The Calling Ceremony: Part1

Adrain stared, mouth agape, at the man who had just transformed from a humble market vendor into the seemingly omniscient ruler of Klen. The smell of old books and pipe smoke filled his nostrils, mixing with the lingering awe of the cathedral's grandeur. "Who… who are you, really?" he stammered, the words barely audible in the vast chamber.

Cobobles replied, a knowing smile playing on his lips, "I am Cobobles, Earl of Klen, a Magi Alchemist, Headmaster here at The Four Points Madrasah that I founded over three hundred years ago for those seeking knowledge and training. Also, Administrator of The Calling Ceremony."

Adrain felt a cold knot of dread. Power, in his past life, had always been an instrument of his suffering; teachers, adults, authority figures had all looked away or joined in his torment. The man before him, an Earl, Headmaster, and Administrator, embodied that feared power. "What should I call you?" Adrain asked, the words barely a whisper.

Cobobles, feeling Adrain's new tension, changed his demeanor back to that of the vendor he first met and said simply with a sad look on his face, "Cobobles, young'un." He continued by explaining that here in his city, everyone is equal and that all species here have learned to work together so no one needs or wants for anything.

Cobobles's almost grandfatherly presence now let Adrain relax, allowing him to reset and pull himself together. He realized he had a long way to go to get over some things from his past. "The Calling Ceremony," Adrain finally managed, "What exactly is it?"

Cobobles chuckled, the pipe smoke curling around his round face. "Ah, the Calling Ceremony, my boy, is many things. It is a revelation, a confirmation, and indeed, a beginning. But before we delve into its deeper mysteries, allow me to observe you, to understand the raw material I have to work with." He leaned forward, his small eyes twinkling. "First, let me ask you some questions, Adrain. Consider this… Test 1: The First Impression Photo Test."

He gestured vaguely with his pipe, and from a nearby bookshelf, a thick, leather-bound tome floated gently through the air and landed with a soft thud on a small table beside his throne. As Adrain watched, a series of individual photographs, perfectly preserved, began to emerge from between the pages of the book, arranging themselves neatly on the tabletop. There was a smiling woman with intelligent eyes, a stern-faced man in elaborate robes, a youthful figure with a thoughtful expression, a laughing group of diverse species, and a solitary, contemplative individual looking out over a vast landscape. Each image seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light, drawing Adrain's gaze.

Cobobles settled back, taking a slow puff from his pipe. "I'm going to show you a series of photos, one at a time, Adrain. For each photo, I want you to tell me the very first word or feeling that comes to mind about that person or persons. Don't overthink it or try to rationalize; just say whatever pops into your head instantly. There are no right or wrong answers." He pointed a finger, thick and ringed, towards the first photograph – the smiling woman. "Ready?"

"No, not really," Adrain replied, his voice a low murmur. He stared at the first photograph, the smiling woman, and the word formed on his lips almost before he consciously recognized it. "Good."

Cobobles nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "And this one?" he prompted, gesturing to the stern-faced man.

Adrain's brow furrowed. "Bad."

"Interesting," Cobobles said, moving to the next, the youthful figure.

"Good."

The laughing group. "Bad."

The solitary, contemplative individual. "Good."

Cobobles settled back, a thoughtful expression on his face as he took a long drag from his pipe. A puff of fragrant smoke curled upwards, momentarily obscuring his face. "It seems, young 'un," he said, his voice quiet but resonant, "that you see most of the world very black and white, good or evil, with little room for shades of gray."

 Cobobles continued, his gaze unwavering. "It's not inherently a bad thing, Adrain. It speaks of a strong moral compass, a clear sense of right and wrong. However, in Asha, such rigid distinctions can sometimes obscure the full truth. It wouldn't hurt you to be a little more open-minded, to allow for the complexities of individuals and situations. 

Adrain nodded, a silent agreement forming in his mind. He recognized the truth in Cobobles' words. His black-and-white view had been a shield, a simple way to categorize the world that had so often hurt him. But here, in this new, vibrant, and multifaceted existence, he knew that shield would only serve to limit him. He had to learn to see the grays. He had to learn to see beyond the surface.

The next few hours continued like this, a series of tests, each more perplexing than the last. Adrain answered questions about hypothetical moral dilemmas, describing his immediate, gut reactions. He was shown intricate puzzles of glowing light, asked to describe what he perceived and how he felt. He was even presented with various musical notes, each played individually, and instructed to simply state the first image or memory that came to mind. Through it all, Cobobles observed, his small eyes keen, his pipe emitting a constant, fragrant stream of smoke.

Finally, Cobobles leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his voice took on a new, tone. "Very well, young 'un. You've shown me much today, and I daresay, you've surprised me more than once. We have but two more tests remaining, and these, Adrain, will be unlike anything you've experienced thus far. These are the core of the Calling Ceremony, the true measures of your inherent gifts."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "The first of these final two is the Strength Test and then Capacity Test: your ability to absorb, contain, and direct Aether itself."

Cobobles stood, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving Adrain's. He took a long, deep draw from his pipe, the fragrant smoke swirling around his face like a miniature storm. He exhaled slowly, and as the cloud billowed outwards, it seemed to coalesce, thickening and swirling around the desk that had held the photographs. The table shimmered, distorted, and then, in a blink, it was gone, replaced by a life-sized statue. It was a perfect, unmoving likeness of Cobobles himself, crafted from what appeared to be dark, polished obsidian, its surface gleamed with a faint, inner light. The statue's eyes, though carved, seemed to hold the same challenging twinkle as the real Cobobles's.

"Young'un," a wide smile spreading across his round face, "hit this for me." His voice was laced with a jovial challenge, but Adrain felt an underlying current of immense power emanating from the statue. This was no ordinary test of strength.

Adrain walked towards the obsidian statue, his mind a whirlwind of anticipation and a simmering, raw power. He remembered the blinding speed, the explosive strength he'd unleashed against the Grim-Hide, a ferocity he hadn't known he possessed. This new body, he realized, was a vessel for something far beyond mere human capability. He wanted to push it, to see how far this "immense potential" could truly go. The decades of being overlooked, of being dismissed, of the quiet rage simmering beneath the surface—all of it surged. He would channel every slight, every betrayal, every moment of feeling less than, into this single strike.

He slowly took on a fighting stance, his new muscles coiling with a controlled tension. His golden eyes began to glow with an intense, inner light, mirroring the faint pulse emanating from his single, golden horn. A wave of pure, shimmering energy, like liquid gold, began to gather around his right fist, intensifying with each passing second, humming with a power that made the air itself vibrate. With a sound imbued with primal force, he launched the punch.

The impact was deafening. The smell of ozone filled the air. The obsidian statue, instead of shattering into fragments, split perfectly down the middle, a clean, precise fissure running from its head to its base. It remained upright, two halves perfectly aligned, but the concussive force of the blow, no longer contained, surged through the crack. Behind it, the massive, scholarly throne, laden with books and scrolls, exploded outwards in a shower of splintered wood and scattering paper. Cobobles and Adrain, his fist still extended, stood frozen, their jaws agape, staring at the sudden, complete obliteration of the throne.