The dawn of the annual artificer tourney had undertones reminiscent of Tripartite Trial’s first exam, and Val didn’t like it one bit.

For one, the collage of flashy regalia made every viewpoint an eyesore to look at, little more than an explosion of tones. She couldn’t count herself out either, donned in Age of Atera’s hues—a pair of midnight blue slacks tied together by a sweeping cloak. The guild’s trademark tree crawled up the ridge of her back and snaked between her shoulder blades, the timeless icon a beacon of the guild’s prestige and repute.

Although the outfit’s significance was something she held dear, it set her off kilter. Val moved in obscurity, not the shadows, and not the limelight either. It was the place amid the pair, a person to be dismissed in seconds, and she’d utilize the feature repeatedly as a pickpocket. To exist among the highly-acclaimed adventurers of Age of Atera stripped her of that layer of defence, and it would remain forever lost.

Secondly, it was crowded. Nearly three thousand people occupied the city’s event hall, and that alone brought its respective troubles. The constant chatter drilled Val’s skull, like the noise originated from within her brain and spilled outwards into the room. It was weird to perceive the swamp of aura wading around the vicinity, subconsciously on the lookout for an incoming headache.

Perhaps due to the numerous rift dives carried out to the fullest, she was accustomed to being immersed in energy levels several times her own. Sitting on an ASC of twenty-seven—each aether strand hard-fought—she might as well shrug off the ailment altogether. Unbelievable, even now.

Then, there came the waiting, gnawing at her patience endlessly. During the trials, she walked in alongside Caro, a person who livened every minute. The same couldn’t be said for the four representatives of her guild, faces she’d never glimpsed until today.

Not the types to waste air on appearances, the small talk hovering amid the bundle of blue-clothed artificers was sparse. While she could appreciate the transparency, it formed a deep longing for the usual inhabitants of the scribal branch. She’d bet five rednotes a game was ongoing, Charlee taking the helm and steering the cards in her favour. Either way, Val found comfort in doing the one thing she did best.

Observe.

Guilds and crafting halls rooted in early Ciazen culture entailed Auricean tints in their style. Elegant morning coats fell to the knees of the guys, and blazers overlaid pencil skirts for most girls. Outliers stood out in the gathering, including the ladies rocking a tailcoat, or those in shorts despite the lingering sting in the air. Val couldn’t fathom how they were going to craft anything in such clothes, but who was she to judge?

Cutting out a separate piece of the room for themselves, the Jin Clan was a splotch of red, with golden dragons embroidered on their flowing robes. Rumours implied they migrated from the south, leaving behind the Seven Sects of Zing to become a pillar of strength for Ciazel in the heat of the wars.

The Kidraan families and houses set themselves apart with distinct designs, wearing pieces displaying a mixture of solid colours and patterned shapes. Elaborate headwraps adorned the women's crowns, braids of different sizes spilling out. The minority who chopped their locks settled for a sort of fade, leaving more than a few scalps vulnerable.

Kaleidoscopic sights like these made Val cherish what Ciazel built over the years. The Twenty’s divergent ethnicities amplified the effect, embodying the moniker of the Alloy Forge.

At last, the doors ceased to open, and the indistinct drone of conservation settled to a polite calm. The colours of the crowd shifted, as if they were attempting to make room.

“Metalsmiths, take your leave!” someone shouted, his thunderous voice waning as it struggled to reach the corners of the gymnasium-sized chamber. “There is an aide to guide you to the first round!”

A huge chunk of the many-hued sea diverged, heading out the way they came. The veneer of delicate clothing did nothing to hide the muscled strength the metalsmiths held beneath, the mighty swing of their hammer necessary to shape the ores into their desired form.

“Surrounded by thousands of artificers, and likely hundreds more waiting outside for the awards ceremony,” someone muttered, “and they couldn’t bring this man a mic?”

“I heard they banned everyone from owning anything craft-related,” another answered. “Too many cases of cheaters gaining access to items from the staff. Crazy, that.”

Not really. To be honest, the fact they acknowledged the breach in fair play, and subsequently acted on it was the improbable part. Highborn tended to weigh respect above ethicality—heck, Elemental Exchanges have been fought to the death merely to save face.

“Obscured crafters, you’re next!” the announcer continued. “Tailors, carpenters, apothecaries—if you go by these titles or any others separate from the main orders, we implore you to exit right now!”

Although orders consisted of the five main classes, creativity wouldn’t be bound by such linear thinking. Crafters unaligned with the prominent archetypes fell in between the cracks, usually self-identifying as artisans. As a class that handled varied mediums like bone, crystal, and hides, it worked well for the stray artificers.

“Alchemists, you are excused!”

In a glimpse, Val detected two clear-cut kinds of personas.

The prim and proper headed the group, their chins elevated by the smallest bit. Not a strand on their heads was out of place, nor a wrinkle on their clothing.

Shuffling behind were the enthusiasts, the sort to lose sleep on their alchemical pursuits, rather than their outward guises.

Outstanding categories proceeded to be called and cleared, chipping away at the artificer count until 150 youths remained. Void of the multitude of obstructive heads blocking her view, she discerned an aged Kidraan by the revolving doors, patches of silver marring his impressive beard. “Enchanters, follow me!”

There was a slight pause at the directive, an unspoken test of bravery.

Who would move first?

Unsurprisingly, the illustrious red-gold of the Jin Clan took a spot adjacent to the Kidraan, shooting her equivalents an ice-laced smile. We’ve got another Flamesworth on our hands. In the end, her actions damped the invisible tension, allowing a flux of enchanters to surge past the swirling glass.

The city hall’s joyless corridors received the well-dressed throng, their footfalls akin to a stampede in the vacant facility. As a public building, the site was far from exclusive, acting as a space an ordinary citizen could rent for the day. Framed still-life art decorated the brick-and-plaster walls, disappearing as the competition transitioned to another space.

A rush of warm air dipped Val’s chin, a blue haze sheening her eyes as she used her technique. Corded strings of runes writhed across the clay tiles, like intrusive vines on an abandoned home. Probably heating enchantments. The fire-inclined inscriptions chased away mid-Bicember’s chill, allowing the scholars to absorb the simplistic beauty of the patio.

She approached the rearward row of tables, appreciating the hand-carved portrayals of the Elemental Saints on the stone-formed furniture. Edged by a writing utensil, a broad scroll canvased the desk’s top, faint etchings visible on its skin.

The announcer disrupted their silent study, a stomp echoing throughout the room. A column or moist earth lifted the Kidraan meters closer to the dome-like ceiling above, garnering the room’s attention.

“Whenever I introduce myself, I start with my name,” he began. “It’s called Lesedi, and where I come from, it means light. I try to live up to its prophetic meaning, to be a rock to those on shaky ground. It's no wonder I struck a chord with the geogate.”

Tapping the tip of his boot on the pillar of dirt, the ground swallowed the height and returned him to the floor. “Whether conscious of the decision or not, you carry the same burden. Your work can save lives, and will become a means of stability for people during their worst days. We implore you to remember that duty.”

Grandmaster Reign’s words echoed in Val’s head.

Take on the responsibility and make it yours.

“We begin your rookie-level competition with emission,” his eyes roamed the area. “Emission is one of the most core skills of any type of artificer, more so for enchanters. Therefore your test should come as no surprise. It’s the same every year, and it’s not a hidden fact.”

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Great… Emission was her weakest aspect, a technique that took conscious effort.

“On your scroll lies concealed ink. It only reveals itself once you apply the right amount of aether strands to the inscription,” he walked to the forefront of the tables and picked up the said item, showcasing it to the enchanters. “We did most of the job for you by providing you both the location and the aether required to power the enchantment.”

Seemed easy enough.

“We’re coming around to pass a paper containing the numbers needed, and three energy vials.”

Val pumped a fist under the table. Emission drained her AV like nothing else, leaving her dry before a clock could tick past half a number. Though she could’ve siphoned the particles from the air, she was under a time constraint. Can’t afford any delays. The vials saved her the minutes she would’ve wasted on meditation.

“Questions?” Lesedi asked.

“Can we use our own scribal pens?”

“No. Anything else?”

Shuffling garments were Lesedi’s response, the scholars too occupied with reaching for their writing utensils. A hush lulled the enchanters into focus as they observed the scroll’s texture, the act hivemind-like.

Artificers harboured one trait consistent across classes: discipline.

Crafting required going the extra mile, to fill in the gaps left behind at every corner. Individuals in the room accomplished their fair share of hard work, irrespective of backgrounds or connections.

Lesedi’s lips upturned at the lack of answers. “You have an hour. Begin.”

Inhaling a gentle breath, Val picked up a scribal pen for—well—the first time in her life. If a person in a tender relationship saw the world through rose-tinted glasses, a student who trusted their teacher discerned their surroundings with IBR arrows pointing them toward the right street.

Master Winsford earned the leeway in her life—she was sitting on a ticket straight to Runic Mead because of the guy, for saint’s sake. So, when he’d encouraged her to emit aether through her fingertips, she’d kept a tight restrain on her skepticism. He claimed that scribal pens elicited energy, coercing the ethereal substance out of the enchanter. As quickly as it was an aid, it became a clutch, stifling growth.

Her scrappy web-searching sessions told her it was a valid method of training, if a little unorthodox. By forcing her to lunge up a flight of stairs to begin, the switch to an easier method ensured it’d be a stroll in the park. Well, in theory. Lesedi breezed past and placed her designated items on her desk’s corner, ending the period of deliberation. Sink or swim, right?

“If this doesn’t work old man…” Val muttered, putting pen to paper. She shot a glance at the answer key, coordinating it with her task. It asked for four AS on the dot, a clear-cut quantity. Cutting straight to the case, she flipped her sights inward.

The first step of emission was to draw aether out of your AV, to find a viewpoint to enact your willpower. She liked to imagine her Aetherial Vessel as a vase, flush with energy. Tipping it over a tad forward, she reeled it back as four strands departed her sternum. Her will escorted the aether up to the shoulder, through the forearm, and into her palm. The next step’s the hardest.

Two weeks ago, knitting the two disparate halves of herself would’ve been an accomplishment worthy of praise. Today, the entire procedure was omitted as the energy lept from her skin, into the device. Rather conveniently, too. She shrugged her shoulders and traced the ghost of a line from top to bottom, with luminescent energy as the ink.

Even though the pen rectified the complex step of intertwining the layers of her existence, she’d never practiced sustained emission. Winsford’s exercises prioritized short bursts of force, be it the coin devices or the devilish guitar.

Worried she’d exhaust her resources in seconds, she found herself relieved as the four AS survived the motion. Could it be… She squinted at the pen in her grasp, as if the action could offer her an answer. It seemed the scribal tool did more than cut the complexity of emission—it kept the nebulous form of aether from simply dissipating.

Val barely managed to hide her grin. One less thing to worry about.

As time trickled by, she acquired the ins and outs of emission alongside a scribal pen. It was an uncomplicated rhythm—she inputted an exact number, and the pen carried out the rest of the duty.

However, as Magus Kane once aptly said, anomalies existed in every rule.

The outlines of the soft sketch had variety—lots of it. There were straightforward dashes reminiscent of crossing out a name, blobs asking her to circle over the same position many times, and extensive strokes that carried her arm from west to east.

The last type had the highest skill cap, the duration of the task nullifying the tool’s capabilities to sustain her bouts of energy. As requested in the answer key, she urged a constant stream of aether strands, and her consistency suffered for it. The aether strands dipped into different amounts as she struggled to keep up the continuous effort strain. After all, she tipped her vase, she didn’t leave it there to leak.

A wince streaked her lips during the movement, and it deepened once she finished. The ink presented as a curved horizon on the bare bones of the assignment. But it left her aether tank half empty, requiring her to down an aether potion.

Learning her lesson, she went for the effortless sections, especially the ones with lower AS requirements. Of course, the narrower it was, the harder it was to extract precisely. Thankfully, her enchantment exercises worked with decimals more often than not.

Whole numbers couldn’t begin to compare.

Monotonous activities, though mind-numbing, were easy to lose oneself in. Settling into a tempo, she familiarized herself with the scribal tool, refining the rough process. Soon, it was as simple as a word puzzle, and her utensil marked the paper in fluid movements.

“Time!”

Val jerked as Leside’s voice travelled through the quiet room. Delayed sounds of pens hitting the stone desks cut the veil of silence, whispered conversations sparking in the row next door. Following suit, she stretched the kinks out of her shoulder and maneuvered her way out of the rigid seats.

The added height gifted her a bird’s eye view of the piece.

Atera’s skyline sprawled out to the edges of the sheet, multi-story structures spearing the air above. The serene depiction was unmistakable at a glance, despite being a skeletal frame of the halo’s capital city.

“Your scrolls are to be left behind,” Lesedi announced, strolling for the exit. “There will be an aide to collect it. Come, it’s time for the second test.”

Val trailed the river of enchanters into the halls, ambling past a couple of teens lingering by their tables, scrolls practically empty. A two-minute walk led them into an auditorium, hundreds of vacancies within on the hill of seats. She grabbed a spot in the front as the participants poured into the aisles, using the downtime to register her newly-gained items.

In sharp contrast to the trials, the questions of the exam were on full display. Multiple choice questions scored the first page, dipping into several topics right away.

1) Which of the following lists titles of specialized enchanters?

  a) Apprentice, Journeymen, Meister

  b) Novice, Adept, Magus

  c) Scroll writer, Tinkerer, Generator

Even if you didn’t have a clue about specialization, the answer gave itself through omission. The first was a string of artificer ranks, and the following line spoke on the mage ranks. Specialization went further than determining the category of enchantments to narrow in on, it tapered the routes to an activity often done by the enchanter.

It was half-surprising to read two of the specialization she’d been researching, the tabs on the subjects likely still on her laptop. Tinkerer tugged on her heartstrings with a force incomparable to Scroll-writer, the name branded into her brain the moment she'd read past two lines of its summary. Through operative runes, Tinkerers fiddled with the materials given to them through commissions, adding protective coatings to materials and improving their performance. That was a money-maker she couldn’t miss.

Plus, the inexplicable desire to enchant her armour wasn’t one to quench.

She held off on circling c) as Lesedi took a position at the feet of the angled chairs. “As you’ve probably figured out, the second test is one centered on nomenclature. You’ve been given another hour.” He glanced at the rune-clock affixed to a wall. “You may begin.”

Val snatched the pencil perched on the rim of the curved desk and set about at a brisk pace, ripping through the pages with relative ease. As it spiraled from memory-oriented questions to short-answer prompts on theory, her momentum slowed to a halt.

Lesedi’s distracting movements didn’t help matters. He strode to different tables one by one, whisking enchanters to the hallways. Invariably, regardless of the person, he returned alone. Her gaze trailed his back as he shepherded his next victim. She didn’t do so hot on the last test. Val noticed a trend among those he picked, a frightening one.

If deemed unsatisfactory for emission, you were eliminated as you wrote the exam.

She quieted her nerves with an exhale, refocusing on the vague principles of enchantments. As perplexing as the concepts became, all things considered, the test was a freebie. For dedicated enchanters, or artificers in general, a test of knowledge was something to embrace, to receive with open arms.

It was smooth sailing from page to page, and she held an inkling it was the same for her competition. She didn’t hear any questions throughout the timeframe, and before long, participants were shuffling their sheets to the borders of the desks.

“Pencils down.”

Val thanked the saints.

She survived the cut.

Combing his fingers through his beard, he came around and plucked the piles of papers. “We need to score these, which, as you may guess, takes time. If you will, enter the room three doors to the left. Updates of the competition will be provided as need be.”

The cohort of scholars was astir as they vacated the auditorium, despite missing one-quarter of their numbers. She couldn’t blame them, free of the constant stress of elimination.

Streamed along into a place lavished with extensive tables bearing finger foods, a slight smile dawned on Val’s face. Lunch while their tests were being graded?

Sign me up.