Weapon Selection

Nyxen

The training field was a battlefield of the defeated.

All around, students lay collapsed, gasping for breath, their bodies spent after enduring one of the most grueling first-day exercises in academy history. Some clutched their knees, struggling to stay upright, while others had simply given up entirely, sprawled out on the dirt, unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of their chests.

Nyxen sat near the edge of the group, rolling his shoulders, shaking out the soreness from his limbs. His breath was still steady—his stamina was solid, but even he had felt the sheer relentless pace Raella had forced them to maintain.

His gaze drifted across the field, taking in the other chosen.

Ceris, of course, looked untouched. Her white hair barely out of place, her expression indifferent as she leaned against a tree, arms crossed. If she was fatigued, she didn't show it. The only clue was the slight rise and fall of her chest— deeper breaths than usual.

Seraphine wasn't as composed. She sat on the ground, stretching her legs, rubbing her calves with a wince. "I think I actually saw my life flash before my eyes," she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

And then there was Idris.

The heir of the Phoenix Clan stood apart from the others, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might break a tooth. His usual smug arrogance was gone, replaced by a quiet, burning frustration. He hadn't just lost today—he had been humiliated.

Nyxen smirked. Good. Maybe that'll knock some humility into him.

Then, of course, there was Eden.

Unlike the others, he hadn't collapsed immediately. He had lasted just long enough to stand apart from the rest—but only barely.

Now, he sat on the ground, back straight, breathing slow and measured. His posture was eerily composed for someone who had just endured the same hell as everyone else. He wasn't trembling, wasn't gasping for air like the others—just quiet.

Nyxen frowned.

How?

His rank was 999th. A number that should've condemned him to the bottom of the pack. And yet, he had outlasted nearly everyone.

Nyxen had been watching carefully during the run. Eden had started near the back, conserving his energy, only moving forward when he needed to. Even when the pace had pushed others to their limits, he had never broken rhythm.

That kind of discipline… that kind of restraint…

It wasn't normal.

Nyxen's gaze flickered to Raella.

She had been keeping an eye on Eden too. During the final stretch, when she had passed him, she had said something to him. Something only Eden had heard.

And whatever it was—it had shaken him.

Nyxen had caught the faintest flicker of emotion cross Eden's face. A rare crack in that unreadable mask of his. Fear.

What the hell had she told him?

Before he could dwell on it any further, Raella clapped her hands together, drawing everyone's attention.

"Alright, get up. You're not dying. We have one last thing to do before I send you all home."

Groans rippled through the students.

"You're kidding," one muttered.

"That was just the 'warmup' and sparring. Now this?" another whined.

Raella simply smirked. "If you think today was hard, maybe you should start reconsidering your life choices."

She gestured for them to follow, her tone shifting into something more formal.

"As first-years, you are all required to go through the weapon selection ritual. This is a tradition, held on the first day of every school year."

At this, some students perked up.

Weapons.

For many, this was a moment of pride. A chance to finally claim something that would become an extension of themselves.

Raella continued.

"First, let's get something out of the way. If you already own a Legacy Weapon, you are free to skip this process. The armory holds standard weapons—not the kind that your families have kept for generations."

Idris let out a haughty scoff. "Tch. Like I'd need a peasant's blade."

Ceris gave a simple nod. She, too, already had her weapon.

For most of the rest of them—including Eden—this was an opportunity.

"Let's go," Raella said, turning sharply. "Follow me."

Eden

The moment they entered the Academy Armory, Eden felt the shift.

Mana.

It was everywhere. Concentrated and humming with life in the air.

Weapons were displayed in careful arrangements along the walls, each one radiating its own unique signature. Some pulsed with fire, others buzzed with lightning—each weapon carrying its own history, its own potential.

As the students spread out, testing swords, axes, bows, and spears, Eden did not move. Instead, he closed his eyes beneath his blindfold and extended his mana perception.

Which of these weapons held the most power?

Instantly, he felt them.

Some were strong, carrying concentrated mana flows—potentially powerful weapons for an Awakened warrior. There were a few that stood out, blades humming with contained energy.

But then—

Something else.

Tucked away in the farthest corner of the room, nearly hidden from perception, was something different.

Aether.

Faint and nearly imperceptible as usual.

Even stranger, the Aether around it moved slightly. Not like normal mana. It swirled. Shifted. Reacted.

That was enough.

Eden moved toward it.

It was a sword.

Or, at least, it looked like one.

To his touch, it felt like smooth, polished wood. 

If he couldn't feel the Aether, he might have thought it was just a sophisticated training sword.

But that was impossible.

He reached out—grasped it.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt it. A pull.

This was it.

His weapon.

Raella

Raella leaned casually against the entrance of the armory, arms crossed, her golden eyes sweeping across the scene.

The room was massive, its vaulted ceiling supported by thick stone pillars etched with intricate runes. Rows of mana-infused lanterns lined the walls, their soft glow reflecting off the polished stone floors. The scent of oiled metal and aged wood filled the air—a mix of tradition and raw potential.

On either side of the room, towering weapon racks stretched from wall to wall, meticulously arranged.

The left side housed bladed weapons—racks lined with longswords, sabers, rapiers, and greatswords. Each blade was uniquely crafted, some humming faintly with elemental enchantments, while others gleamed with razor-sharp precision.

The right side held polearms and ranged weaponry—spears, halberds, glaives, bows, and crossbows, each one crafted for a different style of combat. A few arcane staffs pulsed with latent energy, their cores brimming with untapped magic.

The center of the room was a testing area, where students swung, thrust, and experimented with their chosen weapons. Wooden dummies stood battered and marked, already showing the enthusiasm of their new owners.

The energy in the room was palpable.

Excitement crackled in the air as students wove between the racks, testing weights, feeling the balance of the weapons, and even sparring lightly with each other. For many, this was their first real step toward shaping their combat style.

It was a sacred moment.

A tradition carried out at Lorraine Academy since its founding—first-year students choosing the weapon that would define their journey. Some approached the selection with careful deliberation. Others simply grabbed whatever looked the coolest.

And then there were the ones who… had no idea what they were doing.

Raella exhaled through her nose as her gaze landed on a student struggling to lift a massive warhammer, his face turning red with exertion.

"Another one who thinks bigger means stronger."

She turned her attention to the more competent students.

Unsurprisingly, Idris hadn't even approached the weapon racks. He stood at the back, arms crossed, exuding boredom. His family's legendary spear, passed down through generations, already rested in his personal armory. There was nothing here that could compare.

Ceris was much the same—her gaze disinterested, distant. She already had her family's frost-forged greatsword, an heirloom said to be nearly unbreakable.

Meanwhile, other students eagerly scanned the racks, selecting their weapons.

A burly student named Gavik—one of the higher-ranked students—grabbed a massive broadsword, testing its weight with a nod of approval. Nearby, a quiet girl named Ilya selected a pair of daggers, her movements quick and precise.

Across the room, a cocky-looking boy named Ronan twirled a metallic staff, grinning. "I like this one. Feels right in my hands."

"Maybe because you're compensating," a student muttered as they passed.

Raella smirked. At least some of them have personalities.

Then, her eyes landed on Eden.

She frowned.

The boy stood off to the side, separate from the others, holding… something.

At first glance, it looked like a training sword—a smooth, dark wooden piece with a seamless handle and scabbard. The surface had an unusual swirling pattern, almost like natural engravings.

It was… an odd choice.

Raella stepped forward, her voice carrying across the room.

"That doesn't look like a proper weapon."

Heads turned. The surrounding students, now curious, glanced toward Eden. Some raised eyebrows, others whispered among themselves.

Eden, as always, remained unreadable. "It's the one I chose."

Raella narrowed her eyes.

She had seen weapons of all kinds—blades infused with rare elements, staffs brimming with arcane energy, relics forged by master craftsman.

This?

This looked like a stick.

"…You do realize this is a weapon selection, right?" she asked, arms crossing. "Not a carpentry exhibit?"

A few students snickered.

Eden didn't react.

Raella sighed. "Fine. Bring it to class tomorrow morning. I want to see if it's worth anything."

Eden simply nodded.

Raella gave the weapon one last glance, then turned away, already making mental notes for tomorrow's lesson.

Eden – Training That Night

The courtyard was quiet.

A cool night breeze rolled through the academy grounds, rustling the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Above, the moon hung high, casting faint silver light over the stone-paved courtyard where Eden stood alone.

His fingers curled around the weapon—the wooden-like scabbard still concealing the blade within. He ran his hand along the dark, swirling patterns of its surface, feeling the smooth, unfamiliar texture beneath his fingertips.

Even now, he still wasn't entirely sure why he had chosen this sword.

It didn't radiate overwhelming mana like some of the others. It didn't carry a visible enchantment. And yet… something had pulled him toward it. Something beyond logic.

He took a steady breath, then shifted into stance.

A test.

He swung.

The weapon was light. Almost unnaturally so.

It moved effortlessly through the air, like a branch swaying in the wind. There was no weight to it, no resistance—it was as if he were wielding nothing at all.

And yet…

Each strike felt heavy.

Powerful.

The air trembled with the force of his swings, a pressure settling around him that shouldn't have existed.

He stopped.

Frowned.

It reminded him of something.

Aether.

Eden exhaled, centering himself.

He had used Aether externally before—briefly, fleetingly—but it had never been sustainable. Unlike mana, which flowed with relative ease, Aether resisted. It fought back.

Each time he had coated a blade with Aether, it was like trying to force a storm into a single raindrop. He could do it, but only for an instant. And the cost? Draining. Exhausting. Almost unbearable.

His grip tightened.

He focused.

The energy within him stirred—subtle, yet overwhelming. It coiled through his veins, humming with potential. Slowly, carefully, he guided it toward the weapon, toward the edge of the blade within the scabbard.

And then—

A sudden surge.

The moment his Aether made contact with the sword, something changed.

The blade reacted.

Not just absorbed—but devoured.

Aether rushed from his body like water flooding into an endless abyss. The sensation was violent, forceful, draining.

"No—"

Eden gasped, stumbling backward. His grip failed.

The weapon dropped.

His body felt hollow. His limbs shook from the overwhelming emptiness where his Aether had once been. It had been ripped from him, consumed entirely.

His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

His vision swayed.

For a moment, he thought he was going to collapse.

Then—

A soft pulse.

He froze.

The weapon, now resting on the ground before him, shifted.

A small, nearly imperceptible click.

The scabbard and handle—previously one solid piece—had separated.

And in that instant—

A notification flashed before him.

Experiment 473 Made by ??? has accepted you as its owner. Will you accept?

Eden stared.

His breath was ragged, his limbs felt hollow, as if his very essence had been siphoned away. Aether exhaustion—far worse than mana depletion.

And yet—

Despite the lingering ache in his chest, despite the cold emptiness where his Aether once flowed, his eyes remained locked onto the notification.

A weapon had never reacted to him before.

Not like this.

"Why…?"

He swallowed, his throat dry.

If this was a normal relic, then someone else should have found it before him. Weapons like these—artifacts of great power—weren't simply left tucked away, forgotten.

Unless…

"No one else could use it."

The thought settled in his mind like a stone.

The Aether around the weapon had moved. He had seen it, subtle yet distinct, shifting in ways only he could perceive. No normal person—no normal Awakened—would have sensed it.

Because no one else had Aether.

His pulse quickened.

This weapon—this Experiment 473—it had waited. Perhaps for decades. Perhaps longer. And now, it was choosing him.

But why?

Why was it made? Why was it abandoned?

Why did it need an owner?

A part of him hesitated.

He knew nothing about this relic. Its origin was unknown. Its abilities? A mystery. He had barely survived touching it—what would happen if he fully accepted it?

But then—

His fingers twitched.

No… that wasn't true.

He did know something.

He knew how it felt in his hands.

He knew how it moved—as if it was meant for him.

And more than anything—

He knew the way it pulled at his Aether.

This was no ordinary blade.

And Eden de Sylvain had never been ordinary.

A breath.

His fingers curled around the hilt.

His lips parted.

"…Accept."

A low hum vibrated through the air.

The weapon pulsed once more.

And with that—

Everything changed.