Cold marble pressed against Ethan's knees, sending a sharp chill straight to his spine.
Around him, the vaulted arches of the grand cathedral of Valéria stretched toward a sky they had shut out centuries ago.
Gilded statues of ancient saints stared down with blank, crystalline eyes, judging every desperate soul gathered in the nave.
Valéria prided itself on being the most stable of the three great nations of the world.
Here, cities thrived, granaries overflowed, and the bloody wars of the past had faded into distant memories.
Yet, behind this facade of peace lay a jagged, invisible fault line.
Wealthy citizens of the capital looked down upon those from the outer villages with absolute disdain.
To the high-born, rural folk were uneducated, talentless, and utterly unworthy of serving the crown.
Ethan knew this bitter truth better than anyone.
Abandoned to the rain-slicked gutters of the lower slums as a sickly child, he had learned that survival required absolute self-reliance.
Pity was a luxury that bought nothing but a cold, wet grave.
He had spent years studying, calculating, and planning his ascent to escape the filth of his upbringing.
Today was his gateway to power.
Entering the ranks of the elite required a clean, blue sorcerer's flame.
Every calculation pointed to a flawless transition.
While the neighboring empires of Solis and Lunaria tore themselves apart in endless border skirmishes, Valéria remained solid.
Its strength lay in the sacred shards, divine gifts that bestowed predictable, clean magic to the worthy.
Every young citizen dreamed of the day they would stand before the Great Awakening Shard.
A successful awakening meant a life of luxury, a position in the royal court, or at least a stable trade.
Failure meant returning to the mud, forever branded as a second-class citizen.
Ethan had no intention of returning to the mud.
Determined to break his limits, he had spent his meager savings on contraband books, memorizing the precise biological and spiritual alignments needed for a successful awakening.
He had cured his childhood sickness through sheer, calculated trials of discarded herbs and stolen medical texts.
According to his calculations, his high intellect and disciplined mind made him a prime candidate for a high-tier blue flame.
His heart beat in a steady, measured rhythm, a testament to his absolute self-control.
Losing grip on his mind was not an option.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, itching against his cheap woolen collar.
Beside him, other candidates trembled, their breaths hitching in the heavy, incense-scented air.
Some wept quietly, terrified of failing the trial and being relegated to a life of manual labor.
Clenched jaws and shaking hands marked the others, but Ethan merely watched them with cool, analytical eyes.
Emotion was a weakness that clouded judgment.
He focused on the massive obsidian altar at the center of the sanctuary.
Resting upon a velvet cushion atop the stone was the Great Awakening Shard.
It pulsed with a low, rhythmic hum, casting a pale glow across the stern face of Grand Inquisitor Charles.
Charles stood like an iron pillar of righteousness, his gold-trimmed robes catching the light.
To the Inquisitor, any physical deviation was a rot that needed to be severed from the kingdom's healthy body.
Purge the imperfect, protect the crystal order.
That was the singular doctrine Charles lived by.
Clapping a hand over his chest to steady himself, the young scholar kept his breathing slow and rhythmic.
Defeat was an outcome he refused to accept in his carefully structured life.
His mind was a fortress, his plans laid out with mathematical precision.
"Next," a priest's voice echoed through the vast hall, cold and devoid of empathy.
Rising with deliberate grace, the young scholar smoothed his threadbare tunic with steady hands.
Steps echoed loudly as he walked down the aisle, his boots clicking against the pristine white stone.
Hundreds of wealthy spectators peered down from the high balconies, their whispers like the rustling of dry leaves.
Showing them his worth was the first step to destroying them.
Kneeling before the obsidian altar, Ethan stared directly at the dark shard.
Up close, the crystal seemed to pull the light out of the room, leaving a cold vacuum in its place.
"Place your right hand upon the facet," the priest commanded, his breath smelling of stale wine.
"Clear your mind of doubt and let the light choose your path."
Ethan reached out, his fingers steady.
His fingers hovered a fraction of an inch above the polished surface.
This was the moment of absolute transition.
He expected the familiar, soothing warmth of blue magic to flood his veins.
Instead, the instant his skin made contact with the obsidian, a jolt of liquid fire shot up his arm.
Gasps echoed from the balconies as the shard did not glow blue.
It turned pitch black.
A violent tremor rattled the stone altar.
Desperately, he tried to pull his hand away, but his palm was glued to the freezing stone.
Agony, sharp and blinding, ripped through his shoulder.
Muscle fibers in his right arm began to twist and wrench violently beneath his skin.
He screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through his throat and shattered the silence of the cathedral.
"What is happening?" a voice cried out from the crowd.
"Keep back!" another shouted.
Inside his arm, the bones were snapping and reforming.
Dense, iron-like tissue sprouted rapidly, expanding his forearm to twice its normal size.
Skin split open with wet, tearing sounds, spilling thick, dark blood onto the pristine white altar.
Clutching his left wrist with his other hand, trying to hold back the monstrous growth, the pressure was unstoppable.
Razor-sharp talons burst through his fingertips, scraping against the stone with a horrific metallic screech.
Black veins snaked up his neck, burning like acid.
He felt his jaw shifting, his teeth cracking and lengthening into predatory fangs.
A metallic, bitter taste filled his mouth.
Staring down in sheer horror, he watched his own blood drip onto his hand—not red, but a deep, viscous black.
Left with only a distorted view of the world, he watched his right eye burn with a searing heat.
His pupil narrowed into a vertical, reptilian slit.
A beastly transformation had claimed him, shattering his calculated future into a million useless pieces.
Panic erupted in the galleries.
Noble ladies shrieked, pressing silk handkerchiefs to their faces as they scrambled toward the exits.
Guards in silver armor drew their broadswords, the ring of steel echoing off the high stone walls.
"Monster!" someone screamed from the upper tiers.
"It's a demon! Kill it!"
Ethan collapsed to his knees, his newly transformed arm slamming into the marble floor.
Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, the stone shattering under the sheer, unnatural weight of his limb.
He gasped for air, but his lungs felt like they were filled with boiling oil.
A strange, heavy sensation settled in his chest, a dark pulse that beat in tandem with his heart.
His right arm felt incredibly heavy, yet humming with a terrifying, destructive power.
He could feel the density of the muscle fibers, packed together like forged iron.
Monstrous claws twitched, scraping deep grooves into the solid stone floor with minimal effort.
This was not magic.
This was physical, brutal evolution.
Inside his head, a wild, feral roar threatened to drown out his rational thoughts.
*Kill,* the voice whispered, deep within his mind.
*Tear them apart. Feed on their fear.*
"No," Ethan growled through his elongated fangs, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
"I... am in control."
He forced his left hand to grip his monstrous right arm, trying to hide the razor-sharp talons from view.
Every ounce of his analytical mind fought to compartmentalize the pain and the foreign instincts.
He needed to think.
Escaping this place was paramount, but his body was betraying him.
Viscous black blood hissed as it touched the cold marble, leaving tiny, scorched pits in the stone.
He looked at the Great Awakening Shard.
Evidently, the beast within had consumed the crystal's power, leaving it dead and grey.
"Holy Father, protect us," a priest whimpered, backing away while clutching a silver sun-talisman.
"Corruption has taken flesh, screaming to be cleansed!"
Heavy footsteps approached the altar, slow and deliberate.
Ethan forced his head up, his single human eye and his predatory, slitted eye focusing on the figure moving toward him.
Grand Inquisitor Charles walked down the altar steps, his face a mask of absolute disgust and cold fury.
Radiating a pure, blinding white light, the gold-trimmed staff hummed with power.
To Charles, there was no room for error, no room for mercy.
Ethan saw the way the Inquisitor's hand tightened around the shaft of his weapon.
Crackling like miniature lightning, holy magic gathered at the tip of the staff.
If he stayed here, he would be dissected, his body torn apart in the name of research and purification.
His analytical mind raced through the options.
Fight?
He had no training, only a monstrous arm he didn't know how to wield.
Flee?
Guarded by two dozen fully armored knights, the cathedral doors offered no easy exit.
Hide?
There was nowhere to run in this open, vaulted hall.
Feral instincts surged again, urging him to spring forward and tear the Inquisitor's throat out.
"Let me handle this," the beast inside him snarled.
"We can crush his skull. We can taste his blood."
Ethan grit his teeth, forcing the beast down.
"Quiet," he muttered under his breath, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his monstrous arm.
"I decide when we fight."
Survival meant finding a way out of this trap, even if it meant turning into the very thing they feared.
Grand Inquisitor Charles raises his gold-trimmed staff, his eyes locking onto Ethan's beastly right arm as he bellows, 'Anomalie! Bring the purging irons!'