The dawn was still fresh when Asher and Riven arrived at the ceremonial courtyard.
The ritual grounds of the Greaves Clan sprawled open beneath the cold morning sky, a sea of ancient stone and silent watchers. Dozens had gathered—young aspirants dressed in ceremonial robes, elders robed in layered silks and symbols of authority, servants standing at the perimeter, and even a few honored guests from affiliated houses. Murmurs danced in the air like incense smoke, rising into the gray light.
In the center of it all lay the Mirror Circle—a vast circular platform carved from gleaming obsidian tiles. Runes shimmered faintly underfoot, casting mirrored reflections that twisted the sky and earth into swirling patterns. At the heart of the circle stood the Spirit Flame Pedestal, a blackened spire bound in silver, waiting for the flames to rise.
On a raised pavilion overlooking the ground, the elders sat in their respective seats. Cloaked in prestige and quiet agendas, they watched with cold eyes.
Uncle Maelin Greaves, Riven's father, sat to the left, speaking in hushed tones to Aunt Irena, whose hands trembled slightly in her lap. She clutched a prayer charm, her gaze drifting toward her son with anxious pride.
At the center sat Elder Varric, the overseer of today's ritual. Stoic and unreadable, his silver hair framed a face carved from years of scrutiny and balance. He represented no faction, at least on the surface. Behind his back, many called him the Flame that Judges All.
To their right sat two other powerful elders—Elder Gaius and Elder Thelen—who led rival political lines within the clan. Each sought dominance in the internal council, quietly building influence through their children, their proteges, their reach into the Royal Academy.
The internal politics of the Greaves Clan mirrored a battlefield. There were three dominant forces within the Academy:
The Keller Lineage — led by the Clan Head himself, respected but aging, now more a symbol than a strategist.
Elder Gaius' Faction — loyal to tradition, conservative in nature, favoring strength through bloodline purity.
Elder Thelen's Faction — progressive, pragmatic, pushing for alliances through marriage and resource control.
Each group had its pawns, and today, some would be tested.
Asher stood near the back of the youth line, his expression calm.
No one gave him more than a glance.
Perfect.
He let his gaze flicker over the gathering—the way Maelin's eyes lingered on Varric's seat, how Riven subtly rolled his shoulder as if preparing to draw attention, how Aunt Irena's lips moved in silent prayers. Everything was just as he remembered.
Everything except himself.
---
Elder Varric rose.
"Today, we stand beneath the eyes of the ancestors. Their will forged this land, this clan, this bloodline."
His voice, amplified by mana, swept across the crowd.
"Our children shall step forward and meet their spirits. Not all will shine. But those who do shall bear our hopes. The stronger the step, the brighter the flame."
He gestured toward the Mirror Circle.
"The rules remain unchanged. Step onto the circle. The flame will judge you. The number of steps you can walk—your Willpower, Affinity, and Potential—will determine your grade."
A scroll floated beside him, opening mid-air.
"Five steps: D-grade.
Six to seven: C-grade.
Eight to nine: B-grade.
Ten or more... A-grade. Rare, but possible."
Gasps ran through the crowd.
Asher felt a familiar pang—not of fear, but of memory.
He had heard these words before. From that very mouth. Six centuries ago.
"The color of the flame reveals your elemental affinity," Elder Varric finished. "Let the ceremony begin."
---
One by one, the participants approached.
The first, a boy named Callen Greaves, walked six unsteady steps. A dull orange flame rose. Earth Affinity.
"Callen Greaves, C-grade aptitude with Earth."
Polite claps followed. His parents sighed, not disappointed, but not thrilled.
Another girl walked forward. Poised, calculating. Vella Greaves, from Elder Thelen's faction. She walked eight steps, and a scarlet flame erupted—Fire Affinity.
"Vella Greaves, B-grade aptitude with Fire."
Cheers broke out. Elder Thelen smiled faintly, murmuring to an assistant.
A boy from Elder Gaius's line followed—Jarren—nine solid steps. A flame of dark green. Wind-Earth dual affinity, rare, but not unheard of.
The tension began to build.
---
Then, it was Riven's turn.
He stepped forward with theatrical calm, pausing dramatically before he entered the circle.
Each step rang sharply against the obsidian.
One... two... three...
By the ninth, a crackling yellow flame exploded around his figure, crackling like a storm above the sea.
"Riven Greaves, B-grade aptitude with Lightning."
The cheers were louder than before. Aunt Irena covered her mouth, her eyes wet.
Uncle Maelin nodded approvingly, his gaze flickering across the elders.
Riven turned, casting a glance at Asher. He smirked.
---
Asher remained seated, watching the ritual unfold with a calmness that felt out of place among the nerves and excitement.
Children whispered. Elders evaluated. Parents prayed.
But Asher? He simply waited.
There was no fire in his chest. No anxiety. No ambition for recognition.
Six hundred years of life had beaten such noise out of him.
He'd once been the desperate one—the boy clawing for glory, aching to prove himself. But time… time had sharpened his soul and smothered the ego. Now, all he wanted was the freedom to grow in silence.
Even a C-grade would suffice.
Cultivation was still possible. A path could still be carved.
He did not need the world to cheer. He only needed time.
His gaze moved toward the pavilion where Elder Gaius sat proudly. Just behind him stood his grandson, Jarren—smug, aloof, posturing.
Asher remembered the truth.
Jarren had only taken eight steps in his first life.
A B-grade granted through a talisman slipped into his robes by Gaius himself.
A cheat. A lie. A cover-up blessed by faction politics.
He could have done the same. Could've shattered the stage if he wanted to. He still had the Bloodroot Lotus inside him—its power, its hatred—but no, not yet.
He chose invisibility.
He chose survival.
Asher stepped forward.
Silence fell.
Some in the crowd whispered.
"Isn't that Asher Greaves?"
"The quiet one…"
"I heard he never trained. But maybe that's because he's an A-grade?"
"Maybe even S-grade?"
Asher ignored them.
He stepped into the circle with the ease of one who had died once and walked back from death.
Every movement was measured.
Every thought sharpened.
In my past life, I stood here too. Hoping. Dreaming. And when the flame judged me… it gave me seven steps. Dark affinity. C-grade. I tried to prove myself anyway… and died forgotten.
He let the rhythm guide him.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six…
Seven.
A strange hush fell over the courtyard as the flame hesitated—then erupted.
Twin plumes shot upward.
One was pitch black, like ink bleeding through fire. The other shimmered with a smoky translucence, flickering in and out of the light.
Darkness. And Shadow.
A rare dual affinity. Unstable. Mysterious.
Even the elders leaned forward slightly, murmuring among themselves.
But then Elder Varric's voice rang out, calm and measured:
> "Asher Greaves, C-grade aptitude. Dual Affinity: Darkness and Shadow."
A wave of confusion rippled through the crowd.
Darkness and Shadow were rarely seen—and never together. Affinities tied to assassins, curse-weavers, or those who dabbled in forbidden arts.
To possess such rare affinities… and only awaken at C-grade?
It felt contradictory. Insignificant.
So the crowd did what people often do with what they don't understand.
They dismissed it.
Uncle Maelin smirked, leaning toward Elder Gaius with a quiet chuckle.
Aunt Irena's hands lowered slowly, her expression unreadable.
Riven watched with quiet satisfaction.
---
Asher stepped out of the circle without emotion.
But inside, his thoughts churned.
Exactly the same as before.
Seven steps. Wind Affinity. C-grade.
I could've taken ten. Perhaps more. I could've burned the circle itself with the Bloodroot Lotus.
But then I would've been surrounded. Hunted. Feared
He returned to his place and sat cross-legged, folding his hands over his knees. Calm. Invisible.
Yet beneath the stone, he could feel it:
Mana threads.
Woven beneath the tiles, old as the clan itself. A leyline hidden under ritual stone. He sensed it clearer than ever—as if it were calling to him.
No one else sees this…
He smiled faintly to himself.
Let them think I'm mediocre. That's the safest mask in a den of snakes.
---
Elder Varric stood again.
"The results are noted. Those who have awakened shall now be recorded into the clan's registry. They will begin formal training next week."
A bell chimed. Servants stepped forward, guiding the candidates to the edge of the platform.
Riven walked with his chest high, already receiving pats on the shoulder and congratulations. His mother practically glowed with pride.
Asher slipped through the crowd unnoticed.
But his thoughts remained razor-sharp.
In my past life, this result broke me. I spent years trying to climb without support, without recognition. Always doubting.
But now… I understand. Strength isn't in grades or early celebration.
It's in silence. In patience. In choosing when to reveal the blade.
As the crowd dispersed and the elders retired, Asher let his cloak fall further over his shoulder, obscuring his face.
He walked slowly, like a ghost fading from a scene he had already watched a hundred times.
I've seen the peak once. This time, I'll climb it differently.
And when I arrive, they won't even see it coming.