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Morning broke with the scent of damp soil and the rustling of leaves outside the window. The sun had just begun to peek over the tall stone walls that surrounded the training center, casting long shadows across the stone paths that webbed through the campus. Keith sat at the edge of his bed, already dressed in his uniform—simple black pants, a dark-gray training tunic, and a thin belt fastened at his waist. His boots were worn, but he polished them each day as a small ritual, grounding himself before the chaos of training.
He could hear the faint chatter of other boys in the hallway, some already heading to the mess hall for breakfast. Outside his window, a few early risers were practicing footwork drills in the courtyard. The girls' hostel, across the field and separated by a stretch of green and gravel paths, had already gone quiet after the initial shuffle of movement.
It had been four months since Keith arrived.
Time at the training center felt strange. Days blurred together in a blur of exhaustion, bruises, and occasional brief moments of peace. Keith had grown stronger—not in power, but in endurance. His body had adapted to the rigorous drills, and though he hadn't awakened like many of the others, he no longer trailed at the very back during runs or collapsed first in sparring. He held his own, quietly and steadily.
But the pressure was beginning to mount.
Over the past weeks, more trainees had begun to awaken their powers. Some sparked flames in their palms during meditation. Others displayed enhanced strength, speed, or strange flashes of energy. It was always the same: a day like any other, and then something inside them would ignite. Their energy—called Ether—would finally stir, and from that moment, everything changed.
These newly awakened were quickly classified under the first true rank: Novice. Instructors would pull them aside and begin special lessons, teaching them how to control and harness their Ether. Most of these awakened individuals were given Enchanted Weapons, tools infused with basic energy enhancements that allowed them to face Minor Demons in mock scenarios.
Keith hadn't been summoned.
Not once.
And though he told himself it didn't matter, that he would awaken in time, the whispers had begun. In the hallways, in the shared sparring rooms, even across the cafeteria tables.
"Still nothing from the village boy?"
"Maybe he's one of those rare ones. The ones who never awaken…"
"Kind of a waste, isn't it?"
Keith tried not to let it get to him. He had learned to wear silence like armor.
That morning, training began as usual. The group was separated into physical drills and Ether control lessons. Keith, along with a few others who had yet to awaken, remained behind while the rest were taken to the side yard for energy training. He watched as a few of them channeled energy into their palms, forming glowing orbs or barely controlled sparks.
Ethan approached him during a break, two wooden practice swords in hand.
"Still no luck?" he asked quietly, offering Keith a sword.
Keith shook his head, gripping the weapon. "No. Not yet."
Ethan didn't press. Instead, he took a stance, and the two began to spar. It was a simple rhythm—strike, block, counter—but there was weight behind every motion. Keith moved with control now, more aware of his balance and breath. His footwork had improved, and he no longer hesitated when stepping into the fight.
"You've gotten better," Ethan said between strikes. "Some of the Novices can't even hold their stance under pressure. You'd probably flatten a few of them in a duel."
Keith raised an eyebrow. "Except they have Ether."
Ethan chuckled. "True. But they don't all know how to use it yet. You've got the basics down. Once you awaken, you'll be way ahead."
Keith didn't answer. He wasn't sure if that was true.
Later that afternoon, after weapons class and a short break for lunch, the trainees were gathered in the central hall for a guest lecture—something the instructors arranged occasionally to teach them more about the world beyond the center's walls.
Mistress Seraphine stood at the front, flanked by a tall man wearing a gray overcoat and a strange curved blade strapped across his back. His face was weathered, his eyes sharp.
"This," Seraphine announced, "is Watcher Dorian, a Grandmaster-ranked field agent of the Demon Hunter Association. He has returned from a recent operation and will share with you insights about demon classifications, battle formations, and the importance of your weapons."
There was a murmur of excitement in the room.
Grandmaster.
A rank that only a handful in the world ever reached.
Dorian stepped forward and spoke in a calm, clipped voice. "Demons are not all the same. There are ranks to them—nine, to be precise. Most of you will never see anything beyond the Greater Demon class unless you advance far. But you must understand this: even the lowest-ranked demon can kill you if you are careless."
He paused, letting the silence settle over them.
"And just as demons have ranks, so do you. From Novice to Primordial, each stage of power reflects your control over your Ether and your mastery of combat. Few ever rise beyond the Elite rank. And fewer still ever wield a weapon beyond the Spirit-Forged level."
There were glances exchanged among the students. The words Spirit-Forged and Elite seemed to glow in their minds like forbidden treasures.
Dorian reached for his weapon and unsheathed it partway. The blade hummed faintly, glowing with etched runes that pulsed like breathing embers.
"This is a Mythic Arm," he said. "Forged centuries ago, its power has shaped entire battles. It chooses its wielder. And you—" his gaze swept over the crowd, "—are far from ready to understand what it takes to wield one."
When the lecture ended, Keith sat quietly as the others talked in excited whispers. Some wondered what rank they might reach. Others boasted about their talents. But Keith only thought of the words: Novice, Adept, Elite, Mythic Arm, Primordial. They felt distant, like names from a dream.
But one day… he would reach them.
One day, even if it took him years.
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