A week passed by like a breeze with thorns.
The trainees had been reporting to the east wing daily, as instructed, sweating, groaning, and meditating like monks on fire. Yet, despite all their effort, none had been able to feel their mana—let alone control it.
That lone fact made what Wuza Selone and Cole had done this in their very first session seem almost mythical.
Whispers began swirling.
At meal times.
During dormitory prep.
Even in the bathrooms.
They had become mini-celebrities. Wherever Wuza walked, people stepped aside—not out of fear, but out of reverence. The same people who once mocked or ignored her now followed her around like she was a walking textbook of arcane brilliance. They wanted to sit near her, breathe her air, share her water bottle. If she coughed, someone would offer her a scroll to sneeze into.
Cole, on the other hand, was handling his newfound popularity with the elegance of a goat discovering a mirror.
"Hey Cole," one trainee asked, "what was going through your mind when you created that image?"
Cole looked thoughtful, then replied, "Well… trauma, unresolved childhood issues… and a girl way outta my league. The usual."
The trainee just nodded like Cole had spoken in ancient tongues. "Deep…"
Meanwhile, the Scarlet Raven—Uriel Commes—remained his silent, looming self. Watching. Studying. And occasionally, tossing out cryptic advice that felt more like poetry than actual instruction.
But not even his terrifying presence could stop the tidal wave of admiration aimed at Wuza and Cole.
Even Agatha—the busty, loud-mouthed woman who had once tried to use Cole's head like a drumstick—stepped forward on practice day, eyes avoiding direct contact, wringing her fingers like a repentant thief.
She approached slowly, standing behind Wuza as she finished her meditation.
When Wuza finally opened her eyes, she turned—and froze at the sight of Agatha standing there like a bad memory with a peace offering.
"I'm..." Agatha began, swallowing her pride like a bitter herb. "...I'm sorry for the way I acted the other day. Please forgive me."
Wuza blinked.
She stared at Agatha as though the woman had grown a second head and both were trying to apologize at once.
She was as confused as a man slapped by a stranger on a Tuesday for no reason in particular.
"Wait…" Wuza tilted her head. "Didn't we already settle that? I thought we were even after you whacked your stick and I returned the favour with my tongue-lashing?"
Agatha looked sheepish. "Yeah… well. I didn't apologize properly. You were right to be angry."
A moment of silence passed.
Then Wuza chuckled softly. "You have no idea how much I wanted to throw that towel at you that day."
Agatha laughed too. "I would've deserved it."
They stood there for a moment, and something unspoken shifted between them.
Not friendship.
But perhaps... a ceasefire with potential.
From a few feet away, Cole watched the exchange with a satisfied grin. "She's making allies," he muttered under his breath. "That's my girl."
Unfortunately, he said that a bit too loud—because Wuza turned sharply and glared.
Cole immediately straightened and pretended to stretch his hamstring.
"Did I say 'my girl'? I meant... uh... a girl. Like... she's someone's girl. Not mine. Just—a girl. Who's also... amazing. In a general, educational, healthy, non-romantic way..."
Wuza's glare softened.
But only slightly.
"You talk too much," she said, walking off.
Cole grinned. "And yet… you listen."
Around them, training resumed.
But the respect had been earned. The lines were shifting.
And whether Wuza and Cole liked it or not, the others had begun to see them—not as rookies...
…but as leaders.
Uriel Commes suddenly stepped forward, his obsidian cloak fluttering like it had a life of its own.
"Everybody... stop."
His voice was calm—eerily so. Yet across the room, only half the trainees responded. The other half were still hunched like constipated monks, faces twisted, eyes clenched, postures frozen in desperate meditation.
One man had even started humming to "attract his inner chi," whatever that meant.
Uriel's eye twitched. He sighed. Then—
"I said STOP."
His voice boomed like the war cry of a dying planet. The very air vibrated. Several mana-sensitive lights flickered. One poor soul's shoes caught fire.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Every trainee froze, snapping out of their stances as if waking from a terrifying dream. All eyes locked on the infamous Scarlet Raven—who now floated slowly across the training ground, hands behind his back like a deathly headmaster taking attendance before judgement day.
He wasn't walking.
No.
His feet hovered inches above the ground, a barely perceptible swirl of dark mana gliding beneath his boots. Each movement was elegant—yet terrifying.
"So far," Uriel said slowly, "a full week has passed. Seven days. Sixty hours of training."
He turned, scanning every face like a hawk watching rodents decide who dies first.
"And only two of you have qualified for the second stage."
There was a heavy pause. A single bead of sweat rolled down someone's cheek and hit the floor like thunder.
"Today... is your last chance."
A chill ran through the room.
"If, by the end of today, you still cannot feel the mana in this chamber, then congratulations—" he gestured with mock grandeur, "—you've earned yourselves a one-way ticket to Repeat Class. You'll remain here for one year. Whether you eventually awaken mana or not."
A gasp echoed. Several jaws dropped. One guy in the back dropped on his butt in fear.
Nobody dared laugh.
The fear that settled over them was more potent than any magical illusion. Faces tensed. Spines straightened. Everyone began pouring every ounce of will, hope, pain, and memory into the air around them, trying to grab mana like a drowning man reaching for the surface.
Suddenly, like sparks catching in a forest of dry leaves, the air inside the training hall shifted.
One by one, the trainees began to feel it—mana.
It wasn't just energy. It was breath. It was rhythm. It was alive.
Some gasped. Others trembled. It was as if the room itself had shed its skin, and the invisible river of magic now surged openly around them, waiting to be claimed.
Jalel Arvey, the once-rebellious brute, now wore the face of a humbled warrior. With focused hands and clenched teeth, he shaped the mana before him—forming a hazy mannequin, tall and armored, a soldier pulled from memory or dream. It stood for five glorious seconds… then dissolved like a ghost caught in the breeze.
His gang members followed suit.
Kross, known for his mouth more than his brain, summoned a crackling flame whip that danced wildly before fizzing out with a hiss.
Migo, who had never once taken training seriously, conjured a serpent of water, coiling mid-air like a living ribbon, until it evaporated in a misty sigh.
And then came Lois.
Silent. Calculated. Brilliant.
With a soft breath and a raised palm, she summoned a full sandcastle prince—regal, elegant, eyes carved from fine detail, the crown atop his head sparkling faintly with stardust. He stood beside her like a memory made real.
He didn't vanish for a full minute.
Even Uriel Commes paused, eyebrows twitching slightly in approval.
Daphne, never one to be outdone, swept her hand wide and summoned a wind eagle, its wings wide and majestic. It soared overhead in a clean loop, casting a faint shadow across the room, before descending to her hand and dissolving into a cascade of breeze and feathers.
And then… came Addey.
He grunted.
He strained.
He puffed his cheeks like a man delivering triplets.
And then—poof!—a steaming plate of jollof rice, perfectly grilled meat, and two golden fried plantains appeared before him.
Silence.
Then the room exploded with laughter.
"Food?! Really?" Rex barked. "We're making eagles and warriors, and this guy's summoning brunch!"
"He's channeling the god of eternal hunger," Innik wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "We need to anoint him with pepper soup!"
Even Uriel Commes raised an eyebrow. That alone was a spiritual event.
Addey dusted imaginary crumbs from his shoulders, utterly unfazed. "Listen. Y'all summoned dreams. I summoned reality."
Up in her official crescent-backed seat, Archmage Amber Nois finally allowed herself a smile. Sharp. Rare. Satisfied.
From a crowd of 200, what had begun as two…
…had now grown to eighty successful mana users. Each one unlocking a piece of themselves, shaping their essence into form—into power.
What had started with panic and confusion had birthed awe and realization.
The Oradonian Order had its next generation.
And among them, the spark of something great had just been lit.