A stunned silence gripped the arena.
Even the Grand Mage paused longer than usual before announcing it, eyes narrowing with both respect and curiosity. His lips parted slightly, but no words ca imdiately—only a soft, breathless exhale as he recalibrated the weight of what he had just seen.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
One of the commanders scribbled sothing hurriedly onto his parchnt, ink blotting in his haste.
A noble near the Valen balcony scoffed audibly, muttering to another, "Even the gutter breeds anomalies now."
Others turned their attention to the noble stage, their gazes sharpening—eyes now locked on Lucas, the next heir in line, as if daring him to rise above or fall beneath.
Lucas’s breath caught. His mouth was dry.
He felt like he was swallowing stone.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, and he clenched them into fists to mask it.
From the noble balconies above, Seraphina leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white with tension. Her lips moved in silent prayer, barely visible to those nearby, a whisper of a mother’s hope lost in the wind.
Bennett stood beside her, arms crossed, his gaze sharpened with focus. A subtle twitch in his jaw was the only sign of the tension coiled beneath his calm surface, but his golden eyes never left his son.
Seraphina whispered, almost to herself, "He’s trying so hard to be strong."
Bennett nodded once, his voice barely audible, "And he is."
He watched the orb fade from Karim’s touch and narrowed his eyes.
’That was the closest I’ve seen so far...’ he thought to himself, ’but still not the sa thing.’
Karim was then led off the stage by two attendants.
The boy still looked stunned—as if even he didn’t know what had just happened.
His steps were small and stiff, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking toward applause or exile.
And neither did anyone else. Whispers followed his exit, as heavy as the footsteps that carried him, so awestruck, so bitter, all electrified.
"From the lower class... six strings," Lucas murmured, barely audible.
Ash looked at him then, for the first ti since they’d arrived, "It happens. Talent is not reserved rely to the nobles with their bloodlines."
Lucas clenched his fists, "I thought it would be easier but the pressure’s only increased. I have to prove I’m worthy of my na."
Ash didn’t reply at first, his eyes flicking away for a mont, almost as if second-guessing whether to speak.
When he finally did, his voice was quieter than usual—less composed, almost hesitant. "Don’t bother thinking too deeply on the previous six-stringers... You need to know that chasing soone else’s legacy usually ans forgetting your own. So, do what you need to do. And whatever the result, make sure it’s yours."
Lucas nodded, swallowing the pressure down like a burning coal.
Lucas’s breath eased a little. "You think I’ll hold up?"
Ash nodded slowly. "You already are. You haven’t run. You haven’t broken."
Lucas gave a small, crooked smile, sothing lighter in his expression, "Thank you."
He then turned his gaze back to the stage. The lights kept rising. But now, his grip was steadier. The storm inside him had not passed—but it had been nad.
Before Lucas could think further, another na was called, cutting through the thick air like a blade.
Ash glanced around, observing the rest of the five-year-olds clustered on the stage.
One tiny girl clung to her older sibling’s sleeve, whispering fears through trembling lips.
Another boy crouched on the ground, his lips moving rapidly as he recited numbers or perhaps nas—sothing to anchor his mind against the weight of judgnt.
A third child, face pale and eyes darting, looked ready to bolt at the sound of his na. Even among the nobles, where poise was prized and practiced like swordplay, the masks of composure couldn’t hide the wide eyes and stiff postures.
They were all children, standing beneath the weight of an audience that demanded legacies, demanded destiny.
Ash could feel the nervous aether leaking from the children’s cores, as if their bodies were struggling to keep up with the emotional burden pressing down on them.
’This is what I missed...’ he told him, subconsciously reliving the mory of his own ceremony.
After another thirty children, a fresh ripple of tension stirred among the gathered children.
From the middle platform, a boy stepped forward in a crisp but modest navy-blue tunic, his shoulders squared with practiced pride.
His fingers brushed the orb—and five strands of lightning crackled into life, brilliant yellow streaks dancing upward.
"Lightning affinity. Five-string talent."
A hum of excitent pulsed through the stands.
Military officers jotted notes.
A few nobles leaned over their balconies, whispering with renewed attention, while two commanders exchanged quiet, impressed nods.
Another noble child stepped forward—a girl in a gown threaded with moon-silver. She touched the orb. Three strands, soft violet and white.
"Psychic affinity. Three strings."
And after this girl... the Grand Mage’s voice echoed once more.
"Lucas Valen of House Valen. Step forward."
Everything stopped. The hum of the crowd dimd, the motion of attendants paused, and even the flicker of the orb seed to wait.
From the noble balconies, the murmurs began to twist into sharpened voices.
"That’s the Valen boy," soone whispered, "They’re calling him now."
"Let’s see if he can live up to his grandfather’s legend," another murmured with a smile too sharp to be kind. "Or if he folds like most of the second-generation heirs."
A woman in silver-stitched robes leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Seraphina and Bennett, "Quite the nerves he must have—everyone watching, especially with your family na behind him. A heavy burden, wouldn’t you say?"
Bennett’s mouth remained sealed.
Seraphina offered no reply either.
But their silence was telling.
Bennett’s jaw tightened visibly, and Seraphina’s eyes followed her son’s every movent with fierce, quiet intensity. Around them, the air seed heavier—not with expectation alone, but with the pressure of generations.
They watched their son descend into the arena, and though no words escaped them, it was clear: the weight of legacy was already pressing down on them too.
Lucas felt every muscle in his body tense.
As he rose slowly, his pulse drumd loud and fast in his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the crowd. His legs felt like they were moving through water, heavy and deliberate.
A single thought burned its way through his mind: What if I’m not enough? What if all the expectations crash down and leave nothing standing?
He wanted to run, to delay, to disappear—but instead, he inhaled through his nose, forced his shoulders back, and walked toward the center of the storm.
Ash gave him a single nod—nothing more, nothing less.
’Thank you, grandpa...’ Lucas thought to himself as he found comfort in seeing Ash.
He stepped toward the platform, each footfall echoing louder than it should have. A thousand eyes followed him.
The air itself seed heavier, charged with unseen judgnt and unspoken hope.
And as he walked beneath the gaze of thousands, he knew—this was his mont.
He placed his palm on the orb.
At first, nothing.
Then, with a sudden gust of swirling aether, the orb ignited with radiant light...
One strand.
Then another.
And another.
Strings of brilliant silver-green light surged from the core of the orb, spiraling upward in a dance of wind and energy. They shimred with motion, twining like flowing streams of air itself.
The crowd gasped as the number climbed.
Four.
Five.
Six—
Then the seventh burst forth, brighter and wilder than the rest, sending a whoosh of wind across the stage and causing the orb to vibrate under Lucas’s touch.
"Wind affinity... Seven-string talent," the Grand Mage finally announced, his voice montarily shaken by awe.
The arena was silent.
Then, a tidal wave of reactions rippled through it—noble houses stiffened like drawn bows, the military recruiters jolted to attention as if summoned by a war horn, and whispers exploded across the tiers like the rumble of a coming storm.
Gasps turned into stunned disbelief. The na Lucas Valen surged through the stands like lightning across a dry plain.
"A seven-string? That’s the sa as High Commander Callen..."
"That boy just matched the might of a man who led armies—who stood beside kings!"
"There are less than fifteen known seven-strings in Eldoria’s entire history!"
So nobles stood, others leaned over the railings, eyes wide, expressions stretched between awe and dread.
One high noble with a jeweled monocle dropped his goblet, wine staining his robes as he mumbled, "He’s no longer a child. That’s a successor. A weapon. A claim."
The weight of legacy had beco prophecy.
A flurry of scouts wrote notes in enchanted ink with trembling hands.
Several ssengers departed the arena imdiately, dispatched to lords, generals, and factions across the city.
Lucas stood frozen.
His mouth parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
Seven! He had seven!
Equal to none of the nas that had co before. Greater than even his father.
His eyes widened as realization crashed down like a wave.
The pressure didn’t lift—it multiplied.
’Well... damn,’ Ash stared in silent shock, ’He’s matched ...’
The Grand Mage blinked once—slowly—as if unsure he’d seen correctly, then gave a slow, reverent nod before speaking again.
His expression had shifted from ceremonial neutrality to sothing closer to intrigue... or even caution.
’I did it!’ Lucas scread to himself ntally, joyous shock filling his head as he knew he had done his father proud.
Then, like a tremor beneath his ribs, another thought rose.
Why, then, does it feel like I’ve only made things harder?
Is this pride? Or a sentence?
His heart pounded.
Every stare, every whisper from the crowd climbed onto his shoulders.
He wasn’t just the son of House Valen anymore—he was the new standard.
Up in the balconies, Bennett’s mouth parted slightly, his gaze locked and unmoving. Seraphina pressed a hand to her lips, eyes shimring.
’He’s more than I ever imagined,’ Bennett finally murmured.
Back on the platform, Lucas felt his legs wobble beneath him.
Not from weakness—but from the weight of revelation.
Just then, Ash’s ears twitched.
His pupils narrowed, body stiffening subtly. A whisper on the wind, not from magic, not from awe—but sothing else.
Sothing wrong.
His gaze swept the arena crowd, and without knowing how, he knew that sothing was off...
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