Aerin's feet were bleeding before he even reached the main road.
He didn't stop. The slums faded behind him as the sky somehow turned more blue. His toes left red prints on the cobblestones-small at first, then smearing as the wounds tore open with each step.
His stomach had stopped hurting two days ago. Now, there was just a hollow numbness, a cold void that made the world spin if he turned his head too fast.
"Just two more hours."
The original Aerin's body knew this path. Muscle memory guided him even when exhaustion blurred his vision. He turned left at the broken fountain, moved through the silent market square, and entered the Merchant District.
The city changed in layers. Rotting wood became painted stone. The stench of waste and stagnant water gave way to the smell of fresh bread and lavender.
But the biggest change was the eyes.
In the slums, people looked through you. Here, they looked at you.
A merchant rolling up his stall shutters froze. He took in Aerin's rags, the mud, the hollow cheeks. He didn't speak, just spat on the ground in front of Aerin's path.
Aerin stepped around the saliva without a word.
"Just a little further."
The sun broke over the eastern hills, and Arcanis Sanctum erupted into view.
Five white towers pierced the sky like spears thrown by gods. Blue banners snapped in the wind from heights that made his neck ache. The walls were ancient, covered in shifting runes that made his eyes water with strain.
Iwas impossible. Beautiful. Structures like this didn't exist on Earth.
"This is real," he whispered, his throat dry. "I made it."
The main gate stood open. A stone bridge stretched across the moat, wide enough for ten carriages. Students were already crossing-hundreds of them in pristine robes, carrying grimoires bound in fresh leather that smelled of money and magic.
Aerin joined the flow. But he stood out.
The girl beside him glanced down, saw the blood on his feet, and recoiled. A group of friends went silent as he passed, their laughter dying in their throats.
Halfway across the bridge, a shoulder slammed into him-Hard.
Aerin's ribs screamed. He stumbled, hands slapping against the cold stone railing to stop himself from falling into the dark water below.
"Watch where you're going, stray."
Aerin looked up.
A boy, perhaps seventeen. Red and gold robes—expensive silk. Three friends stood behind him, wearing the same entitled smirk.
Aerin straightened slowly. "I'm walking in a straight line."
"You're walking in my air," the boy sneered. He looked Aerin up and down. "No shoes? No bath? Gods, you smell like a corpse that walked out of its grave."
The boy's eyes dropped to the bundle under Aerin's arm. "Is that your grimoire? Wrapped in garbage? Did you steal it?"
Under the cloak,Sangreal's heartbeat surged against Aerin's ribs.
Thump-THUMP.
Detailed, angry, and violent.
Not yet, Aerin thought, clutching the bundle tighter. Not here.
"Nothing to say?" The boy laughed. "I heard they hunted the Arclights like dogs. Looks like they missed a mutt."
He shoulder-checked Aerin again, harder this time. Aerin's breath hitched, but he didn't fall. He watched them walk away.
Aerin's face remained blank, but his hands shook so hard he had to clench them into fists.
"Breathe. You've survived death. You can survive a brat in silk pajamas."
***
The courtyard was packed.
Students clustered in groups, showing off. A girl conjured a flame that danced between her fingers. A boy raised a pillar of earth. Magic crackled in the air, heavy and intoxicating.
Aerin stayed in the deepest shadow of the wall.
"ATTENTION."
The voice cut through the noise like a guillotine. Every conversation died.
A man stood on a raised platform. Tall, thin, wearing dark blue robes with silver trim. His hair was grey, but his face looked disturbingly young. His eyes swept the crowd with the boredom of a butcher looking at cattle.
"I am Examiner Veld," he said, his voice amplified by wind magic. "You are here for the admission trials. Most of you will fail."
Silence ripples through the crowd.
"Arcanis Sanctum does not accept talented students. We accept monsters There is a difference." Veld's eyes seemed to linger on the shadows where Aerin stood. "Your trial is simple. Combat assessment. Prove you deserve to exist."
A boy with golden hair raised a hand. "Sir, what if we lose?"
Veld looked at him. "Then you leave. Or you die. We have a good infirmary, but we don't perform miracles."
He pointed to a massive archway. "I will call names. When you are called, you enter. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Examiner!" hundreds of voices chanted.
Veld unrolled a scroll.
Aerin waited.
He waited as the sun climbed higher. He waited as students walked in confident and were carried out on stretchers. He waited as his hunger turned from a dull ache to a sharp, twisting agony.
The courtyard emptied.
Finally, when the sun was directly overhead, Veld looked at the bottom of the list. He frowned.
"Aerin... Valefor Arclight."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Heads turned. Whispers hissed through the remaining crowd like steam.
"Arclight?"
"I thought they were all dead."
"The Crimson Emperor's line?"
"Why is he allowed here?"
Aerin stepped forward. The crowd parted-not out of respect, but out of disgust, as if his poverty might be contagious.
He walked toward the platform, leaving bloody footprints on the pristine white stone.
Examiner Veld watched him approach. "You're the last one," Veld said softly. He didn't look at Aerin's rags. He looked at his eyes. "Your opponent waits inside. Go."
Aerin entered the tunnel.
It was cool and dark. Blue crystals embedded in the walls cast a sickly light. Under his cloak, Sangreal woke up.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Hungry?Aerin thought.
The sword pulsed. Aerin took that as a yes.
The tunnel opened into a massive stone arena. The floor was stained with patches of old, dried blood. In the center stood a boy in red and gold robes.
Henrik. The boy from the bridge.
He was grinning. "So the stray actually showed up. I thought you'd crawled back to the sewer."
High above in the stands, an older woman with iron-grey hair spoke. "This is a combat assessment. Begin when ready."
Henrik didn't wait.
His grimoire flared crimson. "House Valdris," Henrik shouted. "Remember that name when you're bleeding out!"
Fire erupted from his book, coiling around his arm like a living serpent. He thrust his hand forward, and the fire took the shape of a wolf—six feet of roaring heat, claws tearing up the dirt.
It charged straight at Aerin.
Aerin didn't move. He couldn't move. His legs felt like lead.
But the body remembered.
Just as the heat singed his eyelashes, the Arclight instincts kicked in. His body jerked left-a motion too fluid for a starving boy, too precise for an amateur.
The fire wolf roared past him, slamming into the wall in a shower of sparks.
Henrik's grin faltered. "Lucky trash."
He sent three more.
Aerin sidestepped the first. Ducked the second. The third passed so close it scorched the hem of his cloak. He wasn't running; he was dancing on the edge of a razor.
"STOP MOVING AND FIGHT!" Henrik screamed, his face flushing red.
"I'm not running," Aerin said, his voice raspy. "I'm just not getting hit."
"THEN USE YOUR GRIMOIRE!"
Aerin reached under his cloak. The dirty cloth fell away.
He revealed the book. Black leather. Silver clasp.
Henrik laughed. "That rotted thing? Did you find it in a—"
Aerin opened it to the center page.He bit his thumb—hard. Blood welled up. He slammed it onto the symbol.
The arena lights flickered. The air suddenly felt heavy, like the pressure before a thunderstorm.
Sangreal materialized.
It didn't appear in a flash of light. It simply was there, as if reality had rearranged itself to accommodate the blade. Black steel. Crimson veins pulsing like arteries.
THUMP-THUMP.
The heartbeat wasn't a sound. It was a shockwave. It rattled the teeth of everyone in the stands.
Henrik's laugh died. He took a stumbling step back. "What... what is that?"
In the high seats, the grey-haired examiner shot to her feet, knocking over her chair. "Impossible."
Aerin raised the sword. It felt light, eager. It pulled at his arm, guiding him into a stance he had never learned but somehow knew perfectly.
Henrik panicked. "I don't care what toy you found! You're still trash!"
Fire exploded from Henrik's grimoire—a wall of flame fifteen feet high, a tidal wave of destruction meant to incinerate Aerin instantly.
Aerin didn't dodge.
He swung.
Sangreal bit into the fire. It didn't just cut the flame; The magic shrieked as the blade severed its connection to reality. The wall of fire split down the middle, peeling away harmlessly to either side.
Henrik's eyes went wide. "No... that's not..."
Aerin walked forward. The crimson veins on the sword glowed brighter with every step.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Henrik threw everything he had. Fire spears. Burning orbs. A whip of magma.
Aerin cut them all. He swatted spells out of the air like they were flies. He wasn't fighting; he was dismantling.
He closed the distance. Henrik tripped, falling backward into the dirt, his grimoire tumbling away.
Aerin stood over him. He placed the tip of the black blade against Henrik's throat.
The skin broke. A single drop of blood ran down the black steel. The sword hummed, drinking it greedily.
Henrik shook, tears streaming down his face. "Please... I didn't mean... don't..."
"ENOUGH!"
The grey-haired examiner's voice cracked across the arena. "The match is over! Aerin Arclight wins!"
Aerin held the blade there for a second longer. The sword screamed in his mind. "Finish it.He is right there."
Aerin gritted his teeth and pulled the weapon back.
He looked up at the examiners. They were all standing. They looked terrified.
"Aerin Valefor Arclight," the woman said, her voice shaking. "You pass. Report to the Headmaster's office. Immediately."
Aerin nodded once. He turned and walked back toward the dark tunnel.
Behind him, the whispers began, rising like a tide.
"That sword..."
"Did you hear the heartbeat?"
"That's a Sovereign Weapon."
"I thought they were all destroyed in the Great War."
Aerin stepped into the shadows. He leaned against the cold stone, his legs finally giving out. He slid down the wall, clutching the pulsing sword to his chest.
We made it, he thought. We're in.
Thump-thump.
The sword purred, satisfied with the taste of fear in the room.
Outside, the academy life continued. But everything had changed. The boy in rags wasn't a beggar anymore.
He was a target.