The Abyss of Awakening
“Ignorance is a sin,” he murmured to himself, a mantra echoing through his mind as he ventured into uncharted territories of understanding. Having managed to gain entry into the bustling metropolis and secure enrollment in the prestigious Ebon Institute of Sorcerers, Rufeal found himself ensconced in a realm of arcane mysteries and societal norms waiting to be unraveled.
Within the confines of his dormitory, Rufeal discovered a haven of learning. Bookshelves adorned the walls, their shelves filled with tomes meticulously curated to acquaint newcomers with the customs and traditions of the city, as well as the inner workings of the revered Ebon Institute.
Delving into the annals of history, Rufeal unearthed a wealth of knowledge regarding the noble families that held sway over the Ebon Citadel. The Astrid Family, led by Fanerio Astrid, reigned supreme as the sovereigns of the Citadel, their authority bolstered by alliances forged with the other thirteen Noble Families—a collective known as the Pillars of Ebon Citadel. Every three decades, the mantle of sovereignty passed to the most powerful sorcerer among the thirteen Noble Families, cementing their lineage as the royal bloodline.
As Rufeal scrutinized the list of noble lineages, a realization dawned upon him. The names of the thirteen Noble Families—Valerian, D’Amore, Caelum, Ravenshaw, Malachite, Nightshade, Ironsoul, Thornfield, Starbourne, Wyndham, Blackthorn, Silvercrest, Stormwind—mirrored those of his classmates selected for the prestigious Mystic Vanguard Seminar, one scion chosen from each lineage. It was an assembly of highborns, their pedigrees steeped in sorcerous heritage.
Yet amidst this assembly of aristocracy, Rufeal found himself an outlier—a lone figure hailing from unknown origins, bereft of noble lineage or ties to the Citadel. The disparity struck a chord of suspicion within him, stirring doubts about his place among the chosen few.
Throughout the night, Rufeal immersed himself in the teachings of the books, absorbing knowledge with a fervor born of determination.
Light
Aetherium—the conduit through which humans conquered lands and manifested supernatural feats—loomed large in the mind of Rufeal Ryuk as he made his way to Professor Wizor’s office. Having learned about the academy’s norms, he knew that students could visit professors during counseling hours set by the faculty.
“Good Morning, Professor Wizor,” Rufeal greeted as he entered the office, his demeanor formal and respectful.
“And you are?” the professor inquired, his black eyes twinkling with curiosity as he regarded the young novice.
“My name is Rufeal Ryuk, a novice of the Mystic Vanguard Seminar. I am here seeking guidance,” Rufeal replied, his tone polite yet tinged with a sense of urgency.
“A Vanguard? Well, what guidance could I provide for someone of such esteemed section? I am but a humble mage who teaches the Aetherial Arts Sanctum,” Professor Wizor remarked, his smile warm and welcoming. Despite his modesty, there was an air of authority about him, underscored by his soft and elegant voice.
“I understand, but unfortunately, the Grand Sorcerer, though my designated professor, does not offer private counsel. Unlike my peers in the seminar, who are highborn and educated in the ways of Aetherium from a young age, I still lack foundational knowledge and have yet to awaken to my potential. Hence, I come to you seeking assistance. Classes are set to commence in a week, and I wish to establish a solid foundation before then,” Rufeal explained earnestly, his words measured and deliberate.
“You have no foundation?” Professor Wizor’s eyebrows rose in surprise at Rufeal’s revelation.
“Yes, I hail from a small village where my knowledge was limited to tending crops. Here, I find myself without guidance or support. When I came across the story of a man who rose from being sold in an auction to become a Chief Sorcerer and professor of the Aetherial Arts Sanctum, I was heartened. If anyone could extend a helping hand to someone like me, it would be you, Chief Sorcerer, also known as the Sorcerer of Light, Isorin Wizor,” Rufeal concluded, his gaze unwavering as he met the professor’s eyes.
Professor Wizor was pleased with Rufeal’s sincerity and determination. The young novice’s respect for his past, rather than viewing it as a weakness, resonated with the professor.
Wizor’s laughter filled the office, a genuine expression of amusement after forty years of living. “Very well, Rufeal. I will assist you.”
Wizor gestured for Rufeal to follow him into the empty classroom, a vast space capable of accommodating at least 300 novice mages. The air was still, charged with the anticipation of forthcoming lessons.
“The Aetherial Arts Sanctum is intended for those who lack a foundation or possess too little of it,” Professor Wizor explained, his voice carrying an air of authority as he surveyed the expansive room. “My role is to guide those who have yet to find their footing in the intricate ways of Aetherium. Once they establish a foundation, they progress to other sections, repeat the semester, or, in some cases, choose to depart depending on their talent.”
Rufeal nodded, absorbing the professor’s words with earnest attention. “I understand,” he replied respectfully, his gaze fixed on Wizor as he awaited further instruction.
“I find it unusual that you were assigned to the Mystic Vanguard Seminar without awakening your Aetherium Heart. I would have preferred you in my class, but alas, I have no say in the academy’s decisions,” Wizor remarked with a smile, though there was a hint of bemusement in his tone. “However, I believe your sincerity, and that is why I have chosen to assist you. But be warned, the path ahead will not be easy.”
With a graceful motion, Professor Wizor raised his hand, conjuring an orb of brilliant light that illuminated the entire classroom. The intensity of the radiance caused Rufeal to shield his eyes, momentarily blinded by the brilliance.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“This is the power bestowed upon humans by Aetherium,” Wizor explained, his voice reverberating with reverence. “With the manipulation of Aetherium, one can wield elemental properties to their advantage. However, such power must be wielded with caution, as the consequences of misuse can be dire.”
As the orb of light dissipated, Wizor continued, his demeanor shifting from jovial to somber. “Within each of us resides an Aetherium Heart, a vessel capable of storing Aetherium. The amount one can store is indicative of their talent. Novice mages possess hearts akin to a glass of water, while skilled mages hold hearts comparable to a pond. Chief Sorcerers like myself boast hearts akin to a vast lake, while grand sorcerers, such as your designated professor, possess hearts akin to an ocean. It is these prodigious individuals who are revered and sought after.”
“And what about me?” Rufeal inquired, his curiosity piqued by the intricacies of Aetherium manipulation.
“You, my dear Rufeal, do not yet possess an awakened Aetherium Heart. Without awakening it, you cannot harness the power of Aetherium,” Wizor explained patiently, his expression tinged with sympathy.
“Allow me to elucidate the societal divide within the Ebon Citadel,” Wizor continued, his voice laden with gravity. “To awaken an Aetherium Heart, one must be in constant contact with Aetherium. Skilled Sorcerers provide their offspring with a minute amount of Aetherium from birth, nurturing their Aetherium Heart over time until it blooms with potential. This practice perpetuates the lineage of skilled Sorcerers, ensuring successive generations possess formidable abilities. However, for ordinary citizens, finding skilled mages capable of sharing Aetherium is a daunting task.”
“In this class, I provide a small amount of Aetherium each day, allowing some mages to awaken after months of sustained exposure. However, even if they awaken, they remain several steps behind the nobility,” Wizor elucidated, his words laden with gravitas.
Understanding dawned upon Rufeal as he absorbed the intricacies of Wizor’s explanation, shedding light on the disparities that governed society within the Ebon Citadel.
“You, my dear Rufeal, will face significant challenges,” Wizor concluded, his tone tinged with empathy as he raised his arms once more. Another orb, this time crimson in hue, materialized within his grasp.
“In this continent, the color red symbolizes the harbinger of chaos,” Wizor intoned solemnly, his gaze fixing upon Rufeal’s crimson eyes. With a gentle motion, he directed the orb towards Rufeal’s heart, its fiery hue pulsating with raw energy.
A surge of power coursed through Rufeal’s veins as the orb made contact with his chest, overwhelming his senses. Before he could comprehend the sensation, darkness enveloped him, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
The resounding clap echoed through the chamber, jolting Rufeal from the depths of unconsciousness. Gasping for air, he struggled to orient himself in the dimly lit room, his senses reeling from the lingering effects of the Aetherium infusion.
“As I suspected,” Wizor observed calmly, his black eyes fixed intently on Rufeal’s dazed form.
“Was that Aetherium?” Rufeal managed to croak, his voice strained as he fought to regain his composure.
“Yes, but not just any Aetherium. That was the equivalent of a pond’s worth,” Wizor confirmed, his tone grave as he approached Rufeal with measured steps. “Ordinarily, such a potent infusion would be fatal for someone without an awakened Aetherium Heart. Yet, despite the intensity, you merely experienced pain and a temporary loss of consciousness.”
Rufeal’s body still thrummed with residual agony, every nerve tingling with discomfort, his heart pounding with a rhythm that threatened to shatter his chest. The weight of Wizor’s words hung heavily in the air, casting a pall of uncertainty over the room.
“I harbored suspicions, but it seems you are indeed an exception to the rule,” Wizor continued, his expression etched with genuine concern. “The academy must have recognized your extraordinary resilience, which is why they entrusted the Grand Sorcerer as your professor. They seek to monitor your progress closely.”
A heavy sigh escaped Wizor’s lips as he regarded Rufeal with a mix of apprehension and compassion. “It will take time for your body to acclimate to the Aetherium infusion. If tonight’s ordeal doesn’t claim your life, it may well awaken your dormant Aetherium Heart. For now, rest is paramount.”
“Th…thank you,” Rufeal stammered, the searing pain impeding his ability to articulate his gratitude. With a nod of understanding, Wizor gestured for Rufeal to retreat to the solace of his dormitory, where he could nurse his wounds.
Pain
'
Rafeal lay in his bed, the slow and heavy beat of his heart reverberating through the room, each pulse accompanied by the visible bulging of veins, strained to their limit. The unusual concentration of Aethrium in his body had turned into a deadly poison without the presence of an Aethrium Heart to regulate it. His breath came in harsh gasps, each inhalation a struggle against the relentless assault on his failing body.
Veins in his right arm, already swollen beyond recognition, reached their breaking point, bursting with a violent spray of blood that painted the once-white sheets of his bed crimson. Rafeal’s body convulsed with the agony of rejection, as if every cell screamed in protest against the toxic invasion. In a desperate attempt to heal, his body consumed vast amounts of energy, the fang he had broken to conceal his identity now beginning to reform, a cruel reminder of his fractured existence.
“Shit,” he managed to rasp through clenched teeth as he tumbled from his bed, crashing onto the unforgiving floor. His body contorted in spasms of agony, his cries echoing in the empty room, a symphony of suffering.
The pain reached a crescendo as his heart, already strained beyond its limits, finally surrendered to the relentless assault. With a sickening burst, it tore itself apart, spraying fragments of flesh and blood in a final, futile protest. Darkness enveloped him as consciousness slipped away, a merciful release from the torment.
But in that abyss, amidst the void, a voice pierced the darkness, warm and familiar, like a gentle caress against his battered soul. “My son…” it whispered, a soft melody of love and desperation. “You can’t die,” it pleaded, the words carrying the weight of a mother’s anguish. “You cannot leave your mother alone in this world…”
Rafeal’s heart, battered and broken, stirred with a pang of sorrow as he recognized the voice, a distant echo from his past. Memories flooded his mind, each one a shard of pain and longing. Yet, before he could grasp their fleeting fragments, consciousness slipped away once more, dragging him deeper into the abyss.
“You’re an Upiór,” another voice, cold and stern, cut through the darkness like a blade. He remembered this voice, too, the voice of an angel, bearer of prophecy and destiny. “Your destiny awaits, my child,” it proclaimed, a somber reminder of the path laid before him.
As consciousness flickered like a dying flame, a final whisper echoed in the depths of his soul, a silent promise of rebirth. “You have awoken, ‘Aethrium Heart’,” it whispered, a solemn declaration of a new beginning. “Class: T.”
[ You have awoken, ‘Aethrium Heart’ Class T ]
.