Steel whistled in a cross-cut arc, a sound as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. Left sword high, right sword low, I pivoted on the ball of my foot, the holographic drones in the academy training facility scattering before the feint. My world had shrunk to the twenty-meter circle of the advanced combat deck, the hum of the containment field a constant drone in my ears. My muscles burned, a pleasant, familiar fire that grounded me. In five days, this would not be a simulation. In five days, it would be the Void Realm.
Five days.
The thought was a splinter in my mind, impossible to ignore. I let it fuel me, pushing my body faster. The twin short swords were extensions of my arms, their polished alloy blades flashing under the stark white light. They were perfectly balanced, their grips worn to the shape of my hands. I'd named them, a foolish, private sentimentality for a prince who should be above such things. The one in my right hand was Resolve; the one in my left, Remembrance.
I lunged, Resolve leading the way to parry a simulated strike from a drone, while Remembrance swept in from below in a disarming maneuver. The drone flickered and dissolved into pixels. Another immediately took its place, and I was moving again, a dance of blades and body. My fifteen-year-old frame, lean but corded with muscle earned through years of this exact ritual, responded with a will of its own. My blond hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat, and I knew if I caught my reflection, my amber eyes would be narrowed in a focus so sharp it could cut.
This was the only place where the titles didn't matter. Where I wasn't Adam Gray, Sixth Prince of the Aurora Monarchcy, Count of some forgotten parcel of land. Here, I was just a body in motion, preparing for the one event that would define my entire future: the Path Trial.
My mind wandered, even as my body fought. Five thousand years. The history modules played in my head, a litany of catastrophe and rebirth. Earth, 2129. A planet gasping its last, strangled by overpopulation and resource wars. Then, the First Void Impact. The world didn't end; it… unfolded. For four months, the very fabric of reality fractured. Continents surged from the oceans, landmasses expanded, and impossible resources crystallized in newborn mountains. It was as if the universe itself had decided to grant a dying patient a new, sprawling body, without any instructions on how to live in it.
The next seventy-two years were the Bloody Genesis, a chaotic storm of wars waged to claim the new lands. When the dust settled, two super-continents remained, two pillars of a new world: Aurora, which embraced the old order of Monarchy to forge stability, and Pastella, which opted for a messy, mixed system of governance. Our borders were drawn, a fragile peace settled, and for a brief moment, they thought they had won.
They were wrong.
The Second Impact came not as a fracturing, but an invasion. Portals, tears in the sky, vomited forth creatures from nightmares. The Beasts of the Void. Our weapons, the bullets and bombs of the old world, were useless against the more powerful entities—those now designated as Rank 5 and above. Humanity was brought to its knees, on the verge of being erased from the world it had just reclaimed.
And then, we found our answer. The Paths.
Somehow, through the Trials in the Void Realm, humans could awaken to power. A specific ritual, a convergence of will and the strange physics of the Void, could grant an individual a Path—a defined arc of power with unique abilities. It was our only sword and shield against the darkness. We fought back, we rebuilt, but at a cost. So much history was lost in those desperate centuries. The old countries—America, China, Russia, all of them—were not just forgotten; they were betrayed. Their histories were edited, scrubbed, or left to rot in the name of unifying under the new Monarchies. No one knows the true details of the Third to the Fifth Impact Eras; the official records are clean, sanitized things, and that cleanliness itself is a confession of lies.
A drone swooped low, jolting me from my thoughts. I dropped into a slide, the deck floor cool against my back, and crossed my blades above me. A shriek of metal on energy, and the drone was deflected. I rolled to my feet, my breath coming in sharp gasps. This was why the Path Trial was everything. Without a Path, you were nothing. A bystander in a world that demanded heroes. A prince without power was a pawn, or worse, a corpse.
My alarm chimed, a soft, insistent tone that cut through the din of my training. The holographic drones froze and then winked out of existence.
"Session complete," a neutral AI voice announced. "Physiological metrics recorded. Efficiency rating: 92.7%."
I deactivated the blades, the hum dying away, and slid them into the sheaths on my back. The sudden silence was deafening. Theory class. Another hour of listening to Professors drone on about Void Ecology and Path Dynamics while I counted the seconds until I could train again.
I grabbed a towel from a bench, wiping the sweat from my face and neck. As I did, my fingers brushed against the faint, almost invisible line of a scar on my collarbone—a reminder of a childhood "sparring session" with my third brother. He was a Viscount, two places above me in the line of succession, and he'd made sure I knew it. My siblings, the twenty-three legitimate and high-born children of my father, the King, were a nest of vipers. We weren't outright hostile; that would be uncouth. Instead, we traded barbs wrapped in courtesy and promises veiled in threats. I was the sixth son, but my mother was a concubine, a fact that hung over me like a shroud, no matter the Count subtitle my royal blood afforded me.
The nobility system of Aurora was a pyramid of power and prestige, each rank a stepping stone—or a stumbling block. I knew the list by heart, had recited it since I could talk, knowing exactly where my place was in its grand, oppressive scheme:
1. Baronet / Baronetess
2. Baron / Baroness
3. Viscount / Viscountess
4. Count / Countess ← That's me. Adam Gray, Count of nothing in particular.
5. Earl (an alternative to Count, often used for royal-blooded children like me, but it meant the same)
6. Marquis / Marchioness
7. Duke / Duchess
8. Grand Duke / Grand Duchess
9. Archduke / Archduchess
10. Prince / Princess ← My older siblings with more influential mothers.
11. Crown Prince / Crown Princess
12. King / Queen
13. High Sovereign
And at the very top, for now, was my father, the King. And just below him, the sun around which our entire court orbited: my eldest brother, Crown Prince Valerius.
Valerius. At twenty, he was already a Rank 3 Bladewalker. The speed of his ascension was a topic of whispered awe and naked fear throughout the palace. Most took a decade to reach that height, if they were lucky and survived the inherent madness that came with power. He had done it in five years. He was the golden child, the heir apparent, and he was not very much liked by any of us, his siblings. How could you like a living monument to your own inadequacy? His success was a shadow that stretched long and dark, and we were all scrambling in the dim light it allowed us.
I pulled on my academy jacket, the dark blue fabric embroidered with the silver crest of the Royal House of Gray—a stylized eagle clutching a lightning bolt. It was meant to signify swift, decisive power. To me, it often felt like a brand.
Leaving the training facility, I stepped out into the main thoroughfare of the Royal Aethelgard Academy. The air changed instantly, from the sterile, ionized smell of the combat decks to the scent of polished marble and growing things. The academy was a city in miniature, a testament to the advanced tech we had managed to salvage and rebuild. Holographic announcements flickered in the air, showing campus news and, inevitably, propaganda reels of Crown Prince Valerius's latest triumphs against the Void Beasts. Gliding transports hummed silently along designated air lanes between soaring towers of white stone and synth-steel.
I kept my head down, weaving through the crowds of students. I saw the looks. Some were curious, some dismissive, some openly resentful. The concubine's son. The sixth prince. A title of Count was nothing to sneeze at for a common noble, but here, in the heart of the royal family's power, it was a marker of lesser status.
"Brother Adam! A moment, if you please?"
I stopped, closing my eyes for a second to compose my face into a mask of neutral politeness before turning. It was Elara, my fourth sister. A Princess, of course. Her mother was a Duchess in her own right. She was dressed in immaculate white and gold, her smile as sharp as a honed blade.
"Sister Elara," I nodded. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She fell into step beside me, her pace leisurely. "I was just observing your training session from the viewing gallery. So… vigorous. One might think you were preparing for a war, not a simple Path Trial."
"It is the Trial that allows us to fight the war, sister," I replied, my voice even. "Vigilance seems a small price."
"Of course," she purred. "But one must also remember their station. A Count, and a sixth son at that, straining so… it can seem a little desperate. You know you will be granted a Path regardless. Why not leave the heroics to those better positioned? Like our dear Crown Prince."
There it was. The gentle reminder of my place, wrapped in false concern. I could feel the weight of my swords on my back, a comforting pressure.
"Admiration for the Crown Prince does not preclude one from personal diligence," I said, quoting a line from one of our father's countless speeches. "I merely seek to be an asset to the Monarchcy."
Her smile tightened at the edges. "How commendably dutiful. Well, I shan't keep you from your theory class. I'm sure it's terribly important for you. Do try not to overexert yourself before the Trial. It would be a shame if you… stumbled."
With a final, sugary-sweet smile, she glided away, leaving me with a cold knot in my stomach. Stumbled. In the context of the Void Realm, that was not a metaphor. It was a death sentence, or worse, the fate of awakening a useless, random Path because your will wasn't strong enough to control the ritual.
The theory classroom was a vast, amphitheater-style hall. Holographic projectors hung from the ceiling, currently displaying a complex diagram of a Void Beast's energy signature. I took my seat near the back, ignoring the few students who glanced my way.
Professor Krane, a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars and older wisdom, stood at the podium. He was a retired Path-wielder, a Rank 4 of the Path of the Sentinel. His voice was a gravelly rumble that commanded attention.
"...the initial ritual is paramount," he was saying. "The six runes are not merely inscribed on your skin; they are a conduit. They are written in the language of the Void itself, a plea and a command. Your focus, your intent, your very identity in that moment will determine which Path answers your call."
The main hologram shifted to show six glowing symbols hovering around a human silhouette.
"Through a catered ritual—specific incantations, materials, and mental disciplines—you can call a specific Path. The Path of the Bladewalker, for instance, requires a blade that has drawn blood, a focus on motion, and a recitation of the Oath of the Unbreaking Edge." The image showed a figure moving with impossible speed, a blur of steel. My brother's Path.
"But," Krane's voice lowered, "if your will wavers, if your ritual is imperfect, or if you attempt it without preparation, the Void will decide for you. You may get a random Path. It may be weak. It may be powerful but incompatible with your spirit, driving you mad. Or, in the rarest and most terrible of cases, the Path may… consume you, leaving behind a Hollow, a puppet for the Void's will."
A nervous silence filled the room. This was the gamble we all faced.
"The runes will remain on your skin," he continued, "a permanent marker of your bond. They will glow when you channel your Path's power. They are both your greatest weapon and your most visible vulnerability. Guard them."
My mind raced. My ritual. I had spent months preparing for it, studying the Path of the Phantom Blade. It was a rare Path, one of misdirection and swift, silent strikes. It suited my dual swords, my fighting style. The ritual required absolute silence, a state of perfect calm amidst controlled chaos, and the use of mirrored shards to refract one's own presence. I had practiced the meditative techniques until my mind ached.
But the fear was always there. What if I failed? What if I got a random Path? What if I became nothing?
The rest of the lecture passed in a blur of energy densities, Void Realm topography, and historical Battle-Path synergies. When the chime finally dismissed us, I was the first out of my seat.
I didn't head to the refectory or the common areas. I walked, my feet carrying me on a familiar path through the royal gardens, toward the residential wings of the academy reserved for the royal family. My quarters were spacious but sparsely decorated. A bed, a desk, a weapons rack. On the desk, next to a data-slate filled with Path theories, was the only personal item I kept on display: a small, tarnished locket. It was a relic, they said, from the Pre-Impact era. It didn't open, its secrets sealed shut by time. But it was a tangible link to the world that was betrayed, the history everyone else had forgotten. It was my reminder of Remembrance.
I placed Resolve and Remembrance carefully on their rack. The evening sun, filtered through the polarized window, cast long shadows across the room. In five days, I would step into the Void Realm. I would perform the ritual. The six runes would be seared onto my skin, and my fate would be decided.
I was Adam Gray, Sixth Prince, Count of a forgotten land, son of a betrayed world. I was overlooked, dismissed, and pitied.
But in five days, I would have a Path. And then, everything would change.
I looked at my reflection in the polished surface of my sword, my blond hair messy, my amber eyes burning with a fire I kept hidden from the world.
"Just five days," I whispered to the silence.