The clock on the wall of the lecture hall ticked rhythmically, a metronome counting down the seconds of childhood. In the Era of Ascension, turning eighteen was not merely a legal distinction; it was a biological and metaphysical metamorphosis. It was the moment the universe decided what you were worth.
The phenomenon was known simply as "The Bloom."
At the precise moment of birth on a person's eighteenth year, the ether that saturated the atmosphere would react with the human soul. It began with a searing heat, localized and intense, followed by the appearance of the Sigil.
The Sigil was the absolute marker of an Awakened. It could appear anywhere—the palm of a hand, the nape of a neck, the iris of an eye, or the sole of a foot. No two Sigils were ever identical in shape; they were complex geometric fractals unique to the individual's soul signature. However, they were unified by a single, immutable trait: their color. Every Sigil, from the lowest street sweeper to the highest king, glowed with the same, piercing Luminous Silver. It was the color of starlight trapped in skin, the universal equalizer before the hierarchy of power tore everyone apart.
Society was built entirely around the Star Ranking system that followed the Bloom. It was a brutal, meritocratic calculus derived from the complexity of one's Sigil and the density of ether one could command.
The textbooks hovering holographically at the front of the class displayed the breakdown that every child had memorized since kindergarten:
1 to 2 Stars (The Adepts): The foundation of civilization. These Awakened possessed minor enhancements—slightly increased strength, the ability to warm water with a touch, or enhanced memory. They were the clerks, the laborers, and the logistical support. They were normal.
3 to 5 Stars (The Elite): The officers of the world. These individuals could manipulate elements, reinforce their bodies to withstand gunfire, or heal minor wounds. They formed the military backbone and the corporate leadership.
6 to 9 Stars (The Outstanding): The walking natural disasters. These were the city-defenders, the generals, and the arch-mages. A 9-Star could alter the weather of a region or level a mountain with a concentrated strike. They were celebrities and gods among men.
10 Stars: The Impossible. Theoretical models suggested a 10-Star trait could rewrite reality itself, but in thousands of years of recorded history, the registry remained blank. It was a phantom rank, a ghost story for ambitious children.
Then, there was the matter of "Traits." Most souls could only harbor one specific ability. To hold two was to invite madness, or so the medical journals claimed. Yet, history spoke of the Four Dual-Trait Lords. Only four individuals in the span of three millennia had ever awakened with two distinct Sigils. They were myths now, their names etched into the cornerstones of the four great capitals, proof that the impossible was merely rare.
But the ranking was only the potential. The application came after the dreaded post-awakening Aptitude Exam.
Once the silver light faded and the pain of the Bloom subsided, every eighteen-year-old was processed. Based on their psychological profile and the nature of their power, they were issued a title that dictated their future:
The Lords: Those with defensive, territorial, or governance-based powers. They were the shields of humanity, tasked with holding the walls, managing cities, and maintaining order. They were the anchors.
The Travelers: Those with high mobility, sensory, or offensive projection powers. They were the sword. They ventured into the Wild Zones, dived into the ether-dungeons to recover ancient tech, and expanded the maps. They lived lives of high risk and astronomical glory.
Elian sat in the back row of the terraced lecture hall, his chin resting in his palm, his eyes glazed over. The holographic projector at the front of the room was displaying a diagram of ether-channeling pathways, but Elian was miles away.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the day.
In his mind, he wasn't sitting in a climate-controlled classroom smelling of ozone and floor polish. He was standing on the precipice of a canyon in the Wild Zones. He looked down at his arm—in his daydream, it wasn't empty skin. It was Luminous Silver, the light pulsing in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
He imagined the sensation described in the autobiographies of the great heroes: the sudden expansion of the senses, as if he had spent his whole life looking through a keyhole and suddenly someone had kicked the door wide open.
What if I'm a 7-Star? he thought, his heart rate picking up. Or an 8?
In his fantasy, he raised a hand. The air around him didn't just ripple; it shattered. He imagined he was a Traveler, unburdened by the politics of the Lords. He saw himself leaping from a cliff face, gravity bowing to his will, wind gathering under his feet like a solid platform. He imagined summoning a storm of lightning, not to power a generator, but to slay one of the Leviathans that roamed the outer wastes. He saw the admiration in the eyes of the city guards as he returned, a Dual-Trait anomaly, the fifth in history, holding a power that defied the charts—
"Mr. Thorne."
The voice was sharp, cutting through the roaring wind of Elian's daydream like a guillotine blade.
Elian blinked, his vision snapping back from the imaginary canyon to the sterile white walls of the classroom. The silence in the room was deafening. Thirty pairs of eyes were turned toward him.
Mr. Kaelen, the Theory instructor, stood directly in front of Elian's desk. Kaelen was a retired 4-Star Elite, and though he was old, the silver Sigil on his neck still hummed with a faint, intimidating pressure.
"I trust," Mr. Kaelen said, his voice dropping an octave, "that your strategy for the Aptitude Exam is not to bore the examiners to death with a blank stare?"
Elian swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "No, sir."
"Good," Kaelen tapped the desk with a stylus. "Because daydreaming about power doesn't grant it, Elian. Tomorrow you face the Bloom. Pray reality is as kind to you as your imagination seems to be."