The scraping of wooden bowls against the rough tables had been Daemon's background noise for three days. Three days of cold, hunger, and relentless observation. His mind, Matthew's mind, had meticulously categorized the orphans—who fought whom, who hoarded the thin gruel, and who used their small, crude bursts of Body Application Magic to cheat at chores. Elara, the girl who had lightened the cauldron, was his most valuable variable. She used her gift unconsciously, a panicked reaction to strain, but the energy was real, and it was controllable.
Daemon—Matthew—had established a silent utility exchange with her: small pieces of observation, like pointing out a hidden, less-scraped part of the pot, for information. The information was fragmented, superstitious, and steeped in commoner fear, but it was enough to build a picture of the Kingdom of Berlin. A kingdom ruled by a magical elite who maintained their power by carefully managing the technology of the world, prioritizing cold steel and magic over destabilizing inventions like gunpowder or mass communication.
He was sitting alone, picking at a loose thread on his tunic, when the chaos started.
The massive, pine-wood door of the common room slammed inward, rattling the single, cracked oil lamp hanging from the beam. Barnaby, the overseer, stood there, his bulk impressive and his face etched with a rare, forced seriousness. He wore a heavy, rain-slicked wool cloak that smelled of old sheep and wet earth.
"Listen up, all of you!" Barnaby's voice was a bellow of forced importance. "Today is the day! The day the Kingdom gives you a chance to be useful."
A hush fell over the room. The children, accustomed to Barnaby's usual stream of insults and threats, recognized the shift in tone. This wasn't about chores; this was about the State.
Barnaby swept his gaze across the room, finally settling on the corner where Daemon sat, along with Gareth, Elara, and two other children who had recently turned sixteen.
"The four of you are due. The Awakening Ceremony is today. It's mandated by the Royal Edict. You will attend the Temple of the Sun in the Royal Borough."
Daemon felt a surge of pure, cold intellectual adrenaline. This was it. The access point. The official, institutionalized method of interfacing with the unknown physics of this world.
The reactions around him were immediate and visceral. Gareth, the thick-set bully, instantly puffed out his chest, his eyes shining with greedy anticipation. He was ready for power. Finn, the smallest of the group, began to weep silently, terrified of the public failure. Elara clutched a small, carved wooden icon in her hand, her lips moving in a frantic, hopeful prayer.
Daemon felt nothing for the potential of a "better life." The orphanage was a statistical zero-point; the Magic Academy, however, represented the keys to the entire research facility.
Hypothesis Refinement: The Ceremony is likely a high-energy trigger designed to shock the latent magi-neurological system into activation. It is a controlled experiment, and I am the unwilling test subject. The goal is no longer to observe magic, but to force this weak body to channel it.
Barnaby continued, laying out the stakes with grim pleasure. "If you succeed, if the gods—or the blood in your veins—grant you a gift, you are removed from this cesspit. You go straight to the Magic Academy of the Kingdom of Berlin. You will wear the robes, learn to channel the Aether, and serve the King. High positions in the military, as Court Enforcers, or specialized Healers—that is your life."
He let the silence hang heavy, savoring the collective awe of the younger children.
"If you fail, you return here. And you are property of the local Guild. You go to the tanneries until you drop. Understood?"
The implication was clear: success meant power, freedom, and access; failure meant a slow, agonizing death by labor. To Daemon, the choice was simply between two variables: the predictable entropy of the tannery, or the infinite, complex power structure of the Academy.
"We will not waste the Kingdom's time. Get ready," Barnaby snapped.
Daemon rose, his movements economical. The sudden rush of Daemon's childhood hopes—vague, desperate dreams of escaping the orphanage—were easily shoved down and processed into logical fuel for Matthew's ambition. He felt a deep, almost clinical sense of impatience with the sheer inefficiency of the feudal system that forced this desperation. The technology to feed these children existed; the political will, enforced by magic, did not.
As they were herded toward the washroom for a required, cursory cleansing, Gareth cornered Daemon.
"Listen, mouse," Gareth hissed, his voice low and vibrating with contained aggression. "I'm awakening a powerful gift. I know it. When I'm at the Academy, I'll be the one ordering the grunts. You keep your pathetic head down. If you Awaken a trick, you stay out of my way, or I'll make sure your first assignment is scrubbing floors with your teeth."
Daemon looked at him with an expressionless intensity that made Gareth unconsciously take a half-step back. Daemon saw only a piece of wood waiting to be carved.
"Your aggression is proportional to your fear of inadequacy, Gareth," Daemon replied, his voice unnervingly even. "You rely on physical dominance because your intellect cannot keep pace with your ambition. Your ability will be as loud and unsubtle as you are."
Gareth's face contorted in frustrated anger. He didn't understand the words, but he understood the cold, undeniable dismissal. He shoved Daemon, a brutish, pointless push. Daemon didn't move much, having anticipated the action, and simply categorized the precise lack of rotational force in Gareth's shove.
"Just remember who you are, orphan!" Gareth spat, retreating.
The carriage arrived precisely at noon, a heavy, dark-painted coach pulled by a pair of sturdy, grey horses. It was official transport, and unlike the common carts, its steel fittings were gleaming and perfectly maintained—a small sign of the wealth flowing through the Kingdom's infrastructure.
The four children were crammed inside. The journey was long, and the carriage was suffocatingly hot from their combined anxiety and the lack of ventilation. Daemon spent the ride in detached observation. Elara was silent, clutching her icon, her slight body trembling. Finn was curled up, occasionally whimpering. Gareth sat ramrod straight, staring out the window, already imagining himself a general.
Daemon focused on the carriage's movement, analyzing the road construction—sturdy, well-maintained paving stones—and the subtle, yet distinct, feeling of magic woven into the environment. The air, he theorized, must be thicker with ambient energy here.
He let his mind drift back to the scientific equations of his past, overlaying them onto his new reality. Elemental, Body Application, Telepathy, Healing—they were all just different conduits for the same unknown force.
The Academy is the central processing unit of the Kingdom. To control the Academy is to understand the operating system of this world.
Daemon knew he could not risk failure. To return to the tannery would be to lose the game before he even understood the rules. He had to Awaken. And he had to Awaken something controllable, something that would give him instant access to the intellectual resources of Berlin. Not just strength, but knowledge.
As the carriage finally slowed, the noise outside shifting from the rural clip-clop of hooves to the sophisticated, bustling clamor of a city—the Royal Borough—Daemon leaned toward the small window slit.
The sight that greeted him was staggering. The buildings were massive, stone structures reinforced with intricate, gleaming ironwork. They were feudal in form, yet imposing and cleanly maintained. In the distance, rising high above the surrounding buildings, was the Temple of the Sun—a colossal structure of white marble, its dome reflecting the midday sun like polished gold.
They had arrived at the doorway to power. Daemon, the cold, brilliant scientist, took a deep, steadying breath in his weak, young body. He was ready to prove that an IQ of 201 was more powerful than any ancient bloodline.