Snow had begun to fall around Saint Elyss’s Rest.

  It was light at first, thin flakes carried by the wind, but steady enough to coat the chapel grounds in white. A full year had passed since Lia arrived at the orphanage, and winter had returned with it.

  Behind the chapel, Alaric and Kellan clashed.

  Their wooden swords struck again and again, sharp and fast, feet grinding against frozen earth. This was no longer basic training. Their movements were quick, practiced, driven by stamina built over months of repetition.

  Lia sat a short distance away on a stone step, watching intently.

  She held a small leather water flask in both hands and a folded towel tucked under her arm. Every time their swords collided, her eyes followed Alaric’s movements with complete focus, as if missing even a second would be a sin.

  Kellan lunged. Alaric parried, stepped inside the strike, and tapped Kellan’s shoulder.

  “Again,” Kellan said, breathing hard.

  They exchanged another short bout before both finally stepped back, chests rising and falling. Lia immediately ran over.

  “Big brother,” she said, holding up the flask.

  Alaric took it, kneeling slightly so she could reach. “Thanks.”

  He drank, then returned it and gently patted her head. Lia smiled, clearly satisfied.

  Kellan clicked his tongue. “Hey. I fought too, you know.”

  Lia looked at him, then hugged the towel tighter. “You didn’t win.”

  Kellan laughed. “Cruel.”

  Alaric smirked faintly.

  Four months after Father Corwin sent the letter to Larethin that the church’s confirmation finally arrived. By then, the application deadline for that year’s evaluation had already passed. So they said he can participate in the next year

  This year, he is eligible.

  Training resumed shortly after. While Kellan practiced sword forms alone, Alaric focused on something else.

  Mana.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Over the past year, he had crossed a quiet threshold.

  At first, he had only manipulated mana within his own body, drawing it from his reserve and guiding it through his circuits. Now, he could feel the mana outside himself.

  The atmosphere was filled with it. Thin and diluted mana everywhere.

  By focusing, he could grasp it. Though it was hard to train , as it was like grabbing smoke by your hand.

  The first result was efficiency.

  If fire already burned nearby, if water flowed, if earth lay beneath his feet or air surrounded him, he no longer needed to cast Creo Ignis or Aqua or Terra or Ventus to create the element. He could manipulate the atmospheric mana and guide the existing element directly.

  It cost him nothing.

  But there were limits.

  The mana in the air was weak and diluted. At best, he could shape spells comparable to an adept-level casting, and mana manipulation can only be done within a small area. Pushing further strained his mind more than his body.

  The second change was awareness.

  When living beings moved, their mana disturbed the surrounding flow of mana in the atmosphere. Those disturbances carried outward like faint pulses.

  By sensing them, Alaric could detect movement within roughly twenty meters. Not precise shapes or identities, just presence.

  The third change affected his body.

  Instead of passively absorbing mana from the atmosphere when he slept, he began actively pulling it in. Slowly & Constantly. It required focus, almost meditation, but the results were undeniable.

  What once took nearly six hours to fully recover now took thirty minutes.

  He pushed this further.

  By deliberately emptying his mana reserve and refilling it again and again, he forced it to expand, just like he was doing previously but now he can do it many times over.

  His reserve was now nearly 3 times larger than its previous state, totaling 9 time then what he had as a child

  That afternoon, Father Corwin taught a basic lesson on timekeeping.

  “The world completes its cycle around the sun in one year,” Corwin said. “Astronomers estimate it at three hundred and ninety-six days.”

  Alaric listened quietly.

  A year is longer here, he noted internally. Days feel about the same.

  Months were not formally counted. Instead, the year was divided into four seasons for Shershia though it can be different in other countries. Each split into three parts. First of Spring, Second of Spring, Third of Spring, and so on.

  “The current year,” Corwin continued, “is 1462 AD.”

  AD means After Deliverance. After the Hero slew the Demon God.

  That evening, as the snow thickened, a post worker arrived at the chapel.

  Father Corwin accepted the sealed letter, glanced at the marking, and paused.

  “Alaric,” he called.

  Alaric looked up.

  Corwin opened it carefully, scanning the contents. His expression softened, then steadied.

  “This is from the church office in Larethin,” he said. “Your evaluation date. Location. Required documents.”

  Alaric’s breath caught.

  Three weeks.

  Corwin handed him the letter. “Prepare yourself.”

  Alaric nodded, fingers tightening around the paper.

  At last, the waiting had ended.