"What is there left to seek, Grandma? I've lost enough to know that family is what truly matters."
A young man's voice echoes through pitch darkness.
"I can't leave you here. I have no one else..."
A dim light flickers, just enough to reveal a frail hand resting on the young man's shoulder. It squeezes softly.
"Can you really know what you have—or haven't—lost," the old woman whispers, "if you stay chained to this place? To me?"
"And if I go..." the young man interrupts, "will I even have you to return to? Or will you be gone... all for the sake of what? Power?"
Her voice hardens.
"You speak as if you have a choice. Soon, you'll face those whose will can shatter everything you love. Those who can take it all from you in the blink of an eye."
She pauses.
"Choice, my child, is a luxury reserved only for those with power."
The young man responds with a worried glance. "I barely made it through combat academy. You think the forge will flare up for me—that I can really wield Elementum?"
The dim light suddenly shines brighter, revealing the old woman's face. But instead of wrinkles and worn skin, her face radiates youth and beauty—a woman in her mid-twenties, silver hair flowing in waves down to her torso, harmonizing with the gleam of a silver amulet embedded with a royal-like emblem around her neck. Her hands, once frail and weathered, are now soft, youthful, and full of life.
With a voice that is suddenly melodic and enchanting, she speaks. "I have put all my faith in you, my lovely grandson. You carry both wills: the will to burn, and the will to extinguish." Her glowing face softens into a warm, gentle smile. "I wonder—which of those will overpower the other?"
The young man's voice rises in utter shock. "Grandma! What is happening to you?! Answer me!"
The young man's eyelids snap open, his exhale sharp with shock and a blend of unexplored emotions. But the tension in his posture quickly fades as he's met with a beautiful scene—and the realization that what he saw was only a dream.
Like a poorly built swing, his body rocks back and forth in rhythm with the wagon wheels jolting over cobblestones. A cloud of dust escapes beneath him, rising through the spokes and revealing a city of bustling merchants, guards, and a sea of noble carriages—their elegance a stark contrast to the plain, worn wagon he currently occupies.
"Finally awake, young man?" a raspy voice cuts through the ambient noise. Cael, unaware of another passenger, jerks his head to the left.
"Oh, don't let this old man scare you. I'm just hitching a ride," the stranger adds with a crooked smile.
The old man—whose body seems to have outrun the curse of old age—edges closer, his friendly expression partly obscured by long silver strands of hair. "A young man in his early twenties. Fit and strong. You've got the look of a warrior. Let me guess—heading off to the Great Forge?"
Cael's gaze drops to the cobblestones beneath him, cut through by wagon wheels. His dark brown eyes are vacant, and his tone is distant. "Yes, sir."
The old man squints. "And yet there's restlessness in you—instead of ambition."
Cael lifts his eyes to meet the old man's. Strands of silver and dark violet shimmer through his unkempt hair, catching the light like threads of starlight and shadow. "Tell me, sir… since you're older and far more experienced than me—what is the purpose of power? Why chase after it and waste precious years away from what really matters?"
The old man smiles playfully as he straightens his posture.
"So, you're not just a brat after all. There are brains behind that skull of yours. Very well… let's see here."
As he shifts, his left hand — thick with old burns and faded battle scars — grips the edge of the cart like a soldier might grip a shield. His right hand moves towards his pocket, revealing a long, pale scar on his forearm, curved like a crescent moon — or a fang.
He digs through his coat, then pulls out a small stone glowing with a soft purple hue and places it in the empty space between them.
"The infamous element that came from the skies, as I'm sure you've heard — a miracle that enhances every non-living thing it touches. Stone becomes sturdier, metal grows stronger, what's elastic stretches farther, what's sharp cuts deeper. Every single feature of anything that makes contact with Elementum is enhanced. It became the backbone of our future. Naturally, every toolmaker who could get their hands on one of these," he nodded at the stone, "would craft almost everything with it."
He leans in, his voice lowering.
"But it didn't stop there. Many tried to merge it with the living… but none succeeded."
As the cart turns a bend, two colossal stone figures come into view, looming above the market — knights cast in mid-stride, one with a longsword raised high, glowing faintly purple, the other with his blade pointed down, dull and untouched.
"And here they are. Talk about perfect timing!" The old man laughs, wide and loud.
Cael leans forward, eyeing the statues.
"I know this story. It's a well-known history lesson back in my hometown. This represents the clash between the kingdom's top two royal knights in the annual tournament — the first time Elementum revealed something no one expected."
The old man barks a laugh.
"A tournament, is it? That's what they're calling it now? Hah! Leave it to the royals to bury the truth and call it history…"
He waves the thought away.
"But that's not what I'm here to debate, young man. Tell me — what do you really know about this so-called fight between the knights?"
Squinting his eyes and retrieving the memory, Cael looks toward the corner of the wagon.
"Both knights clashed relentlessly, and a winner seemed certain. But then the tide of battle shifted. The losing knight created distance, stepping just outside his opponent's reach, and slashed his sword through the air. Everyone watched in awe as a purple arc of energy surged from the blade—cutting the other knight down. It was the first time Elementum showed its true colors. What was born on that day was not just a technological enhancement, it was…"
"A bond between man and Elementum." The old man grins, continuing Cael's sentence, "One that changed history forever. From that moment, the battlefield was no longer decided by quantity, by numbers—but by will. By quality."
He taps the Elementum stone twice.
"So, tell me, young man… what is Elementum to you?"
"I haven't figured that out yet." Cael eyes the stone, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Then let me help you," the old man says, pointing to Cael's chest. "Elementum is an extension of one's will. A true bond between man and Elementum allows your will to become reality."
Cael's voice lowers. "And what if my will is simply to be present with the people I love? What use is Elementum then?"
The old man's smile fades slightly. "And can you guarantee that another man's will won't clash with yours? What will you do then? In the end, the one who can manifest their will more clearly… will write the future."
He pauses, his eyes distant now, as if reflecting on something long past.
"Are you strong in spirit—sturdy enough to win such a battle? Or will you end up a forgotten ghost of the past?"
Suddenly, the horses neigh and the wagon begins to slow, easing to a full stop.
Before them stands a massive gate that swallows the view. Towering dark walls stretch toward the sky like a royal fortress. This is no mere school—it is a pillar of the kingdom itself. Just one glance reveals its significance, its weight. Noble families across the realm fight tooth and nail for even a whisper of influence within these walls.
Five enormous banners cascade down the stone façade, each bearing a different noble crest—distinct in color and sigil. But at the center hangs the Kingdom's own, larger than all the rest. Beneath them, glowing in Elementum purple, are the college's name and motto:
"Elementa Crucible: We are forged, not born."
The old man stretches his limbs and gestures ahead.
"Well, young man… here's your stop. Show the world your will is strong enough to light the Great Forge."
Stepping out of the wagon, Cael's figure is dwarfed by the towering structure before him. The sheer height and scale of the academy cast a long shadow, one that makes him feel momentarily small. He pauses, taking in the grandeur of the great institution, before moving forward toward a stationed academy officer.
The man nods without breaking eye contact, his face as stern as carved stone.
"Papers, please," he says in a rigid, deep voice.
Cael retrieves two stapled sheets from his satchel and hands them over.
The officer takes them, his hands practiced and efficient. "Full name and age?"
"Cael Scindar," Cael replies, enunciating clearly. "Nineteen."
"Parents?" the officer asks, glancing between the papers and Cael's face.
"Deceased," Cael says, as if it's a line he's said many times before.
The officer's eyes skim the pages. "Any guests accompanying you?"
Cael's gaze slips past him, through the grand doors of the academy's main hall. His shoulders square, and there's a sharpened edge in his voice now.
"I'm alone."
The officer nods, stamps the papers with a heavy thud, and hands them back.
"Your combat academy scores qualify you for the Forge. Walk straight ahead for ten minutes—you'll know when you've arrived."
Cael nods silently and begins to move.
With each step, an invisible weight settles deeper into his chest.
I didn't even want this… so why am I the one who's nervous? he mutters under his breath.
The walk feels longer than it should. The academy is alive with history—its vast halls and branching corridors speak of ancient traditions and deeply rooted prestige. Every wall whispers of something different, every turn reveals a new world. Murals, towering statues, ancient weapons sealed behind crystal glass—this place is more than a school; it's a monument.
Ten minutes pass.
And then comes the shift.
A subtle hum in the air grows louder. Distant noises swell—cheering, shouting, the unmistakable energy of a crowd. The sound grows heavier, pushing against his chest like a pounding drum. With every step closer, his heartbeat aligns with the rising roar.
And then he sees it—a massive door that stretches high above any man, its presence almost sacred.
Cael takes a breath, plants his feet, and throws his weight into the door. It creaks open with effort.
And behind it… the source of the ruckus is revealed.
This isn't a test—it's a full-blown celebration.
Bands perform live music. Stalls bustle with vendors selling food, trinkets, and artifacts. Games and challenges draw crowds of laughing participants. Royal families move together in groups, their colors and crests worn proudly like declarations of power.
"What is going on here?" Cael mutters, his eyes flicking across the sensory overload, unable to settle on any one thing. Awe dances across his face.
I never imagined the Forge Trial would look like this.
A band of saxophone players lines the sides of a wide, carved entrance—a grand staircase etched deep into the earth. On cue, they erupt into a noble, majestic fanfare. The music swells, clearing a path as five young men and women—each wearing robes with the same distinctive crest—stride between the musicians, descending slowly, solemnly, into the shadowy depths.
As they vanish down the staircase, swallowed by the earth, the band halts and breaks formation. The sudden silence feels deafening.
Cael stares at the steps.
Fear flares behind his eyes. Determination follows.
He steps forward.
The descent begins.
Purple Elementum torchlights flicker rhythmically, casting strange shadows along the walls. The stairs spiral endlessly downward, the noise of the world above fading with each step, replaced by the steady pounding of Cael's heart. The lights guide him like a glowing carpet, a corridor preparing him for something sacred—something final.
Five minutes of descent through the violet spiral is enough to blur one's vision, enough to unravel even the steadiest of nerves. But finally, the path opens.
And what it reveals steals the breath from Cael's lungs.
A vast chamber unfurls before him—so massive it could hold every soul above ground and still feel empty. And that's exactly who fills it. The audience stretches endlessly, seated like silent watchers—thousands upon thousands of citizens, nobles, soldiers, guild leaders, and foreign ambassadors. This is not merely a school ceremony. This is the defining spectacle of the kingdom's future.
The Forge Trials.
Above, a maze of white and violet lines splits across the ceiling like divine etchings, illuminating the space below with reverence. All of it leads to the centerpiece—the Forge itself.
A colossal construct of pure Elementum, ten meters long, five meters wide. It radiates ancient heat, timeless power. This is the crucible. The source of victory or ruin. To some, a symbol of glory—to others, the ashes of unattainable dreams.
Cael stands motionless, clutching his papers as if they might anchor him to reality.
A hand touches his shoulder.
He flinches.
A calm voice whispers in his ear, cutting through the thunder of the crowd. "You made it just in time, before the trial closes."
He turns to see a female officer beside him, recognizing him by the papers in his grip.
His expression shifts to shock. "I'm this late?"
She hands him a small slip of parchment. "We're closing in ten minutes. Here's your number—wait until it's called."
Cael looks down.
Contestant No. 9941.