The Engraving Grounds were nothing like Ray had imagined. A valley of elemental shrines stretched before the first-years, carved straight into the bedrock as if the land itself had grown around ancient, pulsing rituals. At the center of it all, blazing with terrifying ferocity, stood the Fire Shrine.

  It was a circular basin of black sun-stone, shimmering under a constant pillar of concentrated sunlight that defied the overcast sky. The air tasted of heated metal and static sparks. Heat curled in visible, oily waves. Instructors stood in a wide perimeter, their specialized heat-bands glowing a protective red to shield them from the localized furnace.

  A voice boomed across the valley: “FIRST CANDIDATE—ROWEN VERNHARD.”

  Rowen strutted forward, proud and flawless, his golden hair catching the artificial sunlight. Ray groaned. “Of course he goes first. He probably bribed the sun.”

  Rowen stepped onto the obsidian platform. The shrine reacted immediately. Flames stirred in the pits. The sunlight narrowed, tightening around him like a predator's gaze. The runes carved into the basin ignited, glowing a molten, angry red.

  The Engraver approached—an older man with ash-white braids and arms like gnarled oak. He carried a chisel-like rod of glowing silver and a hammer etched with shifting runes. The entire site seemed to lean toward him, gravity itself bowing to the master of the craft.

  “Candidate,” the Engraver intoned, “present your back.”

  Rowen removed his coat and knelt, his spine as straight as a spear. What happened next made Ray forget to breathe.

  The Engraver dipped the silver chisel into a basin of liquid fire—actual, flowing soul-essence—which clung to the metal like molten honey. Then, with slow, deliberate precision…

  TUNK… TUNK… TUNK…

  The hammer struck. Each blow sent a shockwave of flame rippling across the basin floor. The obsidian cracked with tiny, glowing fissures that mirrored the patterns forming on Rowen's skin. Rowen’s breath hitched—not with fear, but with the brutal weight of focus.

  The next sequence erupted like a contained sunburst. Flame coiled up Rowen’s spine as if answering a call. Lines of molten light etched themselves beneath his skin, pulsing in rhythm with the hammer:

  TUNK—FWOOM. TUNK—FWOOM.

  The world responded. Fire surged higher. The beam of sunlight pulsed. Even the surrounding shrines vibrated faintly, acknowledging the awakening of a new Vein.

  “This is… a lot more intense than a tattoo,” Ray whispered, his own soul-affinity buzzing in sympathy.

  The Engraver stepped back as the final stroke echoed like a gong. The flames snapped inward, shaping a single blazing fang at the base of Rowen’s spine: THE FIRST FIRE VEIN — ORIGIN.

  Rowen screamed—but it was the scream of a victor riding an adrenaline high, not a victim of terror. Heat flared around him in a spiraling vortex. Flames crawled across his shoulders like living serpents.

  When the blaze finally settled, Rowen rose on unsteady legs. Sweat evaporated the instant it formed, hissing into the air like droplets on a hot iron. But it was the residue that drew every eye. Small, flickering tongues of flame drifted off his shoulders and spine—fragile, ember-like wisps that curled and dissipated in heartbeats.

  They weren't decorations. They were proof. The first Vein had answered him.

  Rowen inhaled slowly, forcing the fire to settle beneath his skin. He turned, his smirk sharpened to a blade, radiating enough pride to fill the entire valley. He walked past Ray without pausing, a passing whisper on his lips:

  “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

  Ray fantasized about pushing him into the Still Mirror lake.

  The Engraver struck his staff once against the stone, the flames receding obediently. “THE FIRE SHRINE IS READY FOR THE NEXT CANDIDATE.”

  Everyone understood now. This wasn’t art. This was the soul being carved open. This was the world answering back. And Ray, his heart pounding against his ribs, finally realized just how terrifyingly real Engraving truly was.

  “Next candidate — RIAN TORVALD!”

  Rian strode toward the Stoneheart Anvil like a man approaching an old drinking buddy he intended to wrestle. But as he reached the center, the bravado settled into a heavy, focused silence.

  This wasn’t a standard anvil. It was a circular pit of deep, shifting sand that trembled with subterranean pressure. Above it hovered a massive, chisel-shaped slab of obsidian, suspended impossibly by thick, petrified roots that snaked down from the cavern ceiling. At the slab’s very tip was a needle-fine point—sharp enough to carve the essence of a soul.

  Atop that monolithic stone stood the Engraver. He was barefoot, perfectly balanced, and he wielded a hammer larger than his own torso. He tapped the stone once—ting—testing the tone like a musician tuning a grand instrument.

  Then he smiled. A dancer’s smile.

  Rian lay face-down in the sand, spine exposed to the hovering needle. The Engraver inhaled… and began.

  He moved across the top of the giant chisel like it was a stage, his feet gliding in a rhythmic sequence. Then—WHAM!

  The hammer crashed down. The obsidian chisel plunged toward Rian’s back, stopping a hair’s breadth from his skin, but the force behind it didn't stop. The sand exploded outward in a violent ring of kinetic energy.

  THOOM.

  The earth groaned. The surrounding pillars vibrated in their sockets. Rian’s entire body seized as the first pulse dug into his spine—not through a physical cut, but through a soul resonance so heavy it felt like being crushed by a mountain.

  The Engraver danced around the slab again, his movements light despite the massive weight of his tool. WHAM. Another strike. Another shockwave. The sand rippled like a living creature beneath Rian’s chest. The carving was slow, grinding, and methodical—each blow forcing the emerging Earth Vein into alignment with his spirit.

  Rian’s muscles bulged until they looked like corded stone. Veins rose along his arms, mirroring the ley lines of the valley. His teeth dug into the sand as he fought to remain anchored.

  WHAM.

  A final strike echoed through the hollow. The entire site fell into a carved silence. The suspended chisel-stone stopped vibrating, and the Engraver rested his hammer on his shoulder as if he’d just finished a light stroll. The sand around Rian settled like powder after a landslide.

  Rian pushed himself up with shaking arms, his chest heaving. Then, he burst into a breathless, ragged laugh—the sound of a man simply ecstatic to still be in one piece.

  Ray stared, stunned. He wrestled the stone first and survived second. Ridiculous. Impressive. Ridiculously impressive. The instructors helped a wobbling Rian upright, his skin now bearing the deep, tectonic mark of the FIRST EARTH VEIN — ORIGIN.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The Engraver looked toward the remaining line of students, his eyes calm and immovable. “The Stoneheart is reset. Next.”

  Ray’s stomach did a slow roll. He looked at the Sunforge, then back at the Stoneheart. Every path seemed to involve a different flavor of agony.

  THE WATER SHRINE

  “Harel Kessin!”

  Harel exhaled once, adjusted his gloves—twice—and stepped lightly onto the Mirrorwell Basin. The moment his foot touched the surface, the water didn't splash. The ripples didn't spread outward in a panic; they curled inward, welcoming him like a returning guest.

  Harel walked forward with impossible gentleness until the water fully accepted his weight. Then, the surface tension seemed to shift, lowering him slowly into a floating position. He lay face-down, arms at his sides, offering his spine to the lake.

  The surface stilled completely. Harel was now suspended just beneath the glassy film, floating without sinking, without breathing—as if the water had decided to hold him in a timeless embrace.

  Then the Engraver approached.

  She walked across the lake like it was polished marble. No disturbance. No footprints. Her robes trailed behind her in a perfect, undisturbed reflection. When she reached Harel, she lowered herself and sat on the water, cross-legged, as if gravity had simply forgotten she existed.

  Ray’s brain short-circuited. “Is—she—is she sitting on the water?!”

  The Engraver placed a slender jade stylus to Harel’s spine. The lake rippled outward in a single, perfect circle. And then, the Engraving began.

  It wasn't violent like the Sunforge. It wasn't loud like the Stoneheart. Instead, the water lifted Harel just enough that his spine broke the surface, and a thin helix of blue light spiraled upward from the depths, coiling around the stylus like a living thread. Each pulse of the Engraving sent gentle waves rolling toward the shore, a rhythmic heartbeat echoing through the entire shrine.

  No screaming. No convulsing. Only a rhythmic, hypnotic ascent.

  When the final pulse struck, the lake released its hold. The Engraver rose effortlessly, the jade stylus dimming in her hand. Harel was guided back to the shore on a soft, deliberate wave—placed upright on the grass as if the water itself refused to let him fall.

  Ray stared, his jaw unhinged. Budget guy is an absolute monster. And so is that Engraver. Harel stood there, blinking, a faint blue glow radiating from his lower back. He looked around, adjusted his gloves one more time, and walked back to the line with a calm that bordered on terrifying. FIRST WATER VEIN — ORIGIN.

  “Calen Merris!”

  The Skybreach Column responded before Calen even took a step. The wind stirred—not as a breeze, but as a sudden tension, like the atmosphere itself was taking a sharp, deep breath.

  Calen approached the pedestal with rigid discipline, every muscle coiled, every movement calculated. He didn't lie down or stand; he sat cross-legged in the center of the stone circle. In the Wind Shrine, you survived by lowering your center of gravity before the sky tried to claim you.

  He closed his eyes. The air stilled for a heartbeat—two—three.

  FWOOOOSH.

  The world detonated around him. A towering vortex of wind spiraled downward, snatching at his clothes and ripping his tied hair free. The white stone pillars surrounding the shrine began to hum like massive tuning forks struck by a god. Calen gritted his teeth, his spine locked into a perfect vertical line.

  Then the Engraver moved.

  A slender woman with long, silk ribbons trailing from her wrists, she didn't walk toward him—she stepped into the storm. The wind picked her up instantly. She glided through the air as if gravity had politely stepped aside to let her pass. Her feet skimmed the currents, riding the spirals with impossible grace.

  Around her, a dozen needle-fine metal chisels lifted from hidden compartments in the pillars. They floated, spun, and danced in the turbulence. The Engraver raised one hand, and the wind obeyed—sending the chisels into a rotating orbit around Calen, like a ring of blades waiting for a conductor’s cue.

  Ray’s jaw dropped. “What the—”

  Calen braced himself. The Engraver snapped her fingers.

  TING—

  A chisel darted inward like a lightning strike—CRACK—hitting Calen between the shoulder blades with surgical precision. He hissed, his posture tightening. Another chisel struck, then another, each blow carving a line of wind-chakra into his spine.

  The wind howled louder. The chisels screamed past his ears, some shaving strands of hair, others grazing his ribs, each attack controlled to the microscopic millimeter. They never missed their mark.

  Ray whispered, horrified, “He’s being tattooed by a tornado.”

  Then, as fast as the storm had arrived—FWOOOM.

  The vortex collapsed inward. Sudden, ringing silence followed. The chisels fell neatly into the Engraver’s hands, and she touched down on the stone as lightly as a falling feather.

  Calen dropped to one knee, gasping. A thin trail of blood ran from the corner of his lip, but his eyes were blazing with an intensity that made Ray step back. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and stared at the Engraver.

  “…Still not enough,” Calen muttered, his voice raspy.

  Ray stared. Who survives a tornado-tattoo session and calls it ‘not enough’? Calen rose, the FIRST WIND VEIN — ORIGIN now pulsing with a faint, breezy light at the base of his back. He walked away with a slight limp but a gaze that looked like it could pierce the horizon.

  Ray couldn’t keep up anymore. Every shrine, every ritual, felt like a different myth unfolding in real-time. Earth rumbled beneath his boots; water lifted students like weightless spirits; wind carved sigils through living storms; and fire roared until it seemed to crack the very sky.

  He stood frozen as the valley transformed into a theater of elemental miracles. Students screamed, laughed, or simply fainted. One boy had to be carried out after throwing up on his own shoes in a fit of nerves. Another tried to flirt with the Water Engraver and nearly drowned when the lake took offense.

  The shrines blazed, whispered, and pulsed, each responding to the unique frequency of every soul. At the Fire Site, the flames dimmed out of sympathy for a trembling girl. At the Earth Site, a boy stomped once, and the entire valley answered with a tectonic thud.

  Ray swore he saw one instructor wiping sweat from his brow despite the biting winter air. The pressure was becoming physical. And then, after Calen was dragged off the dais—still muttering about "inefficiency"—the herald’s voice shattered the air.

  “NEXT GROUP — STAND BY!”

  Ray’s breath hitched. That’s me. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap—

  He was seconds from a full mental breakdown when Elaine arrived. She didn't enter dramatically or loudly; she simply walked into the valley with the calm of someone who had watched the universe blink first. Her raven-black hair caught the flickering firelight, and her glacier-blue eyes reflected the glowing ritual lines etched into the ground.

  The Engravers subtly straightened when she appeared. They didn’t even know why, but a primal instinct in their bones told them: A superior creature has entered the field.

  Behind her came the rest of the Melborne pressure cooker.

  Garret was already grinning, already judging. “What’s this, Ray? You still haven’t gone? I was hoping to see a crater where you used to be by now.”

  Isolde followed, elegant and cold, her gaze sweeping the shrines with academic disdain. “I expect some screaming,” she noted flatly.

  “I’m not going to scream!” Ray shouted back, his voice cracking an octave.

  Isolde nodded. “Highly doubtful.”

  Elaine reached him last. She paused beside him, looking down with that unreadable expression she had perfected. “You look… overwhelmed,” she observed.

  “I AM overwhelmed!” Ray hissed, pointing a shaking finger at the Wind Shrine. “Someone just got tattooed by a weather pattern!”

  Elaine didn’t blink. “That is the Skybreach Column. It is functioning within expected parameters.”

  Ray pointed violently at a boy currently being revived with smelling salts. “That does not look like a functional parameter!”

  Elaine’s lips curved—barely. A ghost of a smile. Then her eyes lifted, assessing the Sunforge. “Ray,” she said quietly, “your turn is coming. I advise you to breathe.”

  Ray tried. He inhaled. He exhaled so fast he nearly coughed up his lungs.

  Garret clapped a heavy hand on Ray’s shoulder, nearly pinning him to the dirt. “Good luck, little brother. Try not to combust. It’s a messy way to go.”

  “If you pass out,” Isolde added, “try to fall forward. It makes the Engraver’s job easier for the post-mortem analysis.”

  Ray collapsed internally. He looked at Elaine, desperate for a shred of actual comfort.

  “You will be fine,” she said softly.

  Ray blinked, his heart slowing for a fraction of a second. “Really?”

  “No,” she corrected. “But you will survive. Statistics favor your stubbornness.”

  Ray wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to blame every deity in the manual. Then, the herald’s voice cut through the valley like a guillotine:

  “RAY MELBORNE TO THE SUNFORGE.”

  Garret whistled. Isolde hummed a low, funeral-like tune. Elaine’s eyes sharpened with cold, brilliant calculation.

  Ray wished he were dead. But the Sunforge was waiting, and it looked very, very hungry.