The journey back to Eos took several days.

  They walked without urgency, but without delay. Fields gave way to familiar paths. Villages passed at a distance, barely acknowledged. Each night, Adlet lay awake longer than he should have, staring at the dimming glow of the Stars etched into the stone above, his thoughts circling the same point over and over.

  Home.

  With every step closer, the weight in his chest grew heavier.

  He spoke little. Lathandre did not press him. Some truths needed time to settle before they could be faced.

  By the third day, the land itself began to feel familiar again. The slope of the paths. The way the wind shifted near the forest’s edge. Even the silence carried a different tone—less wild, more restrained.

  When Eos finally came into view, it didn’t feel like a destination.

  It felt like a reckoning.

  The village lay as it always had—low roofs clustered around the square, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys, the distant sound of voices carrying through the air. Ordinary. Unchanged.

  Adlet slowed his steps.

  Life had gone on without him.

  His home stood slightly apart, just beyond the village proper. Light glowed behind the windows, warm and steady. For a long moment, he simply looked at it.

  This was the last time he would see it like this.

  Inside, his parents were waiting.

  They had known. Somehow, they had always known this day would come.

  Adlet stopped a few steps from them. Words failed him. The weight of the moment pressed down harder than any training, any fight.

  His mother was the first to move.

  Her eyes were red, swollen from crying she hadn’t tried to hide. She reached out, fingers trembling, and rested her hand against his shoulder—as if touching him might anchor him, keep him from slipping away.

  “You can’t leave,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the words. “Not yet. You’re still just a boy. We need you here.”

  The plea wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

  His father stood beside her, silent for a heartbeat too long. His expression was carved from restraint—pride fighting sorrow, neither willing to give ground.

  “There’s still so much for you to learn here, Adlet,” he said at last. “This isn’t a path you can simply walk away from. Not without consequences.”

  Adlet swallowed.

  Their words cut deeper because they were spoken with love, not anger. Because they were right.

  He had never truly imagined leaving them behind. Not the quiet mornings. Not the shared meals. Not the simple certainty of home. And yet—every time he thought of staying, something inside him twisted, restless and aching.

  “I’m not a boy anymore,” he said quietly.

  The words sounded smaller than he had hoped.

  He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, forcing the heat in his throat back down.

  “I’ve already made my decision.”

  Silence followed.

  It stretched, heavy and suffocating, filled with everything they could not say. His father’s jaw tightened. His mother’s hand curled into the fabric of his clothes.

  Then his father stepped forward and placed a hand on Adlet’s shoulder.

  The grip was firm. Grounding.

  “We know,” he murmured. “That doesn’t make it easier. And it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

  That was all it took.

  His mother pulled him into an embrace, arms wrapping around him as if she could pour every unspoken fear into that one moment. Her face pressed against his chest.

  “Just… come back to us,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t forget where you came from.”

  Adlet closed his eyes.

  “I promise.”

  The words came thick, heavy with meaning he didn’t fully understand yet. He held her there, longer than he should have, knowing this moment would follow him wherever he went.

  Behind him, Lathandre waited near the doorway.

  He did not interrupt. He did not hurry them.

  When Adlet finally pulled away, his master met his gaze and gave a single, silent nod.

  It was time.

  Adlet took one last look at his parents—at the people who had given him everything without ever asking for more.

  Then he turned.

  The door closed softly behind him.

  And with it, a chapter of his life ended.

  He stepped into the unknown.

  Adlet did not look back.

  Not because it didn’t hurt—but because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop if he did.

  The familiar shapes of Eos faded behind them as the road stretched forward, pale and unbroken. His parents remained at the edge of the village until distance blurred them into silhouettes, then into memory. The weight in his chest lingered long after their voices were gone.

  He walked beside Lathandre in silence.

  The man did not fill it with words.

  That, somehow, helped.

  They stopped only briefly in a nearby village. Practical matters. Provisions for the road. Worn straps replaced. Boots reinforced. Clothes better suited for long travel and changing weather—fabric that would endure dust, rain, and weeks without rest. Adlet let himself be guided through it all, absorbing the reality of departure with every exchanged coin and tightened buckle.

  Then they left again.

  No ceremony.

  No farewell speeches.

  Just the road.

  Days began to settle into a rhythm that felt almost meditative.

  Walking.

  Training.

  Rest.

  Morning stretches beneath open light. Long hours of travel broken by quiet instruction. Evenings spent tending fire, repairing gear, or simply sitting in shared silence while the world slowed around them.

  Adlet noticed the changes in himself quickly.

  The Dark Woods had marked him.

  Not with scars alone—but with understanding.

  His endurance no longer frayed at the edges. Where fatigue once crept in early, it now arrived honestly, earned. His stride grew steadier. His breathing found a natural cadence. Each morning, he adjusted—pace, posture, awareness—learning how to live inside this stronger body without forcing it, without wasting it.

  He did not rush growth.

  For the first time, he understood that power wasn’t something to seize.

  It was something to inhabit.

  And to his own surprise—

  He loved the journey.

  The farther they traveled, the more the world widened.

  The small villages of his childhood—places bound by routine and familiarity—gave way to larger towns. Roads grew broader. Market squares louder. Languages blended, accents clashed, laughter and arguments spilled freely into the air. Merchants shouted prices he didn’t understand. Travelers carried symbols and weapons from regions he’d only heard named in school.

  Every place felt alive with intent.

  With people moving toward something.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Yet the land itself remained constant.

  Endless green plains stretching beyond the horizon.

  Fields bending beneath the wind like slow waves.

  Lakes so still they reflected the rocky vault above, Stars scattered across their surface like distant embers.

  Rivers spilling downward from the world’s ceiling, cascading through stone and soil as if the land itself bled light.

  Adlet often found his gaze drifting upward—on that immense, unchanging expanse above. The Stars pulsed faintly, marking time in their silent way, indifferent to how far he’d already come.

  Months passed.

  The change announced itself before it became visible.

  The road began to climb, gently at first, then with growing insistence. Soil gave way to stone beneath their feet. The air grew drier, heavier—charged with something Adlet had never felt in any village or town before. Even the wind behaved differently here, no longer wandering freely, but guided by ridges of rock and elevation.

  Then the land opened.

  A vast rocky plateau stretched before them, abrupt and commanding.

  And beyond it—Tray.

  The capital did not sprawl.

  It dominated.

  Immense white walls encircled the city, seamless and immaculate, carved to endure centuries. Their surface bore faint geometric lines, etched so precisely they caught and reflected the Stars’ pale glow like restrained light. Towers rose directly from the stone itself, their foundations indistinguishable from the plateau—as if the city had not been built on the land, but drawn out of it.

  Adlet stopped without realizing he had done so.

  This wasn’t a town.

  This wasn’t even a city.

  It was intention made stone.

  From the plateau’s edge descended a colossal staircase—wide, symmetrical, nearly a hundred steps of pale rock leading upward toward the heart of the kingdom. It was less a path than a statement.

  This is where you prove you belong.

  Adlet felt his chest tighten.

  Behind him lay the road. The forests. The villages. His parents.

  Ahead stood power. History. Authority.

  Humanity, condensed.

  Lathandre slowed beside him, allowing the silence to settle, to press, to be felt.

  Adlet swallowed.

  His heart pounded—not with fear, but with something sharper.

  Anticipation.

  The road had brought him here.

  Now the real journey was about to begin.

  Lathandre stopped.

  “This is where I leave you,” he said calmly.

  The words landed heavier than Adlet expected, even though he had known they were coming.

  He swallowed. “What if I’m not ready?”

  Lathandre turned and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, his grip steady, grounding.

  “You are,” he said without hesitation. “Not because you have mastered everything. But because you know how to keep moving forward when you haven’t.”

  He paused, then added quietly, “That matters more than talent.”

  A silence settled between them, dense but not uncomfortable.

  “I am proud of you,” Lathandre said. “More than you realize.”

  Then his tone sharpened slightly.

  “One last thing. Never speak of Pami. Never speak of the true nature of your beetle. What you carry is rare—and people fear what they don’t understand. Some would try to control it. Others would try to use it.”

  Adlet nodded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Good.”

  “When you have triumphed over the Academy,” Lathandre continued, his gaze unwavering,

  “when you stand among those strong enough to shape this kingdom—”

  Adlet held his breath.

  “—I will find you.”

  The promise settled deep, firm and immovable.

  “We will walk the kingdom together,” Lathandre said. “But this time, you won’t be following behind.”

  Fire flared in Adlet’s chest.

  “Then I won’t take long,” he replied. “Be ready.”

  For a brief moment, Lathandre allowed himself a rare smile.

  “I always am.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Adlet watched until his master disappeared into the northern horizon.

  Then he faced the staircase.

  And began to climb.

  Tray swallowed him whole.

  The staircase opened into vast avenues of white stone, layered streets rising and falling like carved terraces. Bridges spanned impossible gaps between towers. Banners bearing the kingdom’s sigils fluttered high above, their colors vivid against the pale architecture.

  The city was alive.

  Merchants shouted. Carriages rolled. Guards in polished armor moved with disciplined precision. The air carried the scent of metal, dust, spice, and unfamiliar food.

  Adlet felt small.

  And exhilarated.

  He climbed alone, ignoring the mechanical lifts along the sides. Each step burned, and he welcomed the strain. It felt earned.

  At the top, the city stretched endlessly.

  He wandered for hours before finding an inn. The following days passed quietly—food, rest, exploration—but beneath it all, anticipation pulsed steadily in his chest.

  At dawn, Adlet walked east.

  Darwin Academy rose at the city’s edge like a fortress. Its massive walls radiated authority. The gates were still closed, but dozens of candidates had already gathered—and kept gathering.

  Most were older than him.

  Taller. Broader. Confident.

  Some wore light armor. Some carried packs heavy with gear. Others stood with the stillness of people who had rehearsed this moment for years. Conversations hummed in low, restrained tones—boasts disguised as casual remarks, nervous laughter that died too quickly.

  Adlet stayed quiet.

  He watched hands flex. Eyes measure. Auras flicker faintly around fingers when someone got impatient.

  Nearly a hundred aspirants filled the space before the gates.

  Adlet had been early—he found himself near the front without trying.

  He shifted his weight, steadying his breathing, when a voice came from behind him—uncertain, as if testing whether it could be real.

  “You’re… Adlet?”

  Adlet turned.

  For a heartbeat, he didn’t place him. Not because the face was unfamiliar—but because it belonged to a life that suddenly felt far away.

  Then he recognized the posture first: confidence worn like armor.

  Florian.

  His hair was neater. His clothes were better. He looked older than Adlet remembered, though it might have been the way he held himself—like the world owed him space.

  Florian’s eyes narrowed with interest.

  “Didn’t expect to see anyone from Eos here,” he said, the edge of amusement returning. “You’re registering too?”

  Adlet kept his expression neutral. “Of course. Why else would I be here?”

  Florian let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.

  “So the rumors were true,” he said. “You really did spend your days alone in the forest.”

  He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to feel private.

  “I hope you know there are prerequisites for registration. It’d be a shame if all that effort was wasted.”

  Adlet met his gaze.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  Florian’s smirk twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to dismiss Adlet or take him seriously.

  Before he could respond, the gates groaned.

  Metal shifted against stone.

  A long, heavy creak rolled outward as the doors began to open.

  Every conversation died.

  A tall man stepped forward into the doorway, his presence alone enough to quiet even the most confident candidates. He looked over them as if counting something more than bodies.

  “Welcome, candidates,” he said. “If you are here today, you aspire to defend humanity from Apex threats lurking within the danger zones—and bring pride to our kingdom.”

  His voice carried without effort.

  “Understand this: ambition alone will not carry you forward. The path from desire to mastery is long, and many will fail before it truly begins.”

  He paused, letting the silence sharpen.

  “The entrance test begins now. The cost is fifty gold coins, payable in advance, regardless of outcome.”

  A ripple moved through the crowd—not surprise, but the faint tension of money made real.

  “If all is clear,” the examiner continued, “line up calmly before me.”

  He stepped aside.

  The line formed quickly.

  One by one, candidates moved forward, each clutching a pouch of coins like proof they belonged here.

  A boy stepped up, paid, and released his Aura—brown, thin, unsteady.

  “Lower Rank 1 Aura,” the examiner noted. “Name and Guardian?”

  “Thomas. Dark Bear.”

  “Very well. Stand over there.”

  Others followed.

  A pale green Aura.

  A dull gray Aura.

  A faint blue that flickered like a candle.

  Each time: name, Guardian, rank—recorded, judged, filed away.

  Adlet watched quietly, absorbing the rhythm of this place. It wasn’t dramatic. It was clinical. And that made it worse—because nothing about it cared who you were.

  Then Florian stepped forward.

  He paid with ease.

  His Aura flared bright orange, controlled and confident, wrapping his body like a steady flame.

  “Intermediate Rank 1 Aura,” the examiner declared. “Name and Guardian?”

  “Florian. Three-Tailed Wolf.”

  Murmurs rose.

  “A Rank 3 species…” someone whispered.

  Florian stepped aside with satisfaction in his posture, as if he had just reclaimed a status he believed was his by right.

  Then the examiner called again.

  “Next candidate.”

  Adlet moved.

  The space in front of the examiner felt strangely quiet, as if the crowd’s attention narrowed the air itself. Adlet could feel eyes on him—curious now, because he was young, because he was unknown, because Florian had been recognized.

  He closed his eyes for half a second.

  Not to calm himself.

  To focus.

  He reached inward—not toward brute strength, but the shape of control he had learned on the road.

  His Aura emerged.

  Dark.

  Dense.

  It shimmered like night given form, swallowing the light around it rather than reflecting it. The air hummed faintly as if responding.

  “Intermediate Rank 1 Aura,” the examiner announced, voice carrying.

  Adlet blinked, surprised despite himself.

  Then the question came.

  “Name and Guardian?”

  Adlet opened his mouth and answered evenly.

  “Adlet. Dark Beetle.”

  Silence.

  Then whispers, quick and sharp.

  “A beetle?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Probably ephemeral.”

  “Seems weak.”

  Adlet’s jaw tightened—but he did not look away.

  “It is strong enough to face any trial,” he said, voice steady.

  The examiner studied him for a long moment. Not hostile. Not impressed. Simply interested.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Join the others.”

  Adlet stepped aside.

  His heart pounded—not with doubt, but with something cleaner.

  Resolve.

  The test had begun.

  And for the first time in his life—

  the world was watching him.

  https://discord.gg/7YP8MUcKjY