Kael stood at the entrance of the rune craft, taking in the rows of workbenches, the shelves of blank stone slabs, the cabinets of inscription tools, and the single ancient figure hunched over a desk at the far end of the room. Dim light filtered through narrow windows. Mana crystals embedded in the ceiling provided the rest—soft, steady, impossible to accidentally disrupt with wayward energy.

Perfect for precision work.

Master Finnick looked up as Kael approached. He was ancient—skin like crumpled parchment, white hair wispy and thin, eyes buried behind wrinkles so deep they looked like scars. A pair of reading spectacles sat on his nose, magnifying his already sharp gaze to uncomfortable proportions.

"You’re the Vorn boy," Finnick said. Not a question.

"Yes, Master."

"Hmph." Finnick returned to his work—a complex rune array spreading across a slate that glowed faintly with contained energy. "Sit. Bench seven. Tools in the cabinet behind you. Grab a chisel, a mana brush, and three blank slabs. Don’t touch anything else."

Kael complied.

The cabinet was organized with military precision—chisels of various sizes arranged by width, mana brushes sorted by bristle stiffness, slabs stacked in neat columns. Kael selected what he’d been told and carried them to bench seven.

"Do a basic stabilization rune," Finnick called without looking up. "Three strokes. Horizontal base, vertical rise, curved cap. Chapter one of the manual you should have read before walking in here. Begin."

Kael opened the manual he’d purchased with academy credits—a thin booklet titled "Foundations of Rune Inscription: A Beginner’s Guide." He’d read it twice last night. The strokes looked simple.

He picked up the mana brush, dipped it in the provided ink—a pale blue solution that shimmered with contained mana—and placed the tip against the blank slab.

Horizontal base.

The brush moved on the paper.

Instead of a clean stroke, the mana-infused ink spread outward like water on tissue paper. The horizontal base became a horizontal smear. The vertical rise, when he attempted it, fared worse—wider at the top than the bottom, wobbling like a drunk man’s signature.

The curved cap didn’t happen at all.

Kael stared at the ruined slab.

Finnick appeared beside him.

"Again," the instructor said.

Kael tried.

Same result.

Third attempt.

Worse.

Fourth.

Even worse than that.

Finnick watched all four attempts with the expression of a man being slowly tortured by incompetence.

"Stop."

Kael set down the brush.

"Your mana capacity," Finnick said slowly, as if explaining something to a very stupid child, "is obscene. I can see it from here. It’s leaking out of you like a goddamn dam."

Kael opened his mouth.

"Shut up. I’m not done." Finnick poked the ruined slab with one gnarled finger. "Rune inscription requires precision. Microscopic precision. The mana in the ink must flow in exactly the path your brush dictates—no more, no less. You’re pushing enough mana through that brush to power a small ward array. The ink can’t contain it. The stone can’t channel it. So it bleeds."

He looked up at Kael with eyes that were far sharper than his wrinkled face suggested.

"Stop wielding a sledgehammer to paint a portrait."

Kael was quiet for a long moment.

"Lyra said something similar," he murmured.

"I don’t know who Lyra is, and I don’t care. What I care about is whether you can follow basic instructions." Finnick crossed his arms. "Your first task isn’t to inscribe a rune. Your first task is to channel mana through the brush without bleeding. One line, horinzontal and claen. Take as long as you need, boy."

He walked away.

Kael looked at the blank slab.

Sledgehammer to paint a portrait.

He picked up the brush.

And tried to be gentle.

Three hours later, Kael had produced exactly one clean line.

It was two inches long. Slightly wavy. Not perfect by any standard.

But at least it didn’t bleed.

Finnick glanced at it, grunted, and told him to do fifty more.

Kael got to work.

The leaderboard flickered in the arena observation deck.

Kael sat in the back row, fingers sore from three hours of brushwork, watching the afternoon challenge matches. The arena below was a massive circular pit. Gold class students fought in scheduled matches, each one an opportunity to climb or fall on the rankings.

GOLD CLASS LEADERBOARD — WEEK 3

1. Yenna Frostveil — Sector 1

2. Karacus Drakemore — Sector 3

3. Cassian Vale — Sector 3

4. Mason Croft — Sector 3

5. Domitric Vane — Sector 2

....

20. Kael Vorn — Sector 3

...

29. Atlas Graves — Sector 3

Kael’s eyes lingered on the last name.

Atlas Graves. Former rank 1 of Sector 3. The man who’d held the top position through political maneuvering and family influence—his uncle was the head combat instructor at Sector 3, a fact that everyone knew and nobody could prove was relevant to Atlas’s placement.

Foundation Establishment Rank 7.

And currently sitting at rank 29—just a spot from dropping out of Gold class entirely.

Down in the arena, a match ended. A Silver class student who’d challenged up got ragdolled by a Gold class brawler. The crowd cheered politely. The loser was carried off on a stretcher.

"Kael Vorn."

The voice came from the arena floor.

Atlas Graves stood at the edge of the pit, arms crossed, earth manipulation making the sand shift around his feet in lazy spirals. He was big—tall, broad, built like a wall with a face attached. Not handsome, not ugly, just solid, like someone had sculpted a human out of concrete and forgotten to add some personality.

"I challenge you."

The observation deck went quiet.

Kael leaned forward slightly.

Atlas’s eyes found his across the distance assuming Kael was a easy target due to been rank 4.

Kael smiled.

"Your cultivation is Rank 7," Kael called back. "How did you manage that? Pills? Resources? Your uncle’s special training program?"

The crowd murmured. A few laughs escaped.

Atlas’s jaw tightened. The sand at his feet churned—not enough to be threatening, but enough to show his anger.

"Accept the challenge or don’t. But everyone here knows you only made Gold class because of sector 3’s inflated rankings. You don’t belong here."

Kael stood.

He walked to the arena railing and looked down at Atlas.

"Rank 29," Kael said. "Almost out of Gold class. Your uncle can’t help you here—Planetary Orion doesn’t care about Sector 3 politics. You’re drowning, Atlas. And you think picking on the lowest-ranked Gold student will buy you enough points to stay afloat."

Atlas’s earth manipulation flared. Sand rose in a ring around him.

"Accept or decline."

Kael vaulted the railing.

He landed in the sand pit with a soft thump—gravity manipulation cushioning the descent, absorbing the impact, spreading it across his body like water.

He straightened and faced Atlas.

"I accept."

The crowd roared.

Rank 7, Kael thought. Last rank 7 I fought nearly killed me.

His smirk widened.

Let’s see how much I’ve learned.