In the small church of Lampone, where the distance from the capital blunted the heavy hand of the kingdom’s rule, the air was thick with the scent of burnt wax and aged wood. Silas—a slender twelve-year-old boy with chestnut hair and honey-colored eyes—listened intently, though his hands toyed nervously with the hem of his tunic.

  At the altar, Sister Lucia smiled. At fifty, she possessed a vitality that defied her silver hair and the gentle wrinkles etched into her kind face.

  “Listen, children,” she said, her voice sweet yet firm. “Tomorrow is your Baptism. Whatever the machine decrees will determine your future. But remember: to me, it doesn't matter what you become, so long as you are good people.”

  A murmur rippled through the pews. The children knew this was a half-truth. In this kingdom, the machine’s word was law. It was everything.

  “If you are baptized as Scholars or Legionnaires, you will remain here at the general school until you are fifteen,” she continued, her gaze sweeping across the rows. “If you are Molders, you must seek masters in other towns, for we only have Don Alfonse here. And if you are Devotees…” her voice took on a subtle tinge of sadness, “by royal decree, you will be sent to Gavriel, the capital.”

  Silas instinctively glanced at the empty seat to his right. A year ago, Roque had been sitting there. Roque hadn't been a quiet boy; he was a whirlwind. It was always Roque saying, “Come on, Silas, let’s climb that tree,” or “I bet you’re too scared to go in there.” Silas had simply followed. When the machine marked him as a Devotee, they took him to the capital immediately. Since then, the town had felt grey and far too quiet.

  Please, let the machine say Devotee, Silas prayed silently, clenching his fists against his tunic. If I’m a Devotee, they’ll send me to Gavriel. I can see him again. We can be together again.

  “Sister…” a boy in the back raised his hand timidly. “Is it bad to be a Scholar? My father says it’s bad.”

  Sister Lucia shook her head, her smile vanishing for a moment.

  “It isn’t bad at all. There are those who still hold grudges over old stories—the legend of King Corvus’s four sons. But I believe that after so many centuries, we should move past such hatred. I don’t want to see any of you bullying your friends if they turn out to be Scholars. Is that understood?”

  Silas knew the story well. It was the tale every child learned before they could walk: King Corvus and his four sons. Corban, the Pious Devotee; Jared, the Strong Legionnaire; Perrin, the Practical Molder; and Zephyr, the Envious Scholar. The official version claimed Zephyr had been driven mad by the use of Arcane energy and tried to murder Corban to steal the divine blueprints of the Baptism Machine. Perrin, the hero, had stopped him. Ever since, the Devotee and Molder bloodlines had ruled, while Scholars and their mental energy—Cognis—were viewed with deep suspicion.

  Though, Silas recalled, some of the old folks say Cognis is meant for understanding the world, not for going mad.

  When the talk ended and the other children went racing out into the afternoon sun, Silas lingered behind.

  “Sister,” he asked, approaching the altar, “if Devotees are the ones who heal people, why have I never seen you heal anyone?”

  “Good question, Silas,” she replied, ruffling his hair. “I am not that kind of Devotee. There are several paths: those of Faith, who sanctify; those of Passion, who inspire; and those of Grace—the only ones who can mend the body. But those of Grace are treated like royalty; it’s rare to see one in a godforsaken village like this.”

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  The next day, the air in the church was charged with static and nerves. The Unlocking Machine—a contraption of metal and glass connected to a humming battery—dominated the center of the room.

  Silas watched the boy ahead of him stumble out, pale and drenched in sweat. Sister Lucia held him tenderly, offering him one of her famous "puzzle-pops"—misshapen sweets she made herself that tasted like heaven—and whispered something in his ear before noting the result in her great ledger.

  “Silas,” she called.

  His heart leaped. This was it. He walked toward the machine on stiff legs and lay down on the cold cot. The device's articulated arm screeched above him, lowering a heavy pane of glass onto his chest. The Sister connected the cables to the worn battery, which emitted a low, oscillating thrum.

  “Relax, Silas. Just breathe.”

  She threw the lever. The hum erupted into an electrical roar. The air around him grew hot instantly, smelling of ozone. Silas felt a harmless tingling at first, but within a second, it transformed. It was as if a dam had burst inside his skull. It wasn't just pain; it was information. A chaotic avalanche of sensations, images, and knowledge that did not belong to him crashed against his young consciousness.

  Blinding light. The sound of clashing metal. A house in flames. An emotionless face staring back at him. The hum of the machine vanished, replaced by screams in his head. He felt a vast, terrifying, and ancient energy flood his chest from the glass, spreading like liquid fire through his veins.

  It wasn't just power; it was memory. Vengeance... Betrayal... Blood on his hands. He saw a beloved face, smiling with melancholy, and then that same face stained red. A woman’s voice whispered with infinite sorrow: “The Lie... Arcana... Zephyr...”

  It was too much for a twelve-year-old mind. The whirlwind dragged him into the dark. The classification, his fate, Roque… everything dissolved as the weight of a future life consumed him.

  Silas didn’t know how much time had passed. He opened his eyes slowly. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples, but strangely, his body felt light, vibrant. He was lying on a cot, but not in the church. The scent of dried herbs and antiseptic told him he was in the clinic of Dr. Jake, the village’s Scholar physician.

  Sister Lucia sat beside him. Her face was a mask of relief mixed with a deep, unsettling worry.

  “A classic shock from energy overload,” Dr. Jake’s deep voice drifted from somewhere in the room. “It’ll pass in a day or two.”

  “What… what happened?” Silas’s voice sounded raspy, foreign. “Did I get a faction? Am I a Devotee?”

  The confusion of the old memories still simmered beneath the surface, mingling with his own. For a fleeting second, an image flickered in his mind: Sister Lucia smiling at him sadly, saying the word “Scholar”…

  But the real Sister Lucia, the one standing before him, took his hand.

  “Silas,” she said calmly, “you have been classified as a Legionnaire.”

  Legionnaire? The word echoed in his mind. A sting of disappointment hit him first: He wasn't a Devotee. He wouldn't be in the church with Roque. But then, the logic of his new memories—and his own desperate longing—took hold. Wait. This is good. It’s better than staying here as a Scholar. The best Legionnaires, the Royal Guards… they live in the capital protecting the important Devotees. If I’m strong enough, I can get to Gavriel regardless. Not as his equal, but as his Guardian.

  As Silas managed a weak smile, Lucia continued, her voice dropping to a whisper thick with awe and fear.

  “Normally, the machine measures Ether channeling efficiency. But, Silas… your values are off the charts. They’re near ninety percent.” She paused, as if she could hardly believe her own words. “These numbers exceed anything recorded in decades. Even higher than the Royal Knights in the capital. With that level of power… you could rival a legendary Sword Saint.”

  Silas didn't truly understand the numbers, but he grasped the essence: It was high. Very high. High enough to get out of this village, to be someone important. He looked at the Sister, expecting to see pride, but he found only concern. Lucia knew the weight of being "outside the norm." In this kingdom, being a genius or an anomaly wasn't always a blessing; sometimes, it was a target on your back.

  For her, perhaps it would have been easier if he had just been a simple, logical Scholar. But fate, it seemed, had much more complicated plans for Silas.