“Looks like break time’s just about over.”
A cheer went up.
When Crys looked over,
the man in the red cloak was already standing
by the central fireplace.
It wasn’t his imagination.
The fabric of the cloak rippled,
like flame.
The man swept his gaze across the hall
and flashed a grin—
the kind that promised trouble.
“Some of you have probably heard this already,
but let’s do it properly.
Name’s Rone Valancourt.
I’m the Color Master in charge of this place—
Adom Yekitsa.
That’s Awakening Red.”
He tapped his chest lightly.
“Oh—Master just means Rav.
Old word, really.
Most folks say Master now.
Same deal with Seder.
We call ’em Orders.
Easier, right?
Anyway.
Masters manage the islands
and the Initiations.
We keep the Tseva in line,
and give advice—or a shove—
to Rofehim going through Initiations.
But hey.
Just call me Lord Rone. Or something.”
He winked,
fully aware of his own charm.
“Your Nahal probably gave you the basics,
but I’m guessing some of you still don’t quite feel it yet.
Or you’re curious how this whole thing works.
So remember this much:
life in Emet Echad Olam
revolves around passing
the Eleven Initiations—
just like the Grand Order said.”
“Oh—right.
Almost forgot.”
Rone’s expression shifted,
like he’d remembered something amusing.
“Since someone already asked,
I’ll cover this first.
Basic rule:
while a Rofeh is here in Emet Echad Olam,
their Nahal lives in Chuts
in their place.
The Nahal beside you now—
that’s your guide.
Chuts is the world we came from.
So far so good?”
“What happens to a Rofeh
who doesn’t have a Nahal?”
A boy shot his long arm up,
his voice louder than necessary.
Crys shot a glare toward the table—
and caught Dimon smiling at him,
thin and smug.
“There’s no such thing as a Rofeh without a Nahal,”
Rone said flatly.
“Love the enthusiasm,
but save it for the Initiation.”
Before Zimek could point fingers,
Rone rolled on.
“So.
If a Nahal’s living in Chuts,
what’s in your real-world body right now?
Good question, Matty Drinkwater.”
A ripple of snickering spread.
Matty—with his dreadlocks—
looked pleased instead,
flashing a peace sign
when Rone wasn’t looking.
“The answer is:
another Nahal—
More precisely—
a copy of your Nahal.
That technique normally comes up
in the Third Spirit Initiation,
but Nahals usually guide magic
until the Color Initiation’s done.
Which is why, on Yom Reshit—
the day of the Color Initiation—
a copy steps in.
Oh,
and after the Color Initiation,
you and your Nahal part ways
until the Spirit Initiation.
So learn your magic,
and get along while you can.
Clear enough, Matty?”
“Exceptionally clear.
I am deeply honored,
Lord Rone.”
Matty snapped a salute,
so overdone it bordered on mockery.
Rone loved it.
His perfectly shaped lips
curved into a broad grin.
“Any other questions?
…No?
Good.
Now we get to the real part.”
He clapped his hands once.
“What you’re about to take
is an Initiation to know yourself.
We call it the Color Initiation,
but its proper name is Adom Yekitsa—
same as this island.
Color isn’t just surface.
It reflects temperament.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Nature.
Simple example:
red feels passionate,
blue feels calm.
To know your color
is to know yourself.
Red also connects to the earth—
violent shifts,
awakening strength you didn’t know you had.
That’s why Adom Yekitsa
comes first.
Why it’s called Awakening Red.”
It wasn’t something you’d learn in school.
Probably useless in the real world.
And yet,
the boys listened more intently
than they ever had in class.
“In Emet Echad Olam,
we call color Tseva.
There are eleven Initiations,
but only seven core Tseva—
from red to violet.
Red tends to produce magicians.
Orange, alchemists.
Green, healers.
Blue, diviners.
Indigo, seers.
Violet, mystics.
Yellow’s… everything else.”
He shrugged lightly.
“Unbound.
Capable of everything,
and yet not defined by any one thing.
Tricky ones, mostly.
No Tseva is better than another.
Whichever you get,
own it.”
Judging by the looks exchanged,
most of the teens were thinking
Yellow sounded lame.
Some were already whispering,
“What color do you think I am?”
Rone ignored it.
“So.
How we decide your Tseva.”
He let the murmuring continue.
“After sunset,
we’ll head back
to the Pearl Palace—
that great hall you came from.
One by one,
you’ll cast magic
into a prepared crystal.
The crystal changes color,
and your Tseva is set.
You’ll be doing it
in front of your peers,
the Grand Order,
and the other Masters—
so make it look good.
Once I’m done here,
use the time to experiment.
Try different magic.
Find your color.
But first—
magic itself.”
He paused,
then continued.
“In this world,
magic means
thought made form.
Not fantasy magic.
We call it Yatsar.
Magic and Yatsar are similar,
but Yatsar is broader.
You can summon fire or water.
Change your form.
Even glimpse the future
and bend it.
If you can imagine it clearly—
you can change reality.
Which is why
you’ll start by creating a Pirit—
an item to focus your Yatsar.”
When Rone finished,
a camera rested in his hand.
A moment ago,
it hadn’t been there.
Cheers broke out.
Some even clapped.
Even Suguri looked faintly entranced.
Only Crys leaned on his elbow,
letting out a sigh.
—Magic?
Pulling objects from nowhere?
Cheap stage tricks.
Everyone here was nuts.
“Because of that,
most people pick a wand for their Pirit.
Me?
I’m a photographer.
This fits.
Could be a wand.
A camera.
Anything.
Phones and tablets are popular these days.
Just picture yourself using magic—
and imagine pulling something
into your hand.
All right.
Go.”
The teens shut their eyes at once.
Some clasped their hands like prayer.
Others waved their arms dramatically.
Crys watched them,
unimpressed.
Suguri tilted her face upward,
eyes closed,
searching for something.
Rokyu scowled,
looking exactly like
a cat sharpening its claws.
Crys figured Rone would sneak around,
placing items on tables
while no one looked.
So he kept an eye out.
Rone smiled patiently,
watching everyone—
then glanced toward Crys.
Their eyes met.
Crys shut his eyes in a hurry,
head bowed—
and seconds later,
someone sat beside him.
“You.
What’s your name?”
The voice was so quiet
it felt like it spoke inside his head.
Crys pretended not to hear,
muttering nonsense under his breath.
“You’re not the first
to doubt this place.
Come on.
Let’s talk.”
This time,
the voice reached his ears.
When Crys opened his eyes,
Rone was closer than expected,
elbow on the table.
His eyes drooped lazily,
but beneath the friendly gaze
was something sharp.
“Name?”
“…Reed.”
Crys answered,
even softer.
“That your first name?”
“Crys Reed.”
Rone smiled,
scratching the faint scar
running straight down his left cheek.
“Crys.
You think this place is a dream.
That it doesn’t really exist.
Right?”
Crys stiffened.
He didn’t nod—
but his eyes did.
Rone grinned,
leaning closer.
“I believed my Nahal from the start,
so I can’t fully get how you feel.
But someone who came here with me?
He was just like you.
Didn’t listen to the Masters.
Wouldn’t practice magic.
In the end,
he took the Color Initiation
without a Pirit.”
Crys blinked.
He’d heard nothing
but blind faith since arriving.
The idea that someone felt like him
had never crossed his mind.
“What happened to him?”
Crys asked,
leaning forward.
“He’s the Master
of the Initiation of Numbers now.”
Rone laughed silently.
“Remember the guy
in the orange cloak?
Even someone like that
can become a Master.
In this world,
thought is everything—
but believing in the world itself
isn’t strictly required.”
If he’s a Master, I could talk to him—
The thought sparked—
then another followed.
“If he didn’t believe,
why did he become a Master?”
“Beats me.
Never asked.”
Rone shrugged.
“Point is—
believe or don’t.
What’s meant to happen,
happens.
You don’t have to force yourself
to fit in here.
So quit pretending you’re thinking.”
Crys looked down,
cheeks warming.
Rone hadn’t ordered him.
Hadn’t corrected him.
He’d listened.
And that,
more than the title Master,
left an impression.
Crys was about to ask
how to meet the Master of Numbers—
when—
A cheer went up from one table.
At its center,
that meddlesome boy stood,
smiling shyly,
a black wand in his hand—
the same color as his hair.
“Looks like we’ve got our first penguin,”
Rone said.
He rose from his seat,
clapping as he walked over,
then set his hands on the boy’s shoulders,
half in praise, half in approval.
“Tell everyone how you brought your Pirit out.”
“Well—
I like games,” the boy said.
His voice was modest,
but carried.
“So I tried recreating
the magic I use in-game,
inside my head.
I worked through the spells I’m best at,
one by one,
and when I imagined the one that felt right—
that’s when it took shape.”
“Easy for you to say,”
Rone muttered,
scratching his head,
half impressed, half taken aback.
“You’re supposed to spend the next stretch
figuring out what feels right.
That’s what the Pirit is for.
And you already knew the spell
before you even had one?
Even Bern—
youngest Master on record,
the Silver Master—
wasn’t that fast.”
The excitement only grew.
Teens praised him—envied him.
Rone raised his voice,
peeling the crowd away
from the black wand.
“Hey—focus on yourselves.
Picture yourself using magic.
Bring what’s in your hand to you.
Finding the spell that fits?
That only worked because it was him.
Not exactly something you can copy—”
“I did it.”
Suguri’s voice cut in,
soft,
like she’d just woken from a dream.
“My magic that fits—
transformation.”
Held high in her hand
was a compact.
Gem-cut,
with an aurora-colored center—
the kind an anime heroine would carry.
“No way… seriously?”
Then—
all around them—
“I did it!”
“I got one!”
Rone’s warning aside,
it seemed the teens words
had been the clue.
Faces flushed,
the teens showed each other
what they’d pulled out.
Rone covered his mouth,
laughing,
like he couldn’t quite believe
what he was seeing.
Watching it all,
Crys felt something sour settle in his chest.
Rone had been talking with him
right up until then.
There hadn’t been time
to plant anything.
So were these—
really—
thoughts made real?
Was magic actually real?
No.
He’d prove it.
Crys shook his head
and closed his eyes.
Dark.
Nothing there.
So he tried to imagine something.
What came up first
was his bedroom.
The feel of the sheets.
The smell of the room.
He tried to picture his phone—
the black case,
fitting perfectly in his palm.
But no matter how often he used it,
the image stayed vague.
Nothing appeared.
Of course.
Next, a smartwatch.
Then a tablet.
Same thing.
Blurry.
Relief crept in.
See?
Magic isn’t real.
And even if it were—
it has nothing to do with me.
He was just about to open his eyes
when Rone’s voice drifted over.
“Picture yourself using magic.
Then bring what’s in your hand.”
Right.
He hadn’t imagined magic—
just objects.
Crys pressed his eyes shut again
and thought of a game.
A magic user.
Fine—
he’d steal Vermizal’s rod
and swing that instead.
He could picture that clearly.
Games were easy.
He imagined reaching out.
Grasping—
Nothing.
His hand closed on air.
Satisfied,
he was about to give up—
“Not the magic you want to use.
The one that comes out naturally.”
The words felt aimed straight at him.
Crys froze,
eyes still shut.
Naturally?
Magic doesn’t exist.
How could something nonexistent
come out naturally?
Realizing how much he’d been pulled along,
irritation flared.
Rone said I didn’t have to pretend.
Who was I even trying to prove this to?
Proving it at all
meant assuming magic existed.
That annoyed him.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing had changed.
“All right.
That’s enough,”
Rone said.
“Even if you haven’t got one yet,
listen up.”
The murmuring died.
“Those with a Pirit,
start practicing magic.
Some of you already have the hang of it,
but practice means this—
pulling out the image you draw in your mind.
The magic that fits you
takes shape easiest.
That’s what decides your Tseva.
Try everything.”
He ruffled the black-haired boy’s head,
then glanced toward the doors.
“You can go anywhere on the island.
Straight left from this building
is the village where the Adom Yekitsa Rofeh live.
You can ask them.
Ask the Nahal on the island.
But the best advice?
Always comes from the Nahal beside you.
So start there.”
At his words,
the Nahals leaned closer to their partners,
nuzzling,
play-biting,
as if to say, “I’m right here.”
Crys was used to being alone.
Still—
seeing everyone else
with something at their side—
an emptiness crept in,
hard to name.
“The Color Initiation starts
at sunset,
with the seventh bell.
Be back here
by the third bell at the latest.
Dismissed.”
Rone clapped once.
The room broke apart in chatter.
A crowd gathered around
the first boy.
Matty and his dreadlocks
headed out with a big group.
Dimon followed,
with his entourage.
Seeing Crys still seated,
Dimon smiled,
mean,
and tapped his ivory wand
against his palm
as he passed.
“Why would you pull that out?”
Suguri asked,
mouth open,
after standing.
At Rokyu’s chest,
a pendant glinted—
a dragon coiled around a sword,
crystal set in the hilt.
“Anything that helps focus works.
This leaves my hands free.”
“And with taste like that?”
“What—bad?”
“Back home,
that’s what elementary boys buy
on field trips.”
Rokyu tried to laugh.
Failed.
Crys,
who’d almost thought it looked cool,
was glad he’d kept quiet.
“All right,”
Rone said,
smiling at those left behind.
“For those who didn’t get one—
here’s some good news.
A Pirit’s just a tool.
Plenty of Rofeh
stop using one altogether.
So—
I’ll teach you
how to use Yatsar
without a Pirit.
Learning Yatsar first
isn’t unusual.”
The room brightened.
Crys, meanwhile,
felt tired.
If he stayed,
he’d have to practice magic.
He didn’t plan to learn it.
Which meant he’d be the worst here.
That didn’t sound fun.
“Gather close,”
Rone said—
and that was when
Crys quietly slipped out of the hall.
