The four days that followed my uncle's visit were a study in controlled frenzy. The academy's training facilities became my second home, the hum of the containment field a constant companion. But my focus had shifted. It was no longer about perfecting a feint or a disarming maneuver against holographic drones. It was about endurance, pain tolerance, and survival under the most grueling conditions I could simulate.
I programmed the advanced combat deck to its highest difficulty, not for sparring, but for evasion and attrition. The drones no longer attacked in structured patterns; they swarmed, their energy bolts designed not to dissipate on contact but to deliver a sharp, stinging shock that mimicked the claws of lesser Void Beasts. I ran obstacle courses blindfolded, relying on my hearing and the faint, preternatural sense of air displacement, training my body to react without the luxury of sight. I practiced with Resolve and Remembrance until my muscles screamed and my hands were raw, then I practiced more, forcing my exhausted body to remember the forms, the parries, the lethal dance.
It was during one of these brutal sessions, my body slick with sweat and my lungs burning as I desperately parried a coordinated attack from three drones, that a familiar, lilting voice cut through the din.
"You're going to wear yourself to a nub before the Trial even starts, you know. A tired blade is a broken blade."
I didn't need to look to know who it was. I finished my sequence, deflecting the final drone with a grunt of effort, and deactivated the training program. The drones froze and dissolved into motes of light. Leaning on my knees, I turned, gasping for air, to see Alice Septime leaning against the entrance arch of the deck, a faint, amused smile playing on her lips.
Alice was, in many ways, my polar opposite, and my only true friend. Where I was all sharp angles and guarded intensity, she was fluid grace and open confidence. Her hair was a cascade of snow-white, so pale it seemed to absorb the light, falling in soft waves around a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a striking, vivid crimson, a trait of her mother's bloodline, and they missed nothing. Today, she was dressed in form-fitting training leathers of deep crimson, the same color as her eyes. Slung at her hip in a lacquered black scabbard was her katana, Shigure—"Autumn Rain." The weapon was as elegant as its wielder, a perfect curve of folded steel with a grip wrapped in white silk.
"A broken blade can be reforged," I managed between breaths, straightening up and wiping my face with a towel. "A dead one can't. I'd rather be tired than dead, Alice."
She pushed off the archway and walked toward me, her movements effortlessly silent. "Dramatic as ever, Adam." Her gaze swept over me, taking in my heaving chest, the tremble in my overworked arms, the grim set of my jaw. Her smile softened from amusement to something closer to concern. "I heard you submitted your Path intention to the Proctors. The Rune Smith Path." She tilted her head, her crimson eyes searching mine. "I have to admit, I was surprised. I thought for sure you'd follow the way of the blade. The Phantom Blade Path suits you. Why choose the hammer and chisel over the sword?"
This was the question I had been expecting. I took a long drink from a water flask, buying a moment to order my thoughts. "The Phantom Blade is a fine Path," I conceded. "But it's still a branch of the War Path. Its roots are in the same conceptual soil as the Bladewalker." I didn't need to say Valerius's name; his shadow hung between us as clearly as if he were standing there. "To walk a Path so close to his… it would be to live perpetually in his resonance. A higher-ranked War Path user can suppress a lower-ranked one. I would never be truly free."
Alice's expression was unreadable for a moment. She understood the politics of power as well as anyone born to the upper nobility. "So, you run to the craftsmen? To hide behind walls of stone and shields of light?"
"I'm not running," I said, my voice hardening. "I'm choosing a different battlefield. A Rune Smith's power is their own. It doesn't bow to another's. My uncle's influence is a shield, yes, but the Path itself is a weapon of immense versatility. I can enhance my own body, my blades, create tools from nothing… it is the path of a general, not just a soldier. It is the path of a creator, even in the heart of destruction."
She listened, her head still tilted. "My father thinks it's a coward's choice," she said bluntly. Grand Duke Maxus Septime was a titan of the War Path, a Rank 6 Bladewalker who led the Monarchcy's eastern armies. He had never approved of his only daughter's friendship with the "concubine's son," seeing me as a political liability and a weak link. "He says a true warrior meets strength head-on, they don't sidestep it with tricks."
Anger, hot and sharp, flared in my gut, but I quashed it. This was Alice, not her father. "Your father's philosophy has served him well," I said diplomatically. "But the Void Beasts do not care for philosophy. They only care for results. I intend to get results by any means necessary." I gestured to the training deck, my body still humming with fatigue. "Care to give me some of those results? I could use a sparring partner who isn't a pre-programmed light show."
A competitive gleam lit up her crimson eyes. A true smile, sharp and eager, finally broke through. "I thought you'd never ask. You look like you could use a proper thrashing to remind you what a real blade feels like."
We moved to the center of the deck. I reactivated the containment field but left the drones offline. The air shimmered around us, sealing us in our private arena. We faced each other, ten paces apart. I settled into my stance, Resolve held high and forward, Remembrance low and back, my weight balanced on the balls of my feet. Alice simply stood, her right hand resting lightly on the hilt of Shigure, her left hanging loosely at her side. She looked completely at ease, a predator in its natural element.
"Begin," I said.
The change in her was instantaneous. The relaxed grace vanished, replaced by a coiled, explosive readiness. She didn't rush; she flowed. Her draw was faster than my eye could follow, the katana leaving its scabbard with a whisper-soft shing that was more threat than sound. The polished steel caught the light, a silver blur in the stark white of the training deck.
I met her first strike, a testing high slash, with Resolve. The impact jarred my arm, a solid, ringing clang of alloy meeting super-hardened steel. She was deceptively strong. I tried to bind her blade and push in with Remembrance, but she was already gone, her body pivoting around the point of contact, her katana disengaging and slashing in a low, horizontal arc toward my legs. I leapt back, Remembrance sweeping down to parry, the force of the blow sending a tremor up my spine.
This was the difference between us. My style was direct, a cross-cutting dance of two blades creating a web of offense and defense. Hers was the way of the Bladewalker-in-training: single-minded, impossibly fast, and brutally efficient. Every movement was economized, every step a preparation for the next strike. She was a storm of precise, lethal intent.
We circled each other, the only sounds our controlled breathing and the soft scuff of our boots on the deck. She attacked again, a series of three swift thrusts aimed at my throat, heart, and sword arm. I deflected the first with Resolve, twisted my torso to let the second pass by a hair's breadth, and caught the third on Remembrance's cross-guard. Sparks flew as metal screeched.
"You're slow today, Adam," she taunted, her voice calm, almost conversational, even as her blade became a silver vortex. "All this survival training is making you hesitant. You're thinking too much."
She was right. I was tired, and the phantom sensation of the unstable runes my uncle had described was a constant distraction in the back of my mind. I was fighting not just her, but the ghost of my future trial.
I pushed the thought away and launched my own assault. I feinted high with Resolve, then dropped into a crouch, spinning with Remembrance aiming for her ankles. She anticipated it, leaping over the sweep with effortless grace, her katana coming down in a vertical chop that I barely managed to roll away from. I came up inside her guard, my elbows and fists becoming weapons as much as my swords. This was dirty, close-quarters fighting, the kind the Bladewalker style, with its focus on blade-work, was less suited for.
For a moment, I had the advantage. I landed a sharp jab with Resolve's hilt into her ribs, and she grunted in surprise and pain. I pressed it, my blades a whirlwind of short, sharp cuts and thrusts meant to overwhelm her defense.
But Alice was too good. She weathered the storm, her katana a blur of parries, the sound of our clashing weapons a frantic, staccato rhythm. Then, she found an opening. As I committed to a thrust with Resolve, she sidestepped with inhuman speed, her body a ripple of motion. My blade met empty air. Before I could recover, the flat of her katana slammed into the back of my sword hand.
A numbing shock ran up my arm. Resolve flew from my grasp, clattering across the deck. I was off-balance, defenseless. I brought Remembrance up in a desperate block, but she was already there. Shigure swept in, its edge stopping a millimeter from my throat. I froze, the cold energy of the practice blade's edge a promise of severed arteries.
The fight was over. I had lost.
We stood there for a long moment, locked in the aftermath. Her crimson eyes were fierce, her chest rising and falling slightly faster than before. A trickle of sweat traced a path down her temple. She looked… pleased.
"See?" she said, her voice a low murmur. "Head-on. You had me for a second with that brawling, but speed and precision won. The way of the blade."
She lowered her katana, the lethal tension evaporating. I bent to retrieve Resolve, my pride stinging more than my hand. "The way of the blade nearly got my throat cut," I grumbled, sheathing my swords.
"But it didn't," she said, sheathing Shigure with a smooth, final motion. "Because we're sparring. In the Void Realm, against a Beast, there is no 'nearly.' There is only alive or dead." She walked over to me, her expression turning serious again. "Your Rune Smith Path. In a prolonged fight, it could be powerful. But in that first, decisive second, can you inscribe a rune faster than I can draw my sword?"
It was the core of her skepticism, and it was a valid one. "Perhaps not," I admitted. "But I might already have one inscribed. Or I might use a rune to ensure your sword never leaves its scabbard. It's a different kind of war, Alice."
We walked off the deck together, the hum of the containment field dying behind us. The post-sparring adrenaline was fading, leaving a comfortable, familiar fatigue in its wake. We found a quiet bench in a secluded corner of the academy gardens, under the boughs of a weeping crystal willow whose leaves chimed softly in the artificial breeze.
"So," I said, breaking the comfortable silence. "The Path of the Bladewalker. You'll perform the ritual, awaken, and then what? Join your father's command on the front lines?"
Alice nodded, her white hair shimmering. "It's expected. It's what I want. I'm not meant for courtly intrigue, Adam. All the whispers and lies… it's a poison. Out there, on the border, things are clear. There is the wall, and there is the Void. There are your comrades, and there are the Beasts. My Path will be one of pure progression. I will advance my Rank, hone my skills, and protect Aurora from the things that would see us erased. It's a simple, clean purpose."
I envied her that clarity, even as I knew it wasn't for me. "A noble purpose," I said sincerely.
"And you?" she asked, turning those piercing red eyes on me. "Once you're a freshly-minted Rune Smith under your uncle's wing, what then? I assume you'll be whisked away to his citadel in the Western Reaches to learn the arcane arts of rune-crafting."
I looked out at the manicured gardens, the pristine spires of Aethelgard beyond. "For a time, perhaps. But my ultimate goal is my territory."
Alice blinked. "Your territory? That… forgotten parcel of land? Adam, it's a glorified rock with a title. There's nothing there."
"Exactly," I said, a slow smile touching my lips. "There's nothing there. No one cares about it. It's mine, free and clear, with no existing political entanglements. It's a blank slate. With the resources and knowledge of a Rune Smith, I can build. I can make it into something. A fortress. A haven. A place that is truly my own."
Alice stared at me for a long moment, and then a low laugh escaped her. It was a sound of genuine astonishment. "You… you're going to expand it. You're going to fortify your own little kingdom right under your family's nose." Her laughter faded, replaced by a look of dawning realization. "Adam, do you have any idea how that will look to your siblings? To the Crown Prince? A minor prince, with a concubine for a mother, suddenly building a power base? They'll see it as the first move in a bid for the throne. You'll paint a target on your back the size of the Imperial Palace."
"I know," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I know exactly what it will look like. But it is not a bid for the throne. I have no interest in that gilded cage. It is a bid for freedom. Let them see what they want. If I am strong enough, it won't matter."
She shook her head, a strand of white hair falling across her face. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"We all are,"I replied. "This is the only way I know how to play mine."
We practiced for another hour, the intensity lessened but the purpose renewed. Our blades clashed, not just as sparring partners, but as two friends trying to understand the divergent paths stretching out before them. When we finally parted ways, the twin suns were beginning their descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the academy grounds.
My next stop was the academy armory, a vast, echoing hall that smelled of ozone, oil, and hot metal. The air thrummed with the power of enchantment forges and the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils. I approached the main counter, where a grizzled Master Armorer with a cybernetic eye and arms covered in thermal shielding was inspecting a glowing spearhead.
"Prince Adam," he grunted, not looking up. "Your order is ready. Plain, you said. No frills." He reached under the counter and brought out a long, wrapped bundle. He unrolled the cloth on the counter, revealing two short swords.
They were the spitting image of the training blades I used, and perfect duplicates of Resolve and Remembrance in dimensions and balance. But these were the real thing. Their blades were unadorned, matte-grey alloy, unpolished and non-reflective. The grips were simple, durable cord-wraps. There were no family crests, no decorative quillons. They were tools, pure and simple. Weapons that wouldn't draw the eye, wouldn't announce my presence or my station. Perfect for a survival trial in a hostile realm.
"They're perfect," I said, testing the balance of one. It was identical to my own. "My thanks."
The armorer just nodded, already turning back to his glowing spearhead. "Good luck in the Trial, Your Highness."
Back in the sanctity of my room, I laid the plain swords on my bed. I then went to my desk and opened a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was my most precious possession after my mother's jade key: a spatial ring.
It was a gift from my uncle for my fourteenth birthday. The band was made of a dark, smoky metal, and set into it was a single, minuscule gem that seemed to contain a swirling nebula of stars within its depths. It was a masterwork of Rune Smithing, a pocket dimension anchored to a physical object. I focused my will, a faint trickle of the latent energy every human possessed, and touched the ring.
A silvery, shimmering portal, no larger than a dinner plate, opened in the air before me. Within, I could see the organized contents of the pocket space: stacks of nutrient-dense ration bars, canteens of purified water, a rolled-up survival shelter, a basic medical kit, changes of durable, non-descript clothing, and other essentials. I picked up the two plain swords and willed them into the ring. They vanished from my hands and appeared inside the spatial pocket, leaning against a crate of rations. I did the same with the Rune Seed, placing it carefully inside a small, padded container within the ring. The portal winked out.
The rest of the evening, I devoted to calm. The frantic training was over. Now, I needed mental fortitude. I left my room and walked the quieter paths of the academy grounds, letting the cool evening air clear my head. The manicured beauty of the place felt almost alien, a fragile construct built atop millennia of catastrophe and lies. I found myself at the entrance of the Grand Imperial Library, a colossal structure that housed not only the sanctioned history of the Monarchcy but also fragmented, often restricted, records from the Pre-Impact eras.
I didn't go to the sections on Path Theory or Void Ecology. I navigated the vast, silent halls, my footsteps echoing on the polished obsidian floor, until I found the section marked Pre-Impact Societal Studies: The Anomalous 2000s Era. It was a small, neglected wing. Most scholars considered it a pointless curiosity, a study of a primitive, doomed world.
I pulled a heavy, real-paper tome from a shelf, its cover brittle and its pages yellowed. I sat at a isolated carrel, the light from a solitary glow-globe illuminating the text. I didn't read for strategy or power. I read for perspective. I read about a world without Paths, without Void Beasts, a world that was, in its own way, tearing itself apart over ideologies and resources that seemed almost quaint now. They had nations called "America" and "China," they had global digital networks, they sent probes to other planets. They worried about climate change and economic disparities. Their problems were immense, but they were… human-scale.
It was a history of struggle, yes, but also of a staggering, vibrant creativity. They created art, music, and stories of such complexity and beauty that it sometimes brought a lump to my throat. This was the world that had been betrayed. Not just forgotten, but deliberately scrubbed away, its complexities reduced to a simplistic narrative of collapse to justify the rise of the new order. Reading these fragments was an act of rebellion. It grounded me. It reminded me that our current world, with its Monarchies and Paths, was just one chapter in a much longer, more complicated story. My own trials felt smaller, more manageable, when viewed against this epic backdrop.
When I finally left the library, the moons were high in the sky. I attended my final theory class, but my mind was only half there. Professor Krane's voice was a distant drone, the holographic diagrams of runic arrays and Beast anatomy flowing over me without sticking. My body was in the classroom, but my spirit was already in the Void Realm, facing the chaos to come.
That night, sleep was a fleeting visitor. I lay in the dark, feeling the phantom runes on my skin prickle with an eager, nervous energy. I ran through the ritual steps in my mind, over and over. The silver stylus, the geomantic dust, the Oath of the First Inscription. And then, the press of the Rune Seed, the eruption of temporary, unstable power, and the seven-day trial of survival.
The final thing I saw before sleep finally claimed me was the image of my mother's jade key, cool and solid against my chest, and the twin plain swords resting in the star-filled void of my spatial ring.
Tomorrow, the path would begin.