The open field sprawled vast and boundless, a verdant tapestry woven with wildflowers that shimmered under the tender glow of the morning sun. Its stillness thrummed with primal expectation, as if the earth itself held its breath, awaiting revelations to echo through generations. The air carried the faint scent of dew and blooming heather, mingling with the distant tang of pine from the ancient forests encircling the academy's grounds. Five hundred new students and their professors clustered in a loose semicircle around the ancient Awakening Orb, its obsidian surface etched with runes that pulsed with an otherworldly luminescence, whispering secrets older than the stars. The crowd was a vibrant mosaic—humans in tailored robes, Elves with flowing silver hair, and a few half-Elves blending both worlds, their eyes alight with anticipation. Faces were taut, nerves flickering beneath masks of composure, gazes locked on the orb's enigmatic glow.No ceremony heralded this moment. No grand speeches resounded. Just the raw, unadorned ritual, stark and unforgiving, its silence louder than any fanfare.A cold truth hung heavy, carved into the tension: Your power means nothing until it's awakened.Each name called was a key turning in the lock of destiny, a moment to forge legends or shatter dreams. Bloodlines whispered promises of greatness or ruin, family names casting unyielding shadows over their heirs. The legacy they carried wasn't in dazzling displays—not yet. It was in the quiet weight of potential, the faint tremor of a storm poised to break. The crowd buzzed with hushed speculations, students exchanging glances, some clutching talismans or family crests etched with ancient sigils, others whispering prayers to deities of sky and stone. Professors stood sentinel, their weathered faces betraying flickers of curiosity, hands poised to record each awakening in leather-bound tomes, their quills ready to capture history.Aria, Second Princess of the World Tree, stepped forward with serene dignity, her silver robes rippling like liquid moonlight. An Elf born of a lineage steeped in ancient tradition, she embodied grace and strength, a testament to her people's bond with the natural world. Her violet eyes shimmered with timeless wisdom as her number was called, commanding reverence effortlessly. She approached the orb, bare feet brushing dew-kissed earth, fingers extending with quiet reverence. The orb pulsed under her touch, its light shifting to a crystalline ice blue—a pristine Water element sharpening into Ice. The air grew crisp, frost tracing delicate, spiderweb patterns across the grass, as if the field exhaled a chilled breath in awe. Aria's awakening was a precise fracture of tranquil water hardened into lethal ice—elegant, yet merciless, a power to freeze rivers or shatter stone. The crowd held its breath, Elves in the audience nodding with pride, as she stepped back, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips, her eyes reflecting the frost's sharp gleam.Next came Carla, Princess of the Continent, her presence unyielding resolve. Her family's reputation, forged in iron will and discipline, stood as a human bulwark against chaos. Her crimson cloak bore her house's sigil—a mountain entwined with rivers—its threads glinting in the dawn. Her energy thrummed as she approached, steps deliberate, gaze unyielding. When Carla's hand grazed the orb, its light pulsed in a dual rhythm—deep, shimmering blue of Water, then steady, grounding brown of Earth. A rare dual-element awakening, blending fluidity and solidity. The crowd's murmurs rose in respect, awe rippling through humans and Elves alike. Water and Earth spoke of adaptability anchored by resilience—an unbreakable foundation to flow like a river or stand firm as stone. Carla's eyes gleamed with quiet confidence as she withdrew, earning nods from stern-faced human nobles.Keith followed, son of a wealthy family cloaked in rumors of demonic ties, his dark attire stark against the field's vibrancy. Suspicion trailed him, yet his sharp confidence cut through whispers, posture unyielding. His palm pressed the orb, and its light twisted into a swirling black and silver—Darkness element, precise as a honed dagger cloaked in night's velvet. The crowd's whispers turned cautious; some clutched protective charms, wary of Darkness's reputation for curses. Yet Keith's awakening suggested mastery, not recklessness—a power wielded with surgical precision. His gaze remained steady as he stepped back, eyes glinting with determination, undaunted by skeptical murmurs.Rafael Flare, son of the Duchess Flare, strode forward with bold swagger, his crimson cape billowing like a flame. His family name silenced doubters, opening doors before he spoke. His presence crackled with energy, a spark waiting to ignite. The orb blazed under his hand, erupting in vibrant red flames—Fire element at the rare purple grade, a mark of elite, untamed power. Heat radiated, prickling skin and raising hairs, the grass at his feet curling from the warmth. Fire was raw passion, commanding respect and fear. Rafael's smirk burned as brightly as the flames, unshaken by towering expectations. Noble-born students cheered softly, admiring the purple grade's prestige.Abby, first daughter of the Scar Guild, approached with a warrior's precision, her leather armor etched with scars mirroring her guild's brutal legacy. The crowd shifted, her reputation as a fighter preceding her like a storm's shadow. Her steps were measured, her presence a coiled spring of disciplined strength. Her fingers touched the orb, and darkness welled forth—a deep, consuming shadow that drank in the light, not wild but honed by relentless will. The Darkness element, a tool of unyielding discipline. Awe rippled through, whispers tinged with reverence for the Scar Guild's blood-soaked legacy. Abby's awakening confirmed her strength, earning nods from grizzled warriors.Her twin brother followed, less known but potent, a subtle power beneath his calm demeanor. As his hand met the orb, the air brightened with radiant golden light—the Vitalis element, so rare it was a myth etched in ancient tomes, sung in ballads that stirred souls across centuries. Gasps erupted, professors leaning forward, eyes wide, some dropping quills in astonishment. Vitalis was the breath of creation, a power to mend shattered bones, restore fading souls, or snuff out life with a whisper. Only a handful in history had wielded it, their names immortalized as demigods in songs echoing through time. The golden hue pulsed once, then twice—a cosmic heartbeat reverberating through the field, sending shivers through the crowd—before fading.No power was displayed. No magic erupted.But everyone understood.He had awakened Vitalis.The silence was electric, charged with fervent whispers of "Impossible!" and "A god's spark reborn!" Students craned their necks, some standing on tiptoe; a young half-Elf clutched her pendant, eyes wide with awe. Professors scribbled frantic notes, one muttering about ancient prophecies. The air thrummed with the weight of a miracle. The twins' awakenings—Abby's disciplined shadow and his radiant Vitalis—declared the Scar Guild's might doubled, a divine harmony of darkness and life, a force to reshape destinies.Lytio Tempest, the Duke's son, stepped forward, his name heavy with infamy. "The Betrayer's son," the crowd hissed, Duke Charles Tempest's scandal staining his legacy. Yet Lytio moved with calm resolve, heart pounding behind stoic composure, eyes fixed on the orb. When his palm touched it, a gust swept the field—a heavy breath stirring grass, ruffling cloaks, and sending a chill through the crowd. The orb's light flickered: yellow, green, blue—settling into a vibrant wind element at the rare purple grade, matching Rafael's elite mark. The air hummed with its presence, a vibration whispering of storms that could rend mountains, cradle a leaf, or carve paths through the heavens. Gasps rose, eyes widening at the rarity; purple-grade wind demanded finesse and iron will, a power few could master. Professors nodded, one whispering, "A storm to rival Flare's flame." Lytio's awakening defied his father's shadow, earning murmurs of respect from even skeptical onlookers.Others followed, adding to the field's vibrant tapestry. Elara, a wiry girl from a merchant family, approached with nervous steps, her plain tunic belying quiet ambition. The orb flared cyan—lightning element at cyan grade, a vibrant spark crackling, sending static dancing along the grass. Whispers of admiration followed; cyan was potent, a mark of agility, and traders in the crowd beamed. Torin, a broad-shouldered boy from a lesser house, touched the orb, its light blooming green—flame element at green grade, warm and steady like a hearth's glow. The crowd murmured approval for its reliability. Mira, a shy half-Elf with braided hair, awakened a soft green-grade earth element, the ground trembling faintly, earning nods for its stability.The ceremony continued, but the main awakenings were etched into the morning's stillness, the field alive with the hum of new destinies. The air was thick with unspoken questions, possibilities hanging like mist over the wildflowers. No flames roared. No shadows writhed. No earth quaked. Just the pulse of promise, the quiet genesis of legacies
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Gasps rose, eyes snapping to him as the realization sank in—he wasn't just the Betrayer's son. He was a purple-grade Wind wielder. A storm in human form.
"Great," Lytio thought dryly, "now they're all staring like I grew wings or something. As if this changes anything. As if power washes away a name."
He kept his expression neutral, but inside, his stomach twisted. Not from fear. From memory.
"Purple-grade. Just like him."
The weight of his father's legacy pressed like a vice on his chest, cold and constant. No applause could silence that ghost. No element could undo the betrayal that burned his family name into every whisper, every glance.
"Let them talk. Let them think I'm the next Charles. It makes it easier when I break their expectations."
The wind coiled around him, almost protective. It wasn't loud or showy—it was a promise. A whisper of freedom. Movement. Change.
He turned from the orb and walked back, steps light, posture relaxed—almost cocky. But his fingers twitched, betraying the tension humming through him.
"This power... I'll make it mine. Not his. Mine."