The transition from the library to the training yard was a shift from silence to symphony.
As Stars stepped out of the West Wing, the scent of old paper was replaced by the metallic tang of iron, the salt of sweat, and the earthy smell of churned mud. The Myers Training Yard was not a playground; it was a factory for soldiers.
He walked along the perimeter, observing the teenagers—the "seedlings" of the next decade. They were fifteen, sixteen years old, their bodies glistening as they ran drills with weighted swords.
"Good afternoon, Young Master Stars."
A servant, dressed in the practical grey livery of the yard staff, bowed low.
"Your instructor is waiting in the Junior Sector. The Assessment Group has already gathered."
Stars nodded and followed the servant past the heavy combat zones to a secluded grassy area near the armory. Here, the atmosphere was different. There was no clashing of steel, only the nervous shuffling of small feet.
A group of children stood in a semi-circle. They were a mix of bloodlines and backgrounds, united only by the invisible mark of potential.
Stars scanned the faces.
He recognized the two standing in the center instantly. They bore the Myers features—dark hair and sharp eyes—though diluted by their mother's side.
"Cousins," Stars cataloged.
The boy was tall for his age, perhaps three years old, standing with a rigidity that mimicked the knights nearby. This was Austin Myers, son of Darran's third brother, Bryne. Uncle Bryne was the Vanguard, a man who lived on the front lines, and his son seemed to have inherited that martial stoicism.
Next to him was a girl, two years old like Stars. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, radiating an infectious, chaotic energy.
"Hello, baby brother!" she squealed, breaking the formation.
Before Stars could calculate an evasion trajectory, she had closed the distance. Hands that were surprisingly strong for a toddler clamped onto his cheeks.
"You are quite peculiar," she giggled, squishing his face, "but very cute!"
Stars endured the assault with a deadpan expression. "Greetings, Cousin Lyra. Your grip strength is... adequate."
Austin nodded at him—a sharp, single dip of the chin. "Stars."
"Austin," Stars replied, extricating himself from Lyra's hands.
Stars turned his attention to the others. There was a pale boy with fine features, hailing from a vassal noble house. He offered a charming, practiced smile. But Stars' gaze drifted past him to the boy standing at the edge of the group.
He was dressed in simple, rough-spun cotton. He had the calloused hands of someone who worked the fields, and he looked terrified to be standing on the castle grounds. But his aura...
Stars narrowed his eyes. The boy's energy was dense. It was a High Grade talent, only a fraction less potent than Stars' own.
Elian's words echoed in his mind: Meritocracy. This boy was the proof.
"Attention!"
The voice cracked through the air like a whip. The children jumped, snapping to face the front.
A man walked toward them. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing a leather cuirass scarred by claw marks. He walked with a slight limp—a souvenir from a battlefield—but his presence was as solid as an oak tree. This was Instructor Kael, a retired Captain invited personally by the Myers for his tactical brilliance.
"I do not care who your father is," Kael growled, his eyes sweeping over the noble children and the commoner alike. "I do not care if you sleep on silk or straw. In this yard, you are all just empty vessels waiting to be filled. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Instructor!" Austin shouted. The others mumbled a chaotic agreement.
"Good."
Kael paced in front of them.
"You have passed the Assessment. You have the Talent. Now, you must choose the Path." He held up two fingers.
"The Arcane—the World Essence—is everywhere. It is in the wind, the stone, the blood in your veins. But a mortal body cannot simply 'hold' it. You must store it."
He tapped his forehead.
"The Upper Core. Located in the mind. Those who store Essence here are called Mystics. They use knowledge to shape reality. They cast spells, manipulate elements, and strike from a distance. It requires vast intellect."
He then tapped his navel.
"The Lower Core. Located in the center of the body. Those who store Essence here are called Bloodline Knights. They use the energy to reinforce their flesh, bones, and speed. They become living weapons. It requires immense physical will."
Kael paused, looking directly at Stars, then at the commoner boy.
"Most choose one. It is safer. It is faster."
"Is there a third option?" Stars asked, his voice cutting through the silence.
Kael grinned. It was a wolfish expression.
"There is. The Mystic Knight. One who cultivates both Cores simultaneously." The other children whispered. Even Lyra looked impressed.
"But be warned," Kael's voice dropped. "It is a path of agony. It requires the mind of a scholar and the body of a beast. It takes twice the time and twice the resources. Most who try it fail at both." He clapped his hands together, a sound like a thunderclap.
"Enough talk. Theory is for the classroom. Here, we feel." He gestured to the grass.
"Sit. Close your eyes. Forget your name. Forget your hunger. Feel the air against your skin. That is not just wind. That is the breath of the world." Stars sat cross-legged.
He closed his eyes.
Upper Core. Lower Core. Dual Path.
The choice was illogical for anyone seeking an easy life. But Stars hadn't been born for ease. He had been born to analyze, to conquer, and to build.
He took a deep breath, and for the first time, he reached out with his mind, not to see the world, but to drink it in.