Ezra wasn't dreaming.
But it didn't feel like he was awake either.
Somewhere deep in his head, he saw it all—his other life. It played out like a movie stuck on fast-forward. He saw himself as a baby, crying and cold as his mom left him in front of her mother's house. Abandoning him for a better life. That part hurt more than any punch or kick when he realized this when he tried to find her.
Then his grandma… the only one who cared. died before he could even talk properly due to overwork and the fact her body couldn't handle the stress of working multiple jobs to raise him.
After that, it was the orphanage. Getting picked on, ignored, and shoved around by other kids until he got strong enough to stop them. He pushed through school, fought like hell to get into college but nothing went well. Then ended up joining the Army to escape the hard life and debt that began to pile up. There, he discovered his love for guns. Not just shooting them, but understanding them. How they worked. Why they mattered. Every bolt, every spring, every type of steel that was used in making them.
He became an expert, but retired due to an issue which he couldn't recollect in his dream. The dream continued from when he opened a small firearm shop at forty-six.
But it didn't last.
Some kid stole a gun and tried to run. Ezra had reached out, maybe yelled too loud, and the kid shot him. Just like that. His life ended in the middle of an empty store, surrounded by the very things he loved.
"Life was cruel too, huh?" he thought bitterly, watching that last scene fade out—
BWAAAAAH!
A horn blared through the quarters, loud enough to make his heart skip.
Ezra blinked hard, startled. He sat up quickly, groaning as pain shot through his ribs and head. His body remembered the beating from Pamela and her thugs. His forehead throbbed from where it hit the mirror.
But something was different.
His head was wrapped in bandages. Someone had cleaned the wound.
He touched it gently. "…Was it that guard? The woman?" he muttered, blinking at the ceiling. "Guess she's not that heartless or…" he started rambling in his mind but was cut off.
The horn blared again, louder.
Ezra scrambled up, wincing. His uniform was neatly laid out, white buttoned shirt, black trousers, polished shoes, and a short black cape that clipped across the chest. He rushed to brush his teeth, splashing water on his face to shake off the leftover sleep. Outside, boys were lining up under the eyes of stern-faced guards. Girls filed out of a separate wing, dressed almost the same, only with black skirts and capes that hung a bit shorter.
***
Ezra followed the group, careful not to draw attention. His eyes darted around for Pamela or her goons. If she caught him again, she might not wait for a guard to show up next time.
They were led to a massive classroom, one of the biggest rooms Ezra had ever seen. Rows of desks stretched out neatly. The walls were stone, but not rough, smooth and cool, like polished granite. Huge banners of the Ashenlocke crest hung on each wall. The emblem, a crossed steel revolver with gears behind it, seemed to watch them all.
Kids chatted as they entered, voices echoing. Some greeted friends. Others stuck close to kids from their family lines. Ezra kept his head down and found a seat near the edge. He didn't even have friends since his brother was the one who met with people of the family while he just stayed in his quarters.
Then the room went quiet.
The door opened again.
And in walked a woman.
She wasn't just beautiful—she looked like someone drawn out of a magazine cover or one of those fantasy game posters. Her white hair flowed like snow under sunlight. She wore a tight black skirt and a white shirt that clung to her curves, with a long black coat flaring behind her. Her heels clicked loudly as she walked, and even the way she stood had power in it.
The girls stared in envy.
The boys just stared amused.
Ezra blinked. Even he felt weirdly amazed.
Two guards walked in behind her, one man, one woman. They stood like statues at her side.
The woman's gaze scanned the classroom.
"Good morning, children of Ashenlocke," she said, her voice calm but sharp. "My name is Freya Ashenlocke."
Her tone made everyone sit straighter.
"I know most of you are still shaken from yesterday's trial," she continued. "Some of you took lives. Others were nearly killed. I'm not here to tell you to be sad about that."
Ezra swallowed hard, thinking of the boy he shot. Others looked away too, guilt flashing in their eyes.
"But," Freya said, her voice rising just slightly, "you should be glad. You're alive. That means you were strong enough to make it. The dead don't get second chances, but you who survive have it. So, don't waste it and continue fighting to survive."
It was brutal. But honestly.
And for some reason, that actually lifted the mood. A few kids nodded. Ezra didn't smile, but he felt… steadier.
Freya turned to the board behind her, where the words Path of Alchemy – Ashenlocke Lineage were written in bold white letters.
"For the next three weeks," she explained, "you will study the foundations of Alchemy. Especially our family's path, Gun Alchemy. Because during the third trial, every one of you will undergo your awakening ceremony."
Ezra leaned forward. His heart picked up.
"Gun Alchemy…" he whispered under his breath.
Freya looked at them. "Children from the main family branches may already know one or two on what Alchemy is. But most of you from the lower lines have barely touched it. That's why this class matters."
She paused. "Can someone from the main house explain what Alchemy is?"
A girl stood. Black hair, perfectly tied back. Pale skin. Her voice was calm and polished. "Alchemy is the power to transform, create, and combine. By using and reshaping natural resources."
Freya smiled slightly. "Well said, Vera. Simple and clean."
Some kids clapped lightly. Ezra noticed people around Vera nodding, clearly used to her being the smart one.
"Alchemy," Freya continued, "lets us manipulate matter. Any material, any form. Fire. Water. Stone. Metal. But in our house—Ashenlocke—we specialize in metals. And more specifically… guns."
She walked over to a table where one of the guards laid two heavy metal bars.
"These are steel ingots," she said. "Watch carefully."
She held her palm over the bars. A soft white light with black shards glowed around her wrist. The steel started to melt, but not like with heat. It became malleable, floating and twisting through the air.
The whole class gasped.
The metal reformed slowly, reshaping into a full revolver—perfectly made, every detail clean.
Ezra's jaw dropped. It looked just like the one from the trial. But this one hadn't been assembled.
It had been made.
"This is Gun Alchemy," Freya said. "Understanding the chemical bonds of steel or metals, the structure of a gun, and reshaping it with your will. It is science and willpower combined."
"But," she added, "you cannot perform real Alchemy without reaching a certain level of Cognis. Your mind is your engine. Your focus, your strength. Right now, most of you are between 11% to 25%."
She turned to the board again and pointed to a chart:
The Path of Alchemy (Cognis Rankings)
★ Novice Alchemist (26%–30%)
★★ Binder Alchemist (31%–43%)
★★★ Adept Alchemist (44%–50%)
★★★★ Meister Alchemist (51%–59%)
★★★★★ Arcanist Alchemist (60%–65%)
★★★★★★ Grand Arcanist (66%–71%)
★★★★★★★ Alchemist General (72%–76%)
★★★★★★★★ Alchemist Scholar (77%–80%)
★★★★★★★★★ Alchemist Sage (81%–88%) – Highest ever reached
★★★★★★★★★★ Philosopher (89%–∞%) – Mythical, never achieved
"The Novice rank is where everything begins, but being a one-star Alchemist doesn't mean you can create a revolver as easy as I did" she explained "You have to first reach the two-star rank which to normal Alchemist it can take years, but by completing the Trials of Steel you all will graduate being Binder Alchemist. Now, for the Philosopher rank," Freya said, "is the dream. A legend. The idea of infinite Cognis. But no one has ever reached it. Not even close. The highest ever recorded in Britannia was 88%."
She stepped back.
"You don't need to aim for myths. For now, survive. Grow. Your trials will increase your Cognis. If you can reach 26%, you'll unlock your alchemist state."
Ezra's head buzzed with questions. So much to take in.
But deep inside, something clicked. Guns. Chemistry. Transformation.
This Trial of Steel.
No, This Family.
With the knowledge of his past life, he might have a big chance of surviving.
***
The weeks passed like a blur.
Every morning, Ezra trained his body. Jogging around the stone courtyard, stretching, doing weird drills from his past life in the Army. Some kids stared, confused. His routines didn't look normal. But he didn't care.
After training, he'd go to the library. Row after row of books that he could find on chemistry, metal properties, energy flow, history, and weapon design. He read nonstop. Studied diagrams. Took notes until his hand cramped.
He discovered he was in Metallica, the city to the east of Britannia and the Ashenlocke were the ones governing everything that was in the place, which explained why they could easily pull off a program like this.
He also learned basic knowledge about steel compounds. Gun mechanisms. Powder reactions. Alchemical fusion theories.
At night, he'd collapse into bed, mind buzzing, body sore. But every day, he felt sharper. Stronger.
Pamela never approached him during those weeks. Maybe because of the guard warning. Or maybe she was planning something.
But the others avoided him, especially the kids from lower houses. They gave him glances, whispering like he was cursed. Marked. It didn't matter.
Let them whisper.
He'd survive.
***
Three weeks later.
The trial hall was packed. The giant stone room glowed under the torch-like lights. Everyone stood tall in their uniforms. Freya was already at the front, arms behind her back.
The tension was thick.
No one smiled.
Everyone knew, Trial Two was here.
Ezra took a deep breath, fists clenched at his side. His heart beat steady. No panic this time.
He was ready.
At least, he hoped he was.