Inside their dim, weather-worn home, Helen sat shoulder to shoulder with Rowan at the rickety table, her voice soft as she guided him through the tangled maze of his project. Above them, a single lantern buzzed faintly, casting a warm but flickering glow over scattered notes, worn pencils, and the tight furrow etched into Rowan's brow.
"This is all so confusing." Rowan dropped his pencil and slumped back in his chair. "Why does this stuff have to be so damn complicated?"
Helen gave him a patient smile.
"There's a specific order to things, Rowan—and a reason behind it all. Without rules, without structure, more people would die. If you want to become a soldier one day, you have to know this. It's not just knowledge—it's survival."
With a sigh, Rowan picked up his pencil again, his calloused fingers smudging the edges of the paper. He returned to his notes, scrawling down each bit of information his sister gave him.
The motion of his pencil didn't stop until the early hours of morning.
Dawn broke pale and cold as Rowan prepared for the long walk to school. His boots kicked up dust from the packed earth path as he passed through the familiar heart of the village. Around him, life moved with quiet resilience. Café workers unloaded supplies, some using their faint Etherium gifts to lighten the burden. A family shared breakfast at a street vendor's cart, steam rising into the chill air. Two ragged old men nursed their drinks on a bench, trading laughter and hushed worries.
Maybe once I awaken my Etherium, Rowan thought, I'll be shipped off to a better village. This one's getting too crowded anyway.
Finally, he arrived at the gates of Wardhelm Academy—a name that echoed with both prestige and resignation. The grandiose iron gate loomed tall over a courtyard of cracked brick and wild plants reclaiming the concrete. Two men stood at the entrance: one, tall and bearded with a stern expression; the other, short and bald, with tired eyes.
The bald man spotted him and barked,
"Halt, child. This is Wardhelm Academy. Classes are already in session. What's your business here?"
Rowan straightened and replied with a falsely innocent tone,
"Sorry, mister. My name's Rowan Harbinger. I live on the other side of the village, so it takes a while to get here."
The bald man gave a long, annoyed sigh.
"Well, classes have already—"
"Let him through," interrupted the bearded guard.
"You're lucky, kid. Most classes take a while to get moving. But you better hurry—don't get caught late."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
Rowan nodded respectfully and stepped through the gate, entering the timeworn courtyard of Wardhelm Academy.
The campus was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional footsteps of students who had chosen to skip class.
Wardhelm Academy accepted anyone who could afford the tuition, making for a strange blend of discipline and freedom. Young couples often lingered in shadowed hallways, caught up in their own worlds, whispering and laughing. Seeing actual adults, though, was rare—most had far more pressing concerns than sitting in a classroom.
Eventually, Rowan reached one of the large, grey buildings—the outer walls lined with shallow cracks, mismatched repairs, and graffiti no one bothered to paint over. As he stepped inside, a familiar pungent stench hit his nose: a mix of old metal, sweat, and vaguely chemical. He winced, but didn't stop; he was used to it by now. He made his way down the dim hallway, the floor creaking under his boots, then up the worn staircase. At last, he stood before the door to his classroom—the thin, splintering barrier between him and the rest of the crumbling school.
As he pushed the old, splintering door open, it creaked in protest, threatening to snap at any moment. Rowan stepped inside, the faint scent of dust and old wood filling the air. The dim classroom greeted him with its usual disarray: mismatched tables and chairs, each showing signs of wear, and the stage where the professor would normally stand, now empty. The flickering light from a lone, overhead bulb cast uneven shadows across the room, making the place feel even more abandoned than usual.
Rowan made his way to his usual seat near the back, the one with a lopsided leg he always had to balance with a folded scrap of paper. He slumped into the chair and set down his project notes, their edges frayed from wear. Around him, a few other students were scattered across the room—some whispering, others nodding off, all waiting.
Eventually, the classroom door creaked again, and an older man in a faded coat shuffled in. His beard was uneven, and his eyes were lined with exhaustion, as if he hadn't slept in days.
Professor Renwick.
Most students dreamed of becoming high-grade guardians, pushing themselves to rise through the ranks. But the teachers? They were different. Worn down by routine and long past the fire of ambition, most of them were just going through the motions—day in, day out. That lack of drive often showed itself in small ways.
Like showing up late.
Without a word, he dropped a thick binder onto the desk at the front of the room, the thud snapping a few students to attention.
"Right," he said hoarsely, "since most of you can't fight your way out of a wet paper bag yet, we'll be reviewing Etherium theory and combat classifications again, we also have a few students presenting on those subjects today. Pay attention this time. If you get assigned out there and don't know this stuff, you'll die screaming."
Rowan sat up a little straighter, clutching his pencil. The professor moved to the board, grabbing a dried-out marker and scrawling two words across it in blocky letters:
soldier gradestitan Classes
"This," Renwick muttered, underlining the words, "is the only thing standing between you and a monster's jaws."
Rowan's brow furrowed. It was the same lesson Helen had drilled into him the night before, but hearing it now—here, in the classroom—gave it a different weight. Something real.
Professor Renwick began pacing as he spoke, his voice gaining strength.
"There are ten grades that a soldier can be. The higher your saturation, the more you can control Etherium, and the more dangerous you are. Not just to monsters—" he paused, locking eyes with a student in the front row, "—but to everyone around you."
He tapped the board.
"Most of you here will be lucky to hit Grade 2. If you ever reach Grade 4, you'll be assigned to a strike team and sent to the outskirts. Grade 6? You'll face down Calamity-class titan. But don't dream too big.
Rowan's pencil slowed. That word again—Nullborn. It echoed in his head like a dare.
Renwick turned to a different part of the board and began sketching the silhouette of a hulking, four-armed beast.
"titan. You'll hear it thrown around, but they're not all the same. Ravagers, Devastators, Calamities, Catastrophes, and... the ones beyond that. Each one smells Etherium—especially from you lot once you awaken. The more you glow, the faster they come."
A hush fell over the room. Rowan swallowed.
'Is that what'll happen to me?' he wondered. 'Will I draw them here?'
The professor set the marker down.
"There's a reason villages get thinned out. A reason we ship people away. You concentrate too much Etherium in one place, you don't get another warning. You just get a pile of corpses"
Silence stretched across the room like fog.
"But anyway," Professor Renwick continued, brushing chalk dust from his coat, "we have two short presentations scheduled today—one on the soldier grades, and the other on the Titan ranks. If you're presenting, go ahead and raise your hand."
Rowan lifted his hand, as did a girl seated near the middle of the classroom.
Renwick blinked in mild surprise, eyes narrowing slightly as he adjusted his glasses."Oh? Rowan? I didn't even realize you were here today. You're usually off somewhere, perfecting the art of skipping class."
A wave of quiet chuckles rippled through the room.
Rowan felt heat rise in his cheeks and lowered his gaze, doing his best to ignore the snickers around him.
"Uh, good morning, everyone," he started, trying to make his voice as clear as possible. He shifted his papers a little. "My presentation today is about the Soldier Grades, or how soldiers are ranked based on their abilities, skills, and accomplishments. There are 9 Soldier Grades in total, and each one is important for different levels of combat and leadership. The grades are ranked from 1 to 9, with 1 being the lowest and 9 being the highest."
He cleared his throat and started with the first grade:
"Grade 1 is the entry level. Soldiers at this rank are the most common, with over a 500,000 known individuals. They have minimal Etherium saturation and can only perform basic duties, typically involving support roles in combat. These soldiers can engage in reconnaissance or patrol missions, but they cannot face titans by themselves."
"Grade 2 soldiers are a step above, with around 250,000 known individuals. An experienced group of Grade 2 soldiers can take on Class 1 titan, which are relatively dangerous but not as catastrophic as higher-class monsters. They can operate in squads to deal with these threats, though they still lack the strength to engage solo."
"At Grade 3, there are only around 50,000 known individuals. These soldiers are skilled enough to form small groups or in some cases engage Class 1 titans solo, though they are still far from the top. They're more experienced and capable in combat, often sent out on missions that require precision and teamwork."
"Grade 4 soldiers number about 10,000. An experienced group of Grade 4 soldiers can take on Class 2 titans, which are significantly more powerful and dangerous. They've trained for years, honing their skills to the point where they can handle larger threats in coordinated groups."
"At Grade 5, there are around 3,000 soldiers. These soldiers are highly skilled and capable of taking on Class 2 titans either solo or in small, specialized groups. Their Etherium control is solid, allowing them to handle increasingly dangerous monsters."
"Grade 6 soldiers are few, with only about 500 individuals known. They can take on Class 3 titans in groups. These monsters are incredibly dangerous, capable of causing widespread destruction. Grade 6 soldiers are elite warriors, often deployed for the most crucial and difficult missions."
"At Grade 7, there are only 50 individuals. These soldiers are strong enough to face Class 3 titans alone. Their Etherium mastery allows them to fight the most dangerous creatures the world has to offer. They're often leaders in combat, respected for their ability to take on large-scale threats by themselves."
"Grade 8 soldiers are practically legends. There are only three known individuals at this rank, and they are capable of handling Class 4 titans in groups. These monsters are near-apocalyptic in scale, capable of devastating entire cities. Cataclysm soldiers are the best of the best, entrusted with humanity's most perilous tasks."
"Grade 9 is the pinnacle. Only one soldier is known to have reached this rank, and they can take on Class 4 titans solo. Their Etherium saturation and control are beyond anything humanity has ever seen. These soldiers are humanity's last hope against the worst possible threats. Their presence alone is enough to turn the tide of any battle."
As Rowan spoke, a faint hum of Etherium echoed through the walls of the classroom, unnoticed by the students but not by the world beyond. Outside, far off past the safety of the academy walls, something stirred in the mist—drawn by the soft, growing hum of Etherium. The sense of calm within the academy was at odds with the growing tension just beyond its borders, where the Etherium trail called out like a beacon to something far darker.