Stephen was staying at a small inn in Ironveil City, a place bustling with aspirants from all over the region. The city hummed with tension and excitement—the kind that came before an event that could change one's destiny.
Going back home to see his father would've been a waste of precious time. With the entrance exam only days away, every hour counted. His father would understand; after all, it was he who had told Stephen that "a forge only hardens steel that stays in the fire long enough."
And so, Stephen stayed.
Each morning began the same way. He would meditate before dawn, drawing in thin threads of transcendent energy through steady breathing until the faint sprout within his soul sea pulsed gently with light. It had grown since his time in the rift—its roots reaching further into the depths of his soul, the glow more vivid, alive. The sensation filled him with quiet wonder, though he had no idea why it was evolving so quickly.
Still, he didn't have time to ponder deeply. His focus was fixed on reaching Level 10 before the exam. Without it, the Federation wouldn't even let him register.
The Federation training grounds were open to the public for one final session before the entrance exams, a place where aspirants tested their strength against one another. The open field was filled with the sound of metal striking metal, bursts of transcendent energy lighting the air like fireflies.
Stephen trained alone near the edge of the field, practicing with his light sword—its blade gleaming faintly under the afternoon sun. His movements were steady, deliberate, each swing followed by another in perfect rhythm. A few others watched curiously, whispering among themselves about the "blacksmith's son" who practiced longer than anyone else.
He ignored them.
For Stephen, there was no shortcut, no secret technique passed down from a great clan. There was only sweat, repetition, and endurance. He trained until his arms ached and his vision blurred, until every muscle screamed—but his heart never faltered.
When the session ended, he sheathed his sword and turned toward the gate—and that was when he saw her.
A carriage bearing the insignia of a blazing crimson spear passed through the square, flanked by armored escorts. The emblem belonged to one of the Emperor Clans—the Blaze Family. And seated inside, looking out through the half-drawn curtain, was a girl with scarlet hair that shimmered like living flame.
For a brief second, her eyes met his through the gap. Cold. Composed.
It was Lyra Blaze.
Even from a distance, her presence was commanding. She wore a sleek training uniform, her spear resting beside her like an extension of her being. The rumors had already spread—she was one of the Blaze Clan's most promising heirs, trained personally within her family's private grounds.
Stephen froze. Memories of their brief encounter years ago flickered through his mind—the faint smile, the soft tone when she'd spoken to him. But the girl in front of him now seemed different—colder, sharper, like a blade honed for a purpose beyond his reach.
Their gazes lingered for a heartbeat before the carriage rolled past, leaving only a faint trail of heat and dust in its wake.
Stephen exhaled slowly.
"Figures," he muttered to himself, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "People like her… and people like me—we walk different roads."
But even as he turned away, returning to the dim corridor of the inn, the faint pulse of his soul told a different story. The small blue sprout within him quivered, responding to something unseen—something faint, but real.
A spark had been lit.
And though he didn't know it yet, that spark would one day set both their fates ablaze.