The Cultivation Aptitude Ceremony was held without fanfare.
No ancient platforms were awakened. No layered skies shifted. The event took place within a regulated hall governed by standardized arrays—tools designed not to inspire awe, but to produce answers.
This ceremony existed for one purpose only.
To determine whether a child could cultivate.
Cassian Aetherion stood at its center.
He was five years old.
Unlike the Spirit Alignment Ceremony, attendance was sparse. No high thrones were present. No archivists prepared sealed records. Only appointed examiners, several elders, and representatives whose duty was observation rather than judgment.
Routine.
That, too, spoke volumes.
The first array activated.
Qi was drawn into the chamber, circulating in a controlled loop before being guided toward Cassian's body. The process was simple—allow the meridians to resonate, observe the response, and record the degree of compatibility.
The array pulsed once.
Then stalled.
The examiner frowned slightly and adjusted the flow, increasing intensity within acceptable parameters.
Nothing changed.
No resonance.
No circulation.
No response.
"Reset," the examiner said calmly.
The array disengaged and restarted.
Again—nothing.
A second array was brought online, this one more invasive. It traced the internal pathways directly, mapping the meridians themselves rather than testing reaction.
Light formed briefly within Cassian's body—faint, clinical, precise.
Then dispersed.
The mapping returned blank.
Silence settled over the hall.
"That's… unusual," one examiner murmured.
"Proceed," an elder said.
A third test followed. Then a fourth.
Each used a different method. Each was verified. Each was conducted with increasing care.
The result did not change.
Cassian stood quietly throughout, expression calm, posture relaxed. He neither resisted nor assisted. His breathing remained steady, his gaze unfocused, as though the outcome did not concern him.
At last, the final examiner stepped back.
He hesitated.
Then spoke.
"The meridians are present," he said carefully. "But they are… non-functional."
The words landed heavily.
Another examiner approached, reviewing the data personally. His expression tightened as he confirmed the results.
"There is no circulation," he said. "No capacity for qi intake or refinement."
An elder closed his eyes briefly.
"What you are saying," he asked slowly, "is that the child cannot cultivate."
The examiner bowed his head.
"Yes."
Not weak.
Not delayed.
Cannot.
No one spoke for a long moment.
This was not a failure that could be mitigated with resources or time. It was not a matter of talent or effort.
It was final.
Elara's hands tightened within her sleeves, her composure unbroken but rigid. Seraphiel remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the arrays that now lay dormant, useless.
Around them, reactions varied.
Some faces softened with pity.
Others relaxed with relief.
A few sharpened with calculation.
One representative exhaled quietly.
"So the spirit anomaly is… isolated," he said, choosing his words with care. "Without cultivation, its impact should remain contained."
No one contradicted him.
The conclusion formed naturally, almost eagerly.
Spirit cultivation without physical support was unstable.
Rare.
Historically self-limiting.
A curiosity.
Not a threat.
Records were written.
Cassian Aetherion was classified as non-cultivating.
The ceremony ended shortly thereafter.
No announcements were made. No corrections issued. The hall emptied in an orderly fashion, its purpose fulfilled.
Cassian stepped down from the platform on his own.
He did not look back.
As the doors closed behind the last observer, the arrays powered down completely, their glow fading into silence.
For the first time since his birth, Empyreal Heaven reached a conclusion about Cassian Aetherion.
And in doing so—
It stopped paying attention.