The next morning broke with the dull, gray light of a smog-choked sunrise filtering through the singular, grime-streaked window of Aamon's apartment.
Aamon sat at the small, wobbly desk, staring down at a plastic bowl of reconstituted oatmeal. It tasted exactly how it looked: like warm, damp cardboard sprinkled with a faint, chemical suggestion of brown sugar. He forced it down anyway, spoonful by chalky spoonful.
His newly formed arcane core was a furnace, and even though he wasn't actively using mana, the sheer biological tax of maintaining an awakened state was tearing through his body's meager caloric reserves.
"Step one of the speedrun," Aamon muttered to the empty room, scraping the bottom of the bowl. "Stop eating literal garbage."
He rinsed the bowl in the tiny sink, grabbed his faded jacket, and headed out the door. Today was about establishing his legality in this world. He needed his Arcanist License.
The commute from District 4 to District 3 took forty minutes via the subterranean mag-lev tram. As the train crossed the district borders, the difference in infrastructure was jarring.
District 4 was the working-class slums, all rusted pipes and flickering neon. District 3, however, was the commercial and bureaucratic buffer zone of Solmire City. The streets here were clean, paved with smooth, dark plascrete.
The buildings were modern, brutalist structures of glass and steel, heavily reinforced with subtle, glowing ward-lines etched into their foundations to protect against structural damage during emergency rift events.
Aamon navigated the bustling morning foot traffic until he stood before a massive, imposing building that looked more like a fortress than a government office.
Above the heavy, blast-resistant glass doors, a massive insignia was mounted. A silver sword piercing a set of golden scales, surrounded by a ring of arcane runes.
The SCALE Solmire Branch. The Supreme Council of Arcane Laws and Enforcement.
Aamon pushed through the doors, stepping into a cavernous lobby. The air conditioning was crisp, carrying the faint scent of ozone and polished marble. Holographic displays floated near the ceiling, cycling through wanted posters for rogue Arcanists, bounties for specific monster materials, and public safety announcements.
Despite the sheer size of the lobby, there were surprisingly few people inside. Aamon walked over to a digital kiosk, scanned his civilian thumbprint, and received a small ticket with the number '42' glowing softly on its surface. He took a seat on one of the sleek metal benches to wait.
As a beta-tester, observing environments was second nature to him. He leaned back, his Gaming Sense quietly cataloging the people scattered around the waiting area.
SCALE wasn't a place the average civilian ever needed to visit. The foot traffic here was highly specific. Aamon identified three distinct groups just by watching them.
Over by the far wall, a group of sharp-suited men and women were engaged in a heated, hushed argument while holding digital ledgers. These were the businessmen—the corporate vultures who thrived on the arcane economy. They were here to file permits to build businesses entirely reliant on the Arcanist ecosystem.
Aamon listened closely, picking up fragments of their conversation. They were arguing about import tariffs on wyvern scales and the shifting legal definitions of arcane weaponry.
It brought a smile to Aamon's face as he recalled the intricate lore he had helped balance regarding the game's economy. In this world, there was a strict, legal distinction between Equipments and Artifacts.
Equipments were physical items forged from the harvested bodies of monsters. A vest made of Iron-Hide Boar leather, or a sword forged with the bone marrow of a Flame Drake. These items possessed naturally occurring magical properties—like high heat resistance or extreme durability—but they were ultimately passive. Because they didn't require an active input of mana to function, Equipments could be legally purchased and used by ordinary, unawakened civilians. The private security forces of mega-corporations were outfitted entirely in high-end Equipments.
Artifacts, on the other hand, were entirely different. Artifacts were engineered arcane conduits. A ring that generated a localized kinetic shield, or a staff that amplified fire magic. These items possessed complex internal rune structures and required an Arcanist to actively channel their mana into them to work. An unawakened person holding an Artifact was holding a useless piece of metal. Because of their sheer destructive potential, the sale, ownership, and creation of Artifacts were heavily restricted by SCALE, strictly limited to licensed Arcanists.
Aamon shifted his gaze from the businessmen to another group sitting nearer to the counters. These were grizzled, heavily scarred men and women wearing mismatched pieces of armor.
Hunters. They were here to register the formation of new mercenary guilds, seeking official SCALE commissions to dive into Fixed Rifts—permanent portals to other dimensions that needed to be regularly cleared of monsters to prevent them from overflowing into the city.
Finally, scattered individually throughout the seats, were other Arcanists. Some looked nervous, likely here to renew their licenses or update their registered ranks after a breakthrough.
In the Aurelion Republic, failing to register an advancement in rank was a felony. The government needed to know exactly how much walking firepower was within its borders at all times.
What Aamon didn't see were many people his own age.
Typically, SCALE branches were only flooded with youth during the graduation season, when eighteen-year-old academy students officially awakened using government-issued Arcane Stones and came in en masse to get their licenses.
"Number 42. Counter 4, please." The crisp, synthesized voice of the PA system echoed through the lobby.
Aamon stood up and walked toward the designated counter behind a thick pane of reinforced glass.
The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and a perfectly pressed uniform, didn't look up as he approached. "State your business. Registration, renewal, or guild charter?"
"Initial registration and license printing," Aamon said politely. "My data should already be in the system. The ARIES Bureau forwarded it."
The clerk paused, her fingers hovering over her holographic keyboard. She finally looked up, her eyes narrowing as she took in
Aamon's youthful face, his cheap clothes, and the distinct lack of a Polaris Academy uniform.
"Initial registration? You're a bit young," she remarked, a frown creasing her forehead.
"The legal age for Arcane Stone administration is eighteen. Unless you're a corporate scion with an exemption..."
She typed his name, Aamon Maverick, into her terminal.
The terminal chimed, the screen flashing a distinct, priority-blue color reserved for government intelligence agencies.
The clerk's eyes widened fractionally. She looked at the screen, then back at Aamon, her tired demeanor vanishing instantly, replaced by a sharp, slightly awe-struck curiosity.
"You... you're a self-awakened?" she whispered, the volume of her voice dropping.
The people sitting in the waiting area closest to Counter 4 suddenly went quiet. The word 'self-awakened' was a heavy one.
"Yes, ma'am," Aamon said, projecting a humble, slightly awkward demeanor. "A spatial anomaly in District 4. The Bureau said I was lucky to survive."
Whispers immediately broke out among the hunters and businessmen behind him.
"A natural awakening? At seventeen?"
"Do you know what the radiation levels of an unwarded rift do to a normal human? "
"The kid must have an absurdly adaptable core..."
"If ARIES already flagged his file, he's probably a high-grade talent..."
The clerk cleared her throat, her professionalism returning rapidly. "Yes, well. A miracle indeed, Mr. Maverick. Your biometric data, core signature, and ARIES authorization are all present and verified. I just need you to place your hand on the mana-reader plate to finalize the physical resonance tie to your card."
Aamon placed his right hand on a small, dark glass plate embedded in the counter. A cold sensation prickled his palm, followed by a faint blue glow.
"Resonance confirmed," the clerk said. A small slot beside the plate whirred, and a sleek, obsidian-black card slid out. The card was trimmed in dull bronze—the universal color indicating an F-Rank Arcanist. Aamon's name, ID number, and a holographic headshot were perfectly etched into the surface.
"Your official Arcanist License, Mr. Maverick. It serves as your primary identification, your banking conduit for guild bounties, and your access pass to all public arcane facilities and purchases for arcane goods and services. You also need to know that every time time you leveled up, you have to go back to any near SCALE Branch to renew your license. Please be reminded that any use of offensive skills in civilian zones outside of self-defense is a Class A felony. Welcome to the ranks."
"Thank you," Aamon said, taking the card. It felt heavier than it looked, thrumming faintly with its own internal mana signature to prevent forgery.
He didn't linger. Ignoring the lingering stares and hushed whispers of the lobby, he turned and walked out into the mid-morning sun.
Step one was complete. He was legally recognized. Now came step two: acquiring an arsenal.
Aamon checked the map on his Bureau-issued phone, locating the nearest public training facility. He walked a few blocks down the commercial avenue until he stood before a wide, squat building that looked like a modernized bunker.
The sign above the door read: Ironworks - Public Arcanist Gymnasium.
He immediately walked inside. The atmosphere here was entirely different from SCALE. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, ozone, and burning metal. The muffled, rhythmic thumps of physical impacts and the sharp, concussive cracks of magical discharges echoed from deeper within the facility.
The receptionist, a burly man with a cybernetic left eye, looked Aamon up and down skeptically as he approached the desk.
"You lost, kid? The civilian fitness center is two streets down."
Aamon didn't say a word. He simply placed his shiny new obsidian license on the counter.
The receptionist's organic eye widened. He picked up the card, scanned it with a device on his wrist, and let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned. F-Rank. You're a young one. Look, kid, I don't know who your sponsor is, but the Ironworks isn't a playground. We got heavy-hitters in here practicing. You get in the way of a stray spell, you're going to the morgue, not the nurse's office."
"I know the risks. I just need a place to train," Aamon replied smoothly. "What are the rates?"
"We do annual subscriptions for the guild regulars, monthly passes, and daily drop-ins," the man grunted, handing the card back. "A daily pass is fifty credits. Gives you access to the general floor, the weight racks, and the basic reinforced sparring rings. Private, shielded booths cost extra."
Aamon mentally calculated his finances.
The final paycheck from the convenience store had cleared that morning, giving him a grand total of two thousand and fifty credits to his name. Fifty credits a day was steep, but he didn't have a choice. This was an investment. Good thing he still have grocery stocks in his apartment for his food consumption, although a bit unhealthy but it will do for now.
"I'll take a daily pass," Aamon said, tapping his phone to the payment terminal.
"Suit yourself. Locker room is down the hall to the left. General floor is straight through the double doors."
Aamon bypassed the locker rooms, having nothing to store, and pushed through the heavy, sound-dampening double doors into the main gym.
The space was massive, resembling an indoor aircraft hangar. The walls and floors were lined with thick, dark-gray hexagonal tiles—Hex-Plating, a material designed to absorb and dissipate kinetic and arcane energy.
The gym was divided into two main sections. To the left were Arcanists training on their own—lifting massive, weighted boulders, running on treadmills that aggressively increased gravity, or firing low-level spells at heavily enchanted training dummies. To the right were the sparring rings: elevated platforms surrounded by shimmering, translucent energy shields where Arcanists engaged in live combat.
Aamon walked along the edge of the general floor, keeping his distance, his Gaming Sense fully engaged. He evaluated the people around him with the cold, detached eye of a developer looking for optimized builds.
That guy using the fireballs has terrible casting posture, Aamon critiqued mentally, watching a beefy man hurl spheres of flame at a dummy. He's leaking at least fifteen percent of his arcane reserves through his body before the spell even forms. Inefficient.
He moved past the solo trainers and approached the sparring rings. He wanted to observe a fight. He needed to marvel at the reality of combat in this world, but more importantly, he was hunting. He had one empty skill slot thanks to his Replay Value ability, and he wasn't going to leave until he filled it.
He leaned against the safety railing of Ring 3. Inside the energy barrier, two Arcanists were locked in a fast-paced duel.
One was a towering brawler, his arms wreathed in roaring, orange flames. The other was a lithe, agile fighter wearing light leather armor, wielding a pair of short, curved daggers.
Aamon's eyes tracked the movements. It was breathtaking. The sheer speed, the visceral impact of flesh and magic colliding—no animation team in the world could capture the raw, desperate intensity of a real Arcanists combat.
The brawler lunged, swinging a massive, fiery right hook. The heat radiating from the spell was so intense Aamon could feel it warming his face through the energy shield.
The rogue didn't block.
He ducked underneath the fiery swing, twisting his body with serpentine grace. As he pivoted, Aamon noticed something. The rogue wasn't just relying on physical speed. Arcane was pooling in the rogue's right hand, not forming a spell, but tightly condensing along the edge of his dagger.
For a fraction of a second, the steel of the dagger seemed to blur, vibrating at an impossibly high frequency, coated in a razor-thin, shimmering aura of pale blue light.
The rogue slashed upwards, aiming for the brawler's exposed ribs.
The dagger didn't just cut. It shrieked. The vibrating mana edge sheared straight through the brawler's defensive aura and sliced cleanly through the thick, reinforced fabric of his training vest, stopping just a millimeter shy of the skin.
The brawler froze, feeling the cold steel against his ribs. He raised his hands in surrender. "Match! You got me, Jax."
The rogue stepped back, the glowing blue aura around his dagger dissipating into the air like mist. "Good fight, Brogan. Your casting speed is getting better, but you telegraph your right hooks too much."
Outside the ring, Aamon's heart was pounding. He didn't care about the fight's outcome. His eyes were wide, his mind racing as Gaming Sense processed what he had just witnessed.
He recognized that skill. It wasn't a flashy, high-tier ultimate ability. It was a foundational, skill often awakened by Assassin and Warrior classes, especially by those who specialized in close-quarters combat.
Kinetic Edge.
It involved taking a small amount of raw, non-elemental mana and forcing it to vibrate at a high frequency along a physical surface—a blade, a staff, or even a bare hand. It didn't explode or shoot beams of light. It simply granted the weapon an absurd degree of localized armor-penetration and cutting power depending on the user's physical strength.
It was fast, it was lethal, and most importantly, the arcane energy cost was incredibly low. It also requires high degree of explosive power and concentration. Precisely the reason why Aamon immediately fixated on this skill.
Although he might have to put hellish work on his body to make sure he can achieve great accomplishment in using this skill.
"That's the one," Aamon decided.
He focused his mind on the exact sequence of mana manipulation he had just witnessed.
Through Gaming Sense, he didn't just see the blue glow. He saw the mathematical formula of the magic. He saw how the rogue had drawn the mana from his core, forced it into a tight loop, and accelerated the particle frequency before binding it to the metal.
Aamon willed his Replay Value skill to activate.
Ding.
A system prompt, visible only to him, materialized in his vision.
[ Target Skill Witnessed: Kinetic Edge ]
[ Analyzing Arcane Structure... Initializing Engine...]
[ Loading Configuration... Analysis Complete.]
[ Would you like to bind [Kinetic Edge] to your F-rank Skill Slot? (Yes/No) ]
Aamon mentally selected 'Yes'.
A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity surged through his brain. It wasn't painful, but it was intensely disorienting. It felt as though a new neural pathway had just been forcefully carved into his mind.
Suddenly, the complex arcane theory behind Kinetic Edge wasn't just something he had witnessed. It was something he knew. It was muscle memory. It felt as natural as knowing how to clench his fist.
[ Skill: Kinetic Edge
Description: Condenses user's ambient arcane energy into a high-frequency vibrating edge along a designated physical surface (weapon or body part). Grants the user extreme armor-penetration and cutting force.]
Aamon let out a slow, satisfied breath. He had his weapon.
He pushed off the railing and walked away from the sparring rings, heading toward a row of small, enclosed training booths at the back of the facility. He swiped his daily pass and entered Booth 7.
The room was small, ten by ten feet, containing nothing but a heavily scarred, arcane-resistant training dummy in the center. Aamon locked the heavy door behind him, ensuring complete privacy.
He stood before the dummy, taking a deep breath. He held his right hand out, his fingers flat and pressed together like a spearhead. He didn't have a dagger, so he had to augment his own body for now.
He focused on the new knowledge in his mind. He pulled a tiny fraction of energy from his core, funneling it down his arm and into his hand.
Buzz.
A high-pitched, almost imperceptible humming sound filled the small room. Aamon looked down. The outer edge of his right hand, from the pinky knuckle down to the wrist, was wreathed in a razor-thin, shimmering line of pure, vibrating blue force.
It was perfect. There was no mana leakage.
The edge was completely stable. Because he understood the code flawlessly, his version of Kinetic Edge was optimized beyond what the rogue outside had achieved.
Aamon stepped forward and slashed his hand across the chest of the training dummy.
There was no resistance. It felt like dragging his hand through warm water. A solid, deep gash appeared in the dummy's enchanted, impact-resistant hide.
Aamon grinned, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
He spent the next two hours in the booth. He didn't just practice swinging his glowing hand. He practiced integrating the skill with his existing traits. Because of his trait Gaming Sense, he got the sense of the skill with a terrifying accuracy and concentration that only veteran arcanists could match.
Although one could say he was a veteran player.
He imagined a troll swinging a club at him.
He activated Frame Lag. The world around him seemed to stutter, his own perception skyrocketing. He burned ten mana to hold the lag for one second, stepped into the phantom attack, activated Kinetic Edge for another five mana, and drove his vibrating hand deep into the dummy's neck.
Dodge. Stutter. Pierce. It was a brutal, ruthlessly efficient combo. But it was incredibly taxing.
Doing it just three times completely drained his meager F-Rank mana reserves, leaving him gasping for air, his vision swimming with vertigo.
He collapsed onto the hex-plated floor of the booth, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving.
"Physical stamina... is a massive bottleneck," he panted. "The combo works. But if I don't kill the target in three hits... I'm a sitting duck."
The realization defined the rest of his week.
For the next five days, Aamon Maverick fell into a grueling, monastic routine. Every morning, he ate a cheap, high-protein nutrient bar. He took the mag-lev to the Aegis Ironworks, paid his fifty credits, and locked himself in a booth.
He didn't use his mana for the first half of the day. He abused his body instead. He lifted weights until his arms shook. He ran on the gravity treadmill until he tasted blood in the back of his throat. He threw punches and kicks at the dummy until his knuckles were bruised and bloody. He was forcing the frail, undernourished vessel he inhabited to adapt to the immense power of the Epic-grade core sitting inside his chest.
Only in the late afternoons, when his physical stamina was entirely depleted, would he sit cross-legged on the floor and practice mana-cycling—slowly drawing ambient energy from the air, passing it through his core, and circulating it through his veins to expand his internal capacity.
Then, he would practice his Frame Lag into Kinetic Edge combo until his core ran dry.
It was agony. Every night, he crawled back up the six flights of stairs to his squalid apartment, his muscles screaming, his core aching with the dull throb of mana depletion.
But by the evening of the fifth day, the results were undeniable.
As Aamon stepped out of the tiny, rusted shower of his apartment, the hot water washing away the grime of the gym, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
The dark circles under his eyes were fading. The gaunt, hollow look of his cheeks had filled out slightly. The transformation wasn't magical—he hadn't suddenly sprouted bodybuilder muscles—but the sickening frailty was gone.
His body looked lean, coiled, and functional. More importantly, his mana capacity had expanded from the constant stress testing. He could now perform his combo five times before exhausting his core.
He dried off, threw on a clean t-shirt, and heated up his dinner. As he was sitting at his desk, eating, his silver Bureau-issued phone vibrated against the wood.
He picked it up. It was a text message from a secure, encrypted number.
[Sender: Agent M. Elswright]
[Message: Your preliminary SCALE registry and civilian transfer protocols are complete. I will arrive at your coordinates in exactly 48 hours to collect you. Pack only what is strictly necessary. Your preparatory training begins the moment you step into the vehicle. Rest well, Aamon.]
Aamon stared at the glowing text, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.
The waiting game was over.
He finished his dinner quickly and stood up. He walked over to the small, battered wardrobe in the corner of the room. He pulled out a worn duffel bag and began to pack. He took his few changes of clothes, a handful of cheap toiletries, and nothing else.
There were no sentimental items, no photographs, no mementos. He was leaving the ghost of the original Aamon Maverick behind in this cramped, depressing room.
He zipped the duffel bag shut and tossed it onto the foot of the cot.
In two days, he would be picked up by the ARIES Bureau. He would be thrust into the hidden world of the elite. He would likely be placed in the opulent, heavily secured dormitories of the Polaris Academy preparatory wing, surrounded by the strongest, most dangerous teenagers in the republic.
He was walking directly into the center of the game's chaotic, intertwined storylines.He was like a beta-tester who had just been handed the keys to the live servers.
Aamon lay down on his bed, clasping his hands behind his head as he closed his eyes with the intention of drifting off into his sleep. Yet he felt a fluttering sensation inside his chest—a potent mix of anxiety and overwhelming, giddy excitement.