Test Of Names

The day began with a silence so thick it felt ceremonial. No clanging bells or shouting instructors, just a quiet summons delivered to each boy's chamber: 'Report to the Hall of Flame and Stone.'

Ares stood before his mirror, tying the sash of his robe with deliberate precision. His thoughts drifted between yesterday's bruises, still tender along his ribs, and the flickering memory of the echo's spear. The way the Echovault Core had pulsed like a heartbeat, how the phantom warrior had moved like memory given flesh and steel. He wasn't afraid of it. He wanted more.

Not because he possessed some innate talent, but because he had read every hidden line of this world's lore. In his past life, when his body had failed him and left him bedridden, he had consumed this world through its sprawling 10,000-page webnovel. That story had been his escape, his obsession, his window into a life he could never live. And now? Now it was his weapon.

The Hall of Flame and Stone was older than the Cradle itself, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of ceremonies. Towering braziers lined the circular walls like sentinels, their flames dancing with controlled fire spells that pulsed in rhythm with the mana nodes buried deep beneath the foundation. The very air seemed to thrum with power. Stone benches curved along the edges in perfect symmetry, resembling nothing so much as the seats of a gladiatorial arena, which, Ares mused, might not be far from the truth.

Veltrissa stood at the center like a figure carved from shadow and authority, her midnight coat trailing behind her. She was not alone.

A tall man clad in a crimson-trimmed robe stood beside her, his presence commanding immediate attention. His face was pale and hawk-like, sharp cheekbones casting shadows beneath piercing blue eyes. Deep lines were carved into his brow, the kind that spoke of years spent in contemplation of weighty matters. Those eyes swept across the assembled boys with the calculating precision of a predator assessing prey.

"This," Veltrissa announced, her voice echoing off the stone walls, "is Ardent Master Callix of the Imperial Archives. He will be overseeing today's assessment."

Callix inclined his head in a bow so shallow it bordered on insulting. "Sons of Eisenklinge." His voice carried the dry authority of ancient parchment. "Today, we test not your arms, but your names."

Ares blinked. *Names?* That hadn't been in the novel. His mental index of future events suddenly felt less reliable.

"You will each step forward and speak your lineage, name, rank, and the aspirations you have claimed," Callix continued, his gaze never wavering. "This is not vanity. This is identity. This is purpose. This is how the world will remember you... or forget you."

The weight of his words settled over the hall like a burial shroud.

Evandor rolled his shoulders, the motion sending ripples through his muscled frame. "Let's get on with it then."

Callix's gaze sharpened like a blade finding its edge. "Let the first speak."

Evandor strode into the center with the confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world. The firelight caught the gold threads in his robe, making him appear almost regal.

"I am Evandor Eisenklinge, Thirteenth Son." His voice rang clear and strong. "I seek command of the border legions and a place on the Warlord Council, ultimately I wish to join the order of lions."

Callix nodded, his expression as animated as carved stone. "A familiar ambition. Predictable. Step back."

'Ouch,' Ares thought, watching Evandor's jaw tighten. 'That had to sting.'

Caelum moved next, his steps silent as a whisper across the polished floor.

"Caelum Eisenklinge, Fourteenth Son. My path is the shadow court, to join the order of panther."

Callix raised an eyebrow—the first sign of genuine interest he'd shown. "Rare. Dangerous. Reasonable for one of your... temperament."

Rowan practically bounced forward, his grin wide enough to catch moonlight. "Rowan Eisenklinge, Fifteenth Son. I want to master the family's legacy and then..." He paused dramatically, as if considering his words for the first time. "Maybe become rich and retired. Somewhere warm. With good wine and absolutely no responsibilities."

The silence stretched like a held breath. Then, to Ares' complete surprise, Callix laughed. Just once—a sharp bark of genuine amusement that echoed off the ancient stones.

"Honesty. Refreshing in its rarity." The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Step back, young hedonist."

Rowan's grin widened as he retreated, clearly pleased with himself.

Now it was Ares' turn. He stepped forward, feeling the weight of every gaze in the hall. The flames seemed to lean in, casting dancing shadows that made the walls appear to breathe.

"Ares Eisenklinge, Sixteenth Son," he said, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. "My goal is simple. It's survival."

The silence that followed was so complete it seemed to swallow sound itself. Even the flames appeared to still, as if the very air held its breath.

Callix's eyes narrowed to slits. "Survival?" The word dripped with dangerous curiosity. "Explain yourself, boy."

Ares met his gaze without flinching, drawing on every ounce of his reborn confidence. "I'm not here to uphold any line or to strive to be something from the legends. I just want to survive while living a good life and to do that i need strength."

The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. Callix turned to Veltrissa, his expression unreadable. "Strong-willed, Or perhaps..." He paused, studying Ares like a specimen under glass. "We shall see what substance lies beneath such bold words."

Veltrissa's face betrayed nothing, but the flames behind her flickered and danced as if responding to some unseen emotion.

---

Later that evening, as shadows stretched long across the Cradle's corridors, Ares was summoned to the Hall of Sealed Echoes. The familiar weight of anticipation settled in his chest like a stone.

Junia met him at the entrance, her presence as silent and watchful as always. Without words, she led him through the hall's maze of pedestals to one that gleamed with an inner light the color of molten silver.

"This Core holds the memory of Eras Eisenklinge," she said, her voice carrying the reverence reserved for the truly legendary. "An Expert-ranked Eisenklinge from the Quiet Line. He was not the strongest in raw power, many surpassed him in that regard, but he mastered a mana art known as Flow and Counter. It is classified as Exceptional Potential."

Ares' pulse quickened, recognition flooding through him like ice water. He knew that name. He knew that art.

Flow and Counter, the legendary technique of redirection, timing, and adaptive rhythm. It allowed its master to transform an opponent's force into their own weapon, turning strength against itself. At its peak, practitioners could counter even Sovereign-tier attacks, provided they could read the patterns. The novel had described it as "fighting like water against stone, yielding, adapting, then striking where the enemy was weakest."

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the orb. The surface was warm, almost alive beneath his palm.

"TierSync: Intermediate."

The Core pulsed once, twice, then blazed with silver light. The echo began to rise.

Eras Eisenklinge materialized like morning mist taking shape. He wore no armor, only simple robes that moved like liquid silk. His hands were empty, but his presence carried the weight of absolute mastery. When he bowed, it was with the fluid grace of falling water.

Ares bowed in return, his heart hammering against his ribs.

They began.

Eras moved with perfect balance, each step a lesson in controlled motion. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he glided forward, arms flowing like ink dispersing in clear water. Ares struck cautiously, testing, but his momentum simply... disappeared. The echo had somehow stolen it, guiding him into overextension before tapping him down with a palm strike so gentle it felt like a caress.

Ares hit the mat with a thud that echoed through the hall. He rose quickly, already analyzing what had gone wrong.

'Again.'

He slowed his breathing, trying to watch rather than react. Eras began to circle, and the duel became a rhythm, a deadly dance where every move had meaning. Ares could feel the echo reading him, learning his patterns with each exchange.

Ares launched forward with a Pulse Step, his blade singing as it cleared its sheath. He aimed for the ribs, feinting high at the last second, but Eras shifted like smoke, caught the momentum as if plucking fruit from a tree, spun Ares completely off-balance, and sent him sliding across the mat on his back.

'Well,' Ares thought as he stared at the ceiling, 'that was humbling.'

Junia watched from the shadows, her expression unreadable as carved stone.

Ares stood once more, his pride stinging worse than his bruises. 'Again.'

This time, he tried something different. Instead of attacking, he waited. When Eras moved, Ares stepped into the motion rather than away from it, trying to absorb and redirect the force. It felt like trying to catch lightning in his bare hands, but gradually, he began to understand the rhythm.

Finally, miraculously, one of his palms met Eras's strike mid-air. For a heartbeat, they were locked in perfect balance. Ares twisted, redirected, and actually managed to land a minor tap against the echo's waist.

Eras smiled, a expression of pure, radiant approval.

Then he sent Ares flying across the hall with a burst of soft-force mana channeled through his heel. The technique was so elegant it was almost beautiful, right up until Ares crashed into the wall.

Red shimmer. Defeat.

Ares coughed as he sat up, his entire body feeling like one enormous bruise. *So that's how Flow and Counter integrates external mana burst techniques,* he thought, filing the knowledge away. *Fascinating. Painful, but fascinating.*

"Tomorrow," Junia said, her voice carrying the faintest hint of... was that approval? "You'll try again. You took one step closer tonight."

Ares nodded, struggling to his feet. His hand still tingled where the mana had flared, the sensation both foreign and oddly familiar.

This wasn't just about winning. It never had been.

It was about learning the art itself. About understanding the deeper truths hidden within each movement, each breath, each moment of perfect balance.

And he would learn it. Every technique, every principle, every secret the echo had to teach.

After all, he had read this story before. He knew how it ended.

The question was: could he write a better ending?