Aurelia - POV
Aurelia Vael Taranis set the Message Interface (MIF) down harder than she meant to. "What a jerk!" she thought.
The MIF pulsed once—dim and innocent on the lacquered edge of the floating study desk—before going quiet. She was in one of the upper-class lounges. It was actually her private lounge, the one her mother insisted she have. "So you can focus," she had said with that infuriating smile of hers.
She folded her arms and leaned back in her hovering chair. Students outside her lounge still whispered her name like it was forbidden, like saying it too loud would summon her.
She hated this part of being Aurelia. The reverence. The fear. The way everyone bent themselves into knots trying to impress her. No one ever talked to her. Not really. Except one person. SwordWannabe.
Her lips twitched at the name. Ridiculous. Crude. Unrefined. And completely unlike anyone she'd ever met.
They'd first crossed blades six months ago in the Ashglass Arena—one of the hardest practice dungeons inside the Crucible Realms, a realm-based training system licensed and maintained by the Arcane Military Directorate. Not a game. Not an illusion. Pain real, fatigue real, results very real. But no death—unless your pride counted.
She'd been bored. Everyone in the top tiers either groveled or broke the second she took them seriously. But he didn't. He fought like someone who had nothing to lose—gritty, messy, relentless. His sword style was full of unconventional stances and smooth fluxing of power that she still didn't really understand. This wasn't a polished style but practical and unconventional. But there was beauty in the way he adapted. No pride. No wasted motion. No fear. He beat her. Badly. She hadn't stopped thinking about it since.
In the last six months, their sparring sessions in the Ashglass Arena—one of the hardest practice dungeons inside the Crucible Realms—had become her singular obsession. The Ashglass Arena was pure combat, brutal and unforgiving, designed to push mana users to their breaking point.
But she had thought their friendship had transitioned. They also spent time in the Sword Master's Sanctum, another specialized corner of the Crucible Realms. The Sanctum was less about direct combat and more about scholarly pursuit, a magically conjured space where enthusiasts and scholars gathered to discuss the elusive Sword Master's Manuscript. Rumors claimed that fragments of the manuscript were hidden within various realms, waiting to be discovered by someone worthy—a testament to techniques so powerful they could shift the balance of power. "SwordWannabe" was undeniably obsessed with it.
And his style... that was the real puzzle. While most mages relied on bursts of channeled mana or complex spell glyphs, his fluid control of mana, that near-invisible "fluxing," was almost too controlled for the sheer power he unleashed. It hinted at a deeper understanding of mana than anything taught in conventional schools. But of course, they never talked about anything related to their personal lives.
"Stupid boy."
She reached for the MIF again but stopped. A half-eaten mana fruit floated nearby—untouched since the plaza landing. Her entrance to school was already trending on social media. That whole spectacle had been her mother's idea. Grand entrance, full diplomatic detail, aether-silk uniform, combat-class escorts. Ridiculous. It wasn't that she hated the attention. It was that it meant nothing.
Everyone already knew who she was. Aurelia Vael Taranis—heir of House Taranis. Daughter of High Enchantress Thelya. Direct bloodline of the Starlight Collective. Her mana affinity was the highest-ranked natural manifestation recorded in the Kingdom in the last 100 years. Her wings weren't vanity or artifice—they were a bloodline inheritance, encoded spell-structures passed down through eight generations of spellweaving brilliance tied specially to her mana signature. She didn't just hold starlight mana. She was starlight.
She'd won duels at nine. Crafted her first weapon circuit at eleven. Outmaneuvered trained officers by fifteen. They called her the best. Expected it. Demanded it. And it was exhausting. Because the better she got, the less real everyone else felt. Their praise rang hollow. Their awe wore thin. No one challenged her—not really. Not without expecting to lose. Until she met him.
He didn't know who she was. The realms dungeons were made for anonymity. For people to NOT know who you are. He'd once called her specially forged swordsmanship "a neat set of forms." He wasn't impressed. He wasn't intimidated. He joked with her. Teased her. Fought with her. Called her out on her bullshit. And he never asked for more. He gave even less. No name. No history. Just jokes and cryptic one-liners. But with surprising insight into life and times. And his movements told her things his words never would. Because in every spar, in every shift of stance, he made her feel something she hadn't felt in a long time. Present.
She tapped the crystal again, hoping. Nothing. "Ugh," she muttered, pushing back from the desk. Her stockings rustled softly beneath her skirt as she paced the chamber. Her room was too elegant, too polished—high windows, floating sigil lanterns, half a dozen spell-synced tablets. She'd take a cluttered sparring pit over this palace any day. "He's really not going to meet me," she whispered, annoyed and almost... hurt.
Aurelia Vael Taranis—the most powerful prodigy of her generation—could command an entire fleet with a gesture. She had mages twice her age groveling for her signature. But she couldn't get one moody sword nerd to come say hi. She even showed him her shockingly clad legs. Who ignores that? "Jerk."
She sighed and pulled her long silver hair out of its bun. "I hate this school," she mumbled. But that wasn't true. She hated feeling alone. And worse—she hated that he didn't care about meeting her for no reason that she could see.
***
The moment Aurelia stepped into the open-air walkway between spires, the shift hit her. Mana pressure—raw, agitated, barely controlled. She quickened her pace. Siella and the others chattered behind her, but their voices dropped as the tension in the air thickened. Ahead, students had gathered in a wide semicircle. Spells lit the air. Sparks sizzled. Fear hung heavy. Aurelia didn't ask. She pushed forward.
There were two of them in the center. One boy, clearly an incoming freshman like her, but who looked young, no older than 14, was backed against a pillar. Small. Thin. Spectacles half-cracked. His robe was a low-class issue, faded blue, sleeves too long. He was bleeding from his lip. He didn't even try to cast—just held up his hands as if that would stop it.
The other was Korrin Drestal. Fourth-year. Heir to House Drestal and walking proof that power didn't require character. A small crowd of highblood students flanked him, laughing as he conjured flickers of heat just inches from the younger man's face. "C'mon, little Nomad," Korrin jeered, lifting his wand. "You're in a school for elites. Do you even know what spell compression means? Or are you here to polish our boots?"
The boy stammered, trying to speak, but another spark cracked against his shoulder and he flinched hard.
Aurelia's jaw tightened. Her fingers twitched toward her own wand, but something shifted again—deeper this time. Another figure stepped into the ring. He moved like no one else there. Not polished. Not noble. But every step was grounded. Balanced. The crowd instinctively parted, not out of respect—out of instinct. His coat was battered. One sleeve frayed. His boots scuffed, not from fashion but from use. The sword on his back didn't gleam. It was old. Functional. Real.
Korrin turned with an amused grin. "Another low-class loser comes to beg?" The newcomer said nothing. Korrin's grin widened. "You want to make this your problem?" His voice was quiet. "You already made it mine." He reached behind his back and drew the sword.
Aurelia's breath caught. He didn't draw it like a noble. No ceremony. No flash. Just necessity. The blade cleared the sheath with a whisper. His left hand settled in the air—open, low, a counterbalance. She'd seen that stance before. Felt it crash into her ribcage in Ashglass Arena.
Korrin arched an eyebrow. "Really? You've no crest. I see you have no noble house, and your blade doesn't have any enchantments. How exactly do you plan to beat me?"
The man with the sword raised an eyebrow. "How do I plan to beat you? I plan to hit you repeatedly with my sword. Don't worry, I won't kill you."
The man smiled. "You are welcome."
Then he struck. A mid-tier fire burst—quick, dirty, enough to scorch clothes and leave serious burns. It was the kind of spell that usually ended fights in a single cast. The swordsman moved. Not fast.
Efficient.
One step.
A shoulder dip.
The spell missed by centimeters and exploded against the courtyard stone, sending heat across the crowd. Korrin cursed and launched another—this one arced, trying to catch him mid-dodge. He closed the distance instead. His sword came up—not to slash, but to strike. The flat hammered against Korrin's arm, sending sparks and bones rattling. Korrin yelped, staggering back, but not before lashing out with a shock spell point-blank. The swordsman took the hit. Electric current snapped across his shoulder and chest. He grit his teeth, jaw clenched, and drove his palm into Korrin's sternum hard enough to knock the wind from him. Korrin stumbled. Then he screamed. The swordsman had twisted the wand from his wrist and cracked it—snapping the focusing crystal. The crowd gasped.
Wands weren't cheap. They weren't exactly needed; the Systems interface allowed for casting spells directly from one's hands, but wands could help with consistency, mana conservation, and speed of casting. Plus, it was a mark of wealth. Scholarly mages used them. Battle mages did not. Breaking one wasn't just dangerous—it was personal.
Korrin lunged now, fists clenched, casting raw mana blasts from his open hands like a brawler. The swordsman moved like he'd fought a hundred of these guys. Every hit that landed was deliberate: a cut across the thigh, a bash to the ribs, a twist of the wrist. He wasn't showy. He was brutal. And it was working. Korrin collapsed after the sixth blow, face bruised, robe burned, unconscious before his head hit the flagstones. Silence rippled outward. Then someone clapped. It wasn't ironic. It wasn't mocking. It was stunned. A few others joined in—then more. The swordsman didn't acknowledge it. He sheathed his sword and turned toward the younger boy still shaking near the pillar. He bent down, offered a hand.
"You okay?" The kid nodded, eyes wide. He nodded back and walked away, straight past the crowd, ignoring the whispers.
That was when his eyes flicked up. And met hers. For the second time that day, Aurelia forgot how to breathe. He didn't stare. Didn't frown. Just held her gaze for one second—two, at most—then kept walking, like she was just another face in the crowd. But her heart was pounding. Because every movement, every breath, every instinct…
it was him.
It was SwordWannabe.
She found him.