a spark in the dark — it returned. The memory.
The shrine.
The test.
His grandfather's voice, sharp but quiet, like a blade wrapped in cloth:
"When the time comes, the God of Hope won't carry you. He'll watch to see if you can stand on your own."
The details of the test were gone, buried under a heavy, aching fog. But one thing remained clear: it hadn't been easy. Something deep inside whispered that he had walked the edge of death — and only barely made it back.
His breathing grew heavy as he looked down at himself. His clothes, soaked and shredded. His skin, smeared in dark, sticky blood — and beneath that, streaks of black, tar-like impurities that oozed from his pores, staining the ground around him. The mark of Awakening. The cost of survival.
For the first time, his eyes lifted — and there it was.
The old, weather-worn statue of the God of Hope stood silent before him, half-swallowed by ivy, sword raised high, the coiled serpent resting like a crown upon its shoulders. No warmth. No divine light. Just stone, and silence.
Nerion bowed his head, voice barely above a whisper.
"Thank you… for keeping me alive."
But his heart still trembled. The things he'd seen — the endless cosmic lights, the white void beyond the gates — they weren't the sort of visions a man could forget. Or escape. Even if the system had stripped the memories away, the fear lingered in his bones like an old scar.
(Nerion was back into his body , and remember who he was)
And the path forward, whatever it was, had only just begun
A low rustle stirred the air behind him, soft but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
Nerion tensed, turning toward the sound. From the darkened corner of the shrine — where light dared not reach — a shadow moved. Slow, deliberate. A figure emerged from the gloom, seated upon a battered, rune-etched hovering wheelchair. The old machine floated barely a hand's span above the stone floor, silent except for the faint hum of aged enchantments struggling to hold weight.
The figure was hunched, limbs nothing more than wrapped stumps of old, scarred flesh. His face, gaunt and pale, eyes long since burned away — yet there was no mistaking the presence that clung to him like a second skin.
Caldus. His grandfather.
Behind him, as if stitched to his shadow, stood the butler — calm, expressionless, hands resting lightly on the chair's handle, though the machine needed no push.
Caldus tilted his head, blind gaze locked in Nerion's direction. The corner of his lip twitched, a ghost of a smile, though his voice was as sharp and clear as it had always been.
"So… you survived and completed the test ."
His words weren't laced with comfort or praise. Just a quiet, knowing weight — the kind only a man like Caldus could carry.
Nerion swallowed hard, the last dregs of confusion slowly burning away under the old man's gaze. His mind still rang with the echo of the stars, the void, the system's cold voice — but here, in the shadow of the shrine, reality finally settled back onto his shoulders.
His grandfather had been waiting. He always was.
Caldus sat there for a long moment, silent, the shrine's damp air filling his lungs as he drew in a slow, steady breath through his nose. The wind carried the scent of wet stone, old roots, blood — and something else.
His scarred face shifted, lips curling into something between a smirk and a frown.
"Hmph… it stinks of new blood. Mana."
His voice cut the air sharp and dry, like a blade dulled from too many wars.
"Why does it smell like you've gone and cracked open both your mana circle and your circuits… after your first test?"
He let the question hang there, heavy and accusing, as if the very thought was too absurd to be true.
Without turning his blind eyes away, Caldus lifted one stump of an arm, signaling with a simple flick of his wrist — the gesture sharp and practiced, even without hands.
"Check him," he ordered flatly.
The butler moved without a word. A man-shaped shadow in fine clothes, his gloves unsoiled even in the dirt of the shrine, he knelt beside Nerion. His touch was cold but precise, two fingers pressed lightly against Nerion's neck — feeling for the pulse.
For a moment, there was only the quiet throb of blood moving under skin, and then the butler's head gave the faintest, almost mechanical, nod.
"Confirmed, my lord," he said, voice calm as ever.
"The boy's heart is moving mana. Both his circle and circuits… are active."
Caldus let out a dry chuckle, though the sound held no real warmth — only the hollow rasp of an old man who'd seen too many things die, including his own hopes.
"You don't even understand the weight of it, do you?"
His head tilted slightly, as if studying Nerion, even though his burned eyes could see nothing.
"Only a handful of souls… a rare few across the kingdoms… who clear the awakening test on their first try get this reward "
The words hung heavy in the cold air, each one steady and sharp.
"The Tower has opened your First Mana Circle and forged the Mana Circuits directly into your body. It will save you from months — even years — of crawling and bleeding your way through the process."
His voice lowered, rough with meaning.
"For most, the real struggle starts after awakening. You have to grind through your body's weakness, strain your soul to mold a circle, carve out the circuits with time, failure, and more pain than you can imagine. Even the rich and powerful, even with high-ranked skills, usually have to fight for it."
Caldus raised his chin slightly, almost like a soldier giving a nod of approval.
"But the Tower gave you a shortcut, boy. It anchored your soul to your body the moment you passed that test. Whether you deserve it or not… you're already several steps ahead of the rest of your generation."
A long, thin pause followed.
"Don't waste it."
The butler remained silent at his side, watching Nerion's pale, blood-smeared face as if weighing his worth.
Caldus let the words settle before adding the last bit, voice lower, almost like a warning rather than advice:
"The Tower doesn't hand out favors for free. Remember that. It might have wanted you to fail by throwing you into an impossible test — but you passed. I remember an old friend of mine… he got the same reward after his first test."
"Ah… those were different times," Nerion's grandfather muttered, his voice low — almost lost in old memories.
"Now, it's time to move forward," Caldus said, his voice firm with the quiet authority of someone who had seen countless paths come and go. "Prepare yourself for the Royal Academy. This house may be old, but it still has a few things left to offer you."
He turned to the butler with a slight gesture, his blind gaze never leaving Nerion.
"Bring the Ember-Rank box," he told his butler, his voice unwavering.
Nerion, still trembling from the overwhelming events, glanced down at himself. His clothes were soaked in blood, and there was something else—dark, viscous liquid clinging to his skin like a second layer, almost unnatural. His mind raced, and a question escaped his lips before he could stop it.
"Grandpa… what is this black substance? And how am I still alive after losing so much blood?" His voice was hoarse, the lingering pain threatening to consume him as he tried to understand what had just happened.
Caldus didn't seem startled. He simply gave a tired, almost dismissive wave. "It's nothing to worry about," he said, his tone as calm and steady as ever. "Just the impurities of your body. They're the remnants of your awakening—residuals left behind from the intense forces at work inside you." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Don't dwell on it. They'll fade, like dust in the wind."
Nerion frowned but didn't argue. The words didn't make sense, but his grandfather's confidence was enough to push the worst of his fears aside. His attention drifted again to the mess on his body, the dark, oily fluid spreading like a stain across his skin. But the mention of "impurities" gave him some reassurance.
"Now," Caldus continued, shifting the focus. "You're not in any immediate danger. But we don't have time to waste. Go to the cupboard in the shrine and take the cirimonial cloths. Wear it, and prepare yourself. The next step requires you to be focused."
Nerion's mind was still clouded with confusion, but he nodded. He stood up slowly, wincing from the lingering pain. The room felt like it was still spinning around him, but he forced himself to move. His grandfather's orders were always clear and final. There was no questioning them.
He walked towards the cupboard, his eyes scanning the items within. In the back, draped in shadows, was the cloth—its dark fabric seemed to pulse with an energy of its own with crest of his family. Then Nerion changed Into it and went back to grandpa and sat in front of him.
"Until Verran brings the box, let me teach you about skills," Caldus said, his tone calm yet commanding.
"Skills?" Nerion asked, brows furrowed. "Like class skills?"
"No," his grandfather replied, shaking his head slowly. "Those are what humans call class traits. They mostly shape the size or form of the vessel. But the skills I'm talking about… are something else entirely."
Nerion's confusion deepened. "So, you mean skills like swordplay or horse riding?"
"No, not like that," Caldus answered, his voice steady. "These skills are similar, but not quite. The skills I'm talking about are designed to exert and refine the form… they show an awakener's full might and power, if used properly."