In the weeks that followed the King's declaration of P.R.I.M.E., the kingdom of Lumisgrave underwent a change deeper than any spell or prophecy — a change in mindset, in structure, in purpose.
The world had awakened. Now, the people did too.
But the city itself — with its towering spires, tightly packed streets, and layered stone walls — was not suited for what came next.
For training.
For explosions of magic, bursts of elemental force, and the quiet but dangerous experimentation of those still learning to understand their power.
And so, the Training Centers were not built within the heart of Lumisgrave.
They were constructed beyond the city's edge — carved into valleys, stretched across cliffside clearings, or placed on flatlands where wind and sky met unbroken. One rose atop a lonely mesa. Another near a deep forest line. Some near rivers, some on solid black rock.
They were simple in form but vast in size — circular arenas with open grounds, sand pits, elevated towers, sparring platforms, quiet chambers for meditation, stone pillars marked with sigils, and open skies above.
> There were no walls.
There were no thrones.
Just ground — and the freedom to fail without judgment.
It was the King's command:
> "Let no awakened soul hesitate to use their full strength. Give them sky. Give them room. Give them safety — not to hide, but to expand."
And so the people came.
At first, there was doubt.
Some stood at the edges of the grounds, hesitant, ashamed of the unstable gifts they could not yet control.
A woman whose skin shimmered like flowing ink. A farmer who accidentally made crops wither when angry. A painter who could now draw with beams of light — but could not stop.
But over time, that hesitation melted into sweat, into discipline, into growth.
The centers pulsed with new life.
---
One group trained in wind, running and leaping across ledges as they tried to catch the current with their palms.
Another focused on defensive abilities — creating shields of earth, forming energy domes, deflecting small stone attacks.
Fire users were given space in the southern dunes — where no trees could catch, and flames could roar into the sky freely.
A man made of blue crystal was learning to harden his body at will.
A child whose voice could shake air was learning how to speak softly again.
Each day, people pushed themselves not for glory — but to understand what they had become.
They were farmers, tailors, blacksmiths, teachers, nomads, musicians — and they were learning what it meant to own the power inside them.
And they were not alone.
To the astonishment of all, even members of the noble families and royal bloodlines had joined the outer grounds.
They did not wear silk. They did not arrive with guards.
They came barefoot, sleeved in training cloth, tied hair, and sweat on their brows — side by side with commoners.
> "Power chooses no blood," said Julious, who was seen sparring against a woman with molten arms. "If we are to lead, we must first understand what we ask of others."
Prince Kabir became a regular at the lightning field.
His control had grown, but he trained harder than anyone — launching sparks between metal pillars, drawing arcs in the sky, focusing breath after breath to sharpen precision.
> "I don't want to be known for just lighting a torch," he once said. "I want to learn how not to burn anyone by mistake."
Even King Farhan was seen once, watching quietly from a distance. His chain-hand hidden under his robe.
He did not train in public.
But those close to him swore they saw burns on the walls of the old arena at dawn — burns that matched the marks of something far more ancient than lightning.
What began as uncertain trials slowly became routine.
The people no longer feared awakening.
They anticipated it.
Children whispered dreams of fire in their palms. Teenagers walked with confidence, feeling energy move in their veins. Adults found the courage to admit their changes.
Training became a rhythm.
People woke early. Traveled miles to the centers. Came home bruised, dirty, exhausted — but smiling.
> "I held it today," said a young man, chest heaving. "I didn't destroy it. I held it."
> "My vines moved with my breath today," whispered a girl to her mother. "I think they listened."
The pride in their voices wasn't about power. It was about control. Belonging.
And in every home, every district, the word P.R.I.M.E. began to carry meaning.
With each passing day, the month grew shorter.
People began preparing not just their bodies, but their minds.
Not everyone would participate in P.R.I.M.E.
But everyone watched.
Everyone dreamed.
And every beating heart in Lumisgrave knew — that what had once been feared as a curse…
…was becoming the very reason they could hope again.
---
Arslan's Training Begins
In one of the farthest northern fields, where the trees were thin and mist clung to the ground like breath, Arslan trained alone.
He did not speak to many. He did not wear flashy robes. He brought no one with him. But he came every day — before sunrise, after sunset, sometimes in the dead of night.
He had no element like flame or thunder. His power was shadow — raw, cold, and dense. It clung to him like smoke that couldn't be blown away.
On the first day, it nearly consumed him. He had summoned it from instinct, and the field around him was swallowed in black tendrils that cracked the earth. He fell to his knees, breath gone, eyes wide.
> "Control it," he whispered. "I have to. I must."
He gritted his teeth, stood up again, and began trying to shape it.
For days, he failed. The shadow lashed like a beast. It warped, hissed, and collapsed.
But he did not stop.
He began with shapes — forcing the shadow into circles, then blades, then bows. He practiced holding it without emotion.
> "You are not my enemy," he said aloud to the shadow. "You are my weapon. My shield. My path."
He learned to mold a Dark Shield — a crescent wall of shade that could block thrown stones and arrows. He learned to summon a Shadow Blade, sharp as steel, that dissolved if his focus wavered.
His favorite was the Ebon Bow — a sleek, silent bow of darkness that fired arrows made of his own focus. No string. No sound. Just release.
> "I have to do this," he whispered each night, watching the others train. "I have to become more than a commoner." "I will not be left behind." "I will become stronger."
Other trainees noticed him — the boy who trained alone, the one with the quiet eyes and bruised hands.
Some feared him. Some respected him.
But none knew how deeply he pushed himself.
He trained until his muscles locked. Until his voice broke from whispered commands. Until he passed out more than once, face in the dirt, waking only when the sky had changed color.
And yet — he smiled. Because the power no longer scared him.
He had faced it. He had shaped it. He had owned it.
And when he stood in the field one night, bow of shadow drawn, target clear, and fired — the arrow hit the exact center.
The sound of impact was a soft thud. But in Arslan's heart, it rang like thunder.
> "I'm ready," he said. "Let the others chase light. I will master the dark."
The wind swept the field, rustling the trees. And in the moonlight, the boy no one had noticed now stood like a warrior — not yet a legend…
…but no longer just a commoner.