The lecture hall erupted into a chaotic buzz of excited voices as students spilled into the corridor. The profound weight of Ironwood's history lesson had already transformed into fuel for wild speculation and grandiose dreams among my peers.
Wren's voice rose above the din, as it often did. He had vaulted onto a low stone bench near the corridor's edge, striking what he clearly believed to be an heroic pose. "The Orb of Storms is obviously meant for me!" he declared to anyone who would listen, jabbing a finger toward the vaulted ceiling. "It will sense my unparalleled agility and descend from a lightning cloud directly into my waiting hands!"
His performance earned a derisive snort from a cluster of students adorned with the subtle sigils of prominent noble houses. A tall boy with impeccably coiffed hair spoke with cultivated disdain. "Dream on, commoner. Divine artifacts seek bloodline purity and refined mana control. They won't settle for a street-rat's chaotic spark. They are the birthright of those bred to lead."
I tuned out their bickering, my attention drawn back into the emptying lecture hall. Cain remained seated, isolated in a sea of vacant chairs, as if the simple effort of standing required more strength than he could muster. His posture was less broken than it had been on the training grounds, but a profound exhaustion seemed to anchor him to the spot.
Navigating between the departing students, I approached his row. "Hey," I said, my voice low enough not to startle him.
He glanced up, his eyes clearer than before but still shadowed by grief. "Adam."
"My squad is heading to the cafeteria," I said, the offer feeling both awkward and necessary. "You should come with us."
Before he could formulate a response, my gaze drifted over his shoulder and landed on Chris, who was leaning casually against the far wall. He wasn't watching Cain; his eyes were locked on me, a knowing, triumphant smirk plastered across his face. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod of approval.
Cain let out a slow, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of weeks. It wasn't a sound of happiness, but neither was it one of refusal. It was the sound of someone too tired to keep fighting every offered hand. "Alright," he acquiesced quietly, pushing himself to his feet. "Lunch... sounds acceptable."
The academy cafeteria was a vast, bustling hall with high, vaulted ceilings supported by stone arches. Sunlight streamed through great stained-glass windows depicting legendary battles and mythic beasts, casting colorful patterns on the long wooden tables below. The air hummed with conversation and clattered with trays, rich with the aroma of hearty stew and freshly baked bread.
We found a table near a window illustrating the sealing of Aethelgard, the vibrant glass making the Primordial's sacrifice feel strangely immediate. The atmosphere around our group was palpably stiff, the usual easy camaraderie strained by Cain's presence.
True to form, Wren was the first to break the silence, his curiosity overpowering social awkwardness. "So, the big Primordial story," he began, leaning forward over his bowl of stew. "You're from a major noble house. Are there, like, secret family legends about that stuff? Things Ironwood didn't tell us?"
Cain stared at the polished wood grain of the table for a long moment before answering. "There are older records," he said, his voice low and measured. "They speak less poetically of a 'Dragon King' and more terrifyingly of the 'Great Silence' that ceased. The event was... less glorious in those accounts." He looked up, meeting Wren's eager gaze. "My family's founder witnessed it. His journal described it as watching the world being unmade and remade by a grieving god."
A sober quiet fell over our table, the grandiose tale from class gaining a sharp, horrific edge.
Lira, meticulously picking at a piece of grilled fowl, was the next to speak. "Do you actually believe it?" she asked, her tone pragmatic. "That the artifacts truly choose their wielders based on some inherent worth?"
Cain's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I don't just believe it; I know it. Historical record confirms it. Of the seven artifacts given to our world, only two have ever been recorded to select a wielder." He took a slow drink of water. "The first was Silverbough, the living bow. It was claimed by an Elven huntress during the founding of Eldarathia. The second was Aethelbrand, the great sword."
He paused, gathering his thoughts as we listened, captivated. "Several generations after the sacrifice, as new powers rose from the ambient mana, humanity began fracturing. The kingdom was crumbling into warring factions, each pulling further from the crown. A minor lord, Alaric, reached out in a moment of desperate hope for unity, not conquest. It was then that Aethelbrand accepted him. The blade didn't conquer lands; it conquered hearts. With it in his hand, he brought every dissenting lord and scattered tribe under a single banner, not through fear, but through the undeniable truth the artifact represented. It was the sword's choice that forged a true kingdom from the chaos."
The table descended into a deep, contemplative silence. The abstract concept of divine artifacts had suddenly become tangible, their power to shape history undeniable.
The conversation slowly thawed from there. Raven posed a technical question about the theories of post-Event mana dispersion, and Cain answered with a surprising depth of knowledge, revealing a sharp, educated mind usually shrouded by grief. Kael remained typically silent, but his observant gaze was no longer guarded.
As we cleared our trays and stepped out of the cafeteria, the afternoon sun felt warmer on my skin. Our groups parted ways with simple, quiet nods, a ceasefire firmly, if tentatively, established. Cain headed toward the library, a semblance of purpose in his step.
The moment I found myself alone, walking the tree-lined path toward the dorms, a profound shift occurred within my chest. The dormant heat of the Dragon Soul Ignition surged, not with pain, but with a profound sense of finality, as if a cosmic key had turned in a lock deep within my being. The world seemed to sharpen, the flow of ambient mana becoming a faintly visible, shimmering tapestry at the edge of my perception. Then, a notification, etched in brilliant, ancient gold, burned before my eyes:
Soul Ignition Complete.
Dragon King's Legacy Awaiting.
Reach Level 10 to Access.
The message seared itself into my consciousness before I stopped walking, drawing a steadying breath. So, this was the path. Not just a skill, but a legacy waiting to be claim And now, for the first time, I knew the price of entry