Seth strode down the less-occupied alleyways, keeping his head down and his pace swift. He stuck to the shadows to avoid the main thoroughfare and the prying eyes of the townsfolk.

  His hand instinctively went to his pocket, fingers brushing against two hard objects: the jagged, uneven surface of an awakening stone and the papery texture of an Identify spell-scroll.

  He had failed to resist. The moment the Wandering Merchant had seen the glowing bloom and offered him the stone the scroll in exchange, Seth had immediately said yes. The excitement had simply been too much to contain.

  Sure, maybe he could have gotten a slightly better deal if he'd haggled by showing Marcus the flower first to know its real value, but Wandering Merchants had a reputation to uphold. Especially the ones who frequented the town; they couldn't afford to be known as swindlers.

  Also, Seth was used to bartering for everything instead of selling then buying. In Sunatown, most of their daily services and meager goods weren't worth even a single common coin so trading a sack of grain for a tool repair and such was the only way to survive.

  Reaching the end of a dirt road, he came to a halt in front of a lonely single-story house; well, with the stacked logs that served as walls and the marble stone pillars at the corners, it looked more like a hunting cabin than a house.

  Seth barged inside without wasting any time.

  The interior was one large, open room that was dimly lit and smelled like stale air. The wall on the left was filled with paintings of stunning landscapes, from majestic rivers and forests to bustling cities, but as always, it was the simplest one that made him stop for a second: a portrait of two adults and a child in front of a house. His father, his mother and him, back when he was eight.

  Despite Seth's and his father's golden eyes, it was his mother's smile that stood out the most from the painting. Leaving their remote house in the middle of the forest and building Sunatown from nothing had brought her so much joy.

  As Seth looked around at the grime covering the floor, he realized just how much he had neglected the house since her passing. Even though it was hard for him to remain inside, he knew he should make an effort to clean up. he told himself.

  He walked to the back of the room, where a rusted iron sink stood beneath a small window. Seth stripped off his tunic, his muscles tensing as the cool air hit his skin, and cranked the handle. Brown water sputtered out before running clear. He splashed it over his forearms, hissing as he cleaned most of the dirt and rocks among the dried blood covering his injuries.

  As he leaned over the basin, a silver chain slipped out from beneath his undershirt, dangling freely. Two small, lustrous, bluish teardrops shone under the last ray of the sun coming through the windows.

  A gift from his mother on his sixteenth birthday. He could still remember the broad grin on her face when she had handed it to him. Seth didn't like jewelry and had thought more than once about selling it, but he always stopped himself—after all, it had once belonged to his father.

  That was why he wore the fragile thing every day beneath his clothes.

  Drying his arms with a rough cloth, Seth turned toward the corner of the room that served as his bedroom. It was a mess: an unmade bed, a broken chair he hadn't repaired, and an old wooden desk cluttered with sketches of hunting techniques.

  One small piece of parchment at the top stood out from the others; it was yellowish, moldy, and charred around the edges—the trademark of Marcus' scrolls. Seth had needed to beg the old Alchemist for five whole minutes before the man had finally cast Identify on him and written his attributes down on the parchment.

  According to Sericar—the Wandering Merchant Seth was the closest with—that spell had originally been created for people to compare and track their own progression in terms of physical abilities. However, over the decades and centuries it had become more complex and served now many other purposes.

  Seth picked it up and looked at it for the third time that day.

  Back then, Marcus had mentioned that most adults had only four or five points in each physical attribute, placing them within Rank 2, which ranged from eleven to twenty total attributes. At first, being above average had made Seth feel proud, but having no number in the right column had soon started to depress him.

  , he thought, gazing out the window at the two moons slowly appearing above the wall of Sunatown in the distance.

  Seth placed the moldy scroll back on the desk and reached into his pocket to take out the awakening stone. He then held it up to the dim light filtering into the room. The crystal was rough, unpolished, yet it seemed to hum with something just like the flower did.

  Everyone knew that the class one awakened was determined by their Path.

  That destiny people choose for themselves, the route they shape with each step and each breath, from insignificant daily choices to incredible accomplishments; every interaction one had with the world's aether impacted who they were and what they would become. That mattered much for broke, unawakened commoners like him, but it did for Wielders.

  For the past nine years, he had poured every ounce of his energy into shaping his Path toward a single goal: a combat class. He had pushed his body beyond its limits, logging countless hours of sword sparring, and trained as much as he could to mold himself into a Warrior—one of the five combat classes.

  Sure, becoming a non-combat Wielder like a Farmer, an Alchemist, or a Merchant would be safer. It meant more coins and no risk of dying in a ditch somewhere. But would he really be able to make a difference for the people of Sunatown with one of those?

  Probably not.

  Not with the Faertis House breathing down their necks, ready to crush any dissent. A Merchant couldn't stop a tax collector from bleeding a family dry. A Farmer couldn't stop the guards from executing someone who had rubbed the nobles the wrong way. To change things—to truly break the cycle—he needed power.

  The best solution, and real solution, was to enroll in the nearest of the three elite academies of Kastal, located in Trogan City, as a Warrior. There, he could acquire the knowledge and strength normally hoarded by the nobility. Once he graduated, he could become a powerful Adventurer and then return to protect his home.

  Seth closed his eyes for a brief instant, his grip tightening around the stone until the sharp edges dug into his palm. But for any of that to happen, he had to clear the first, insurmountable hurdle. He needed to beat the odds and awaken with a single stone.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Seth lay down on his bed with the piece of crystal in his hand.

  Two years.

  That was how long it would take him to earn the seventy common coins he needed to buy another stone to get another chance if he didn't awaken with that one.

  , he thought as his heartbeat quickened behind his ribs.

  Seth took a few deep breaths and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his mind. He had pestered Marcus and Wandering Merchants countless times to explain how to use stones—even though it was fairly simple and he'd already known every step by heart.

  First, squeeze it in your hand. Then, focus on the inside. When you sense a tiny bit of aether, pull it toward your sternum. Finally, hold it there as long as possible to ignite your Well.

  The trap lay in that last step.

  He had to keep the foreign energy inside his chest long enough for it to light his dormant Well. The problem was that the unawakened body naturally rejected the intrusion. Most people could only withstand the agony for four or five seconds before their concentration shattered, severing the connection. That was why the average person needed seven or eight stones to finally succeed—they needed to chip away at the barrier little by little.

  But Seth didn't have eight stones. He had one. So, he would need to hold it longer. Thirty seconds. Maybe more.

  After repeating the instructions another dozen times, he finally felt ready and closed his eyes. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He couldn't fail.

  His fingers closed around the awakening stone, pressing down onto its hard surface as if trying to break it.

  All his attention moved onto the crystal ball in his palm, and everything else around him blurred away, just as it did when he aimed with his bow. He searched for the slightest change in the orb. Anything. Seconds turned into minutes, yet he remained focused.

  Finally, it appeared.

  A flicker. Soft and warm, like a tiny flame was dancing in the middle of his palm. It was what he had been waiting for: aether.

  Seth visualized the energy moving up his arm. To his surprise, it offered no resistance. It flowed like water, eager and fluid, racing up his wrist, past his elbow, and diving straight into his chest.

  Then, it hit his sternum, and Seth arched his back, a silent scream dying in his throat.

  The moment the spark settled between his ribcage, it transformed into a searing pressure that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. His muscles locked up, seizing in violent protest.

  The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving itself into his chest. His instincts screamed at him to let go, to drop the stone and end that torture, but he forced his hand to remain shut, and his mind focused.

  He had already passed the average. But it wasn't enough.

  The pressure in his head mounted, building behind his eyes until it felt like his skull was about to crack. Seth clenched his jaw until his teeth groaned under the strain. He tried focusing on something else—anything to pull his mind away from this agony. In a futile attempt, he tried visualizing a quiet house surrounded by trees and nature on a vast, peaceful island. Then the image twisted.

  The oaks withered, the light dimmed, and the peaceful house dissolved into a dark, cramped room. His mother's face appeared instead.

  She looked exactly as she had on her deathbed—hollow cheeks, skin like parchment, and wisps of thin white hair plastered to her forehead. Her illness had stripped away all life from her once radiant smile, leaving only a mask of exhaustion and pain.

  Warm, thick liquid trickled from the corners of Seth's closed eyes, trailing down his temples. It was too viscous and hot to be tears. It was blood.

  He clung to the memory, using the sharp sting of grief to anchor himself against the firestorm consuming his chest. He remembered how small her hand had felt in his. He remembered the crushing weight of his failure as a son, the inability to help her, to fully alleviate her suffering.

  He was so tired of being helpless. So tired of being weak.

  His body began to scream in pain. His heart hammered in an erratic rhythm, struggling to beat in his chest. The edges of his consciousness began to fray, and darkness crept in to swallow him whole.

  He couldn't take it anymore.

  With a final, ragged gasp, his grip failed. His fingers went slack, and the awakening stone slipped from his hand, rolling off his bed onto the floor with a dull thud. Instantly, the connection severed.

  The next instant, the artificial flame that had been ravaging his insides vanished, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence.

  Seth lay there, gasping for air, his chest heaving as he stared blindly into the darkness behind his eyelids.

  The thought was crushing. He hadn't held on long enough. But then, as his breathing slowly leveled out, he realized something.

  The agony was gone, but the heat remained.

  Something was still swirling in his chest. It wasn't the violent, intrusive fire of the stone—it was a steady, rhythmic hum, pulsing in time with his heart. It remained dense and strong, rooted deep within him.

  "I... I did it?"

  He winced, wiping the blood from his cheeks with a trembling hand before laboriously pushing himself up to sit. He was now a Wielder. His life had just changed forever.

  "I have to tell everyon—wait, my class!"

  Seth reached into his pocket once more and pulled out the Identify spell-scroll this time. He then examined the old parchment and the rusty seal, his fingers brushing the engraved magnifying glass.

  Learning spells was normally a long, arduous process. Wielders needed to first understand the theory behind shaping aether into the desired form, such as a fireball or a wind blast, then practice tirelessly on a daily basis for months—or even years. During that time, the repeated flow of aether would slowly carve out specific pathways, known as grooves, that would allow Wielders to perform the task more efficiently and quickly. Once fully developed, these elaborate and complex formations of grooves were what people referred to as spells.

  However, over the years, the nobles had invented a way to skip this laborious task: spell-scrolls. Crafted by Scribes and Scholars, these scrolls were single-use items that could instantly imprint these grooves into a Wielder's Well and aether channels. Not only did it save a tremendous amount of time, it also ensured that those newly carved pathways were optimal—one of the best, if not the best, routes aether could take, which would allow them to cast stronger spells with less aether.

  Unsurprisingly, these scrolls became a luxury available only to the nobles due to their exorbitant price. Except for Identify, thankfully.

  Without wasting any longer, Seth broke the seal of the spell-scroll.

  After unrolling the parchment, he quickly went through the three short paragraphs of instructions it contained. The first one explained how to carve the spell into his Well by crushing the scroll in his hand, while the second and the third briefly described how it would allow his right eye to see through the aether of his target, transposing it into numbers and words that would appear in his field of vision.

  Seth's hand pinched the bottom of the scroll, causing it to disintegrate in a cloud of blue particles. Almost instantly, aether surged into his palm and streamed into his chest. In mere seconds, it etched deep, intricate grooves inside his Well, then branched out into his aether channels and rushed toward his eyes. The sensation was intense—as if his very soul was being rewritten—and yet the pain wasn't really that bad. Especially after what he had just been through.

  As the grooves solidified, Seth could easily feel them shimmering within himself like illuminated paths on a dark night. Pushing aside his amazement, he channeled aether from his Well into the freshly formed pathways. The process felt much the same as drawing the spark from the awakening stone.

  Yet to Seth's dismay, the grooves, despite being well-defined, still allowed him to make mistakes. In the end, it took him great focus and six attempts to properly guide and shape the aether through the complex labyrinth before finally being able to direct it to the back of his right eye.

  Quickly straightening himself up, Seth squinted at one of his hands.

  Seth skimmed through the new lines of text and almost instantly, his heart plummeted.

  The word stared back at him like a death sentence.

  It was widely considered the worst possible combat class. Not because it was weak, but because it was suicidal. It was a class that didn't just invite danger; it required it.

  Everyone knew the cruel reality of the Primalists: those who refused to take risks progressed slower than any other Wielders, stagnating in mediocrity. To Rank up? To actually gain attributes? They had to throw themselves into the jaws of death and hunt in places others would avoid, diving into perils that any sane person would flee.

  Madmen addicted to the rush of a near-death experience.

  There were even a few people in Sunatown who viewed them as cursed. A few rumors claimed that their reckless nature brought ruin and early graves not just to themselves, but to everyone close to them. Seth knew it was likely superstition, nonsense born from ignorance, yet the stigma was real.

  And it was worse outside the village.

  From what he heard, to the nobles, Primalists were barely a step above the animals they hunted. They were viewed as uncivilized who spent too long in the wild and lost their humanity. And in Kastal, being looked down upon by the nobility was a sure way to ensure you never rose above the mud.

  A bitter smile appeared on Seth's lips.

  He had done to avoid this.

  Despite being a hunter by trade, he had fought against his own instincts for years. He had purposely limited his long days in the deep woods. He had filled his schedule with sword drills and relentless sparring matches with Mael, his best friend, desperately trying to steer his Path toward the disciplined, respected nature of a Warrior. He had rejected woodcraft, ignored the call of the wild, and done everything right.

  , Seth thought with a sigh.

  Sure, he was now a Wielder. He had defied the odds to become the third person in the entire history of Sunatown to awaken, joining Marcus and Vandric. That alone was a monumental achievement. However, things were definitely going to be far more complicated than he had anticipated.

  Without a seasoned combat-Wielder to teach him the basics, throwing himself into the unnecessary danger—the very situations he had spent years avoiding as a hunter—just to rank up would be foolish. Yet, without embracing that risk he wouldn't secure a spot at an institution like Trogan Academy.

  Taking a deep breath, Seth rubbed the back of his neck.

  January 15, 2026 (7h15PM)