I released my grip, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped beast.
My fingers were still trembling from the rush of adrenaline, but if I could bend that mystical energy to my will, I knew the doors to true power would finally open before me.
Lucas adjusted his crumpled clothing, his jaw tightening as he cast a wary glance toward the shadows of the cell.
He took a slow breath and began his tale in a hushed, cautious voice:
“Originally, Fantasia is the sap of the world—the pure energy that, according to legends, birthed the gods themselves.
For centuries, ordinary mortals were incapable of sensing or influencing it.
Then, thanks to the technological advances of cities like Malbour, artifacts were created to channel that power.
But using machines has its limits: the human body remains too fragile to serve as a direct vessel.
Many tried to wield Fantasia through sheer willpower alone, like wielding words, but the experiment always resulted in internal combustion.
It was simply impossible.”
I caught a detail of his sentence on the fly, my hunter’s mind instantly on high alert:
“You said ‘was.’ What changed?”
“The men in the shadows eventually found an alternative,” he resumed, his gaze fixing on the damp stone floor.
“But that method is far from perfect, and it doesn’t turn just anyone into a mage.
Fantasia is a substance too dense, too raw; it rots the mind and destroys the fleshly vessel of those who manipulate it without preparation.
That is why, even with this technique, the majority of test subjects die or go mad before ever sensing the slightest spark.”
The story captivated me completely.
The ambient filth of the dungeon, the oppressive heat, the stench of sweat—everything vanished around me.
I, who had never cared for the city’s theoretical treatises, found myself hanging on his every word, absorbing each syllable like a starving man offered a feast.
“And what is this famous method that bypasses technology to guide Fantasia intuitively?”
Lucas cast another quick, paranoid glance at the other recruits sprawled across the filthy ground, then lowered his voice until it was barely more than a breath against my ear:
“It’s called the ‘Pentacle.’ It is a ritual mark forcibly branded into the flesh.
The elders say it literally anchors onto your bones and merges with your spirit to alter your energy flow.”
“And you?
Where is your mark?” I asked point-blank, my voice laced with steel.
Lucas hesitated for a agonizing second.
Finally, with a weary sigh, he took the hem of his shirt and gently pulled it up.
On his ribcage, a dark, raised mark stood out sharply against his pale skin, looking terrifyingly like a brand burned directly into his flesh with a red-hot iron.
One could read the word Daken, which meant “Hope” in Old Carnic.
Just below the inscription, a stylized cross sealed the design.
My brow furrowed in confusion.
“You described it to me as a large mark,” I objected, leaning closer to inspect the dark ink.
“This one is tiny.”
He snapped his shirt back down with a swift, defensive gesture to conceal the Pentacle from prying eyes.
“That’s because it evolves, Drey.
During the initial ritual, a massive geometric structure is carved across your entire back.
The pain is so excruciating that many succumb to cardiac arrest right on the operating table.
But if you survive, and manage to awaken your Fantasia for the first time, the mark retracts.
It changes shape, migrates across your body, and transforms to reflect your deepest desire—your true nature.
It is a formidable weapon, but a double-edged sword: the more you draw upon your Fantasia reserves, the more you consume your own lifespan.
Your mind alters with every major use.”
The scattered pieces of the puzzle instantly assembled in my head.
The leader of the parents, during our brutal clash in Gallé—his eyes had held that same unnatural madness.
He must have been suffering from an overdose of that raw energy.
His sheer, unbridled destructive frenzy was the direct result of that mental alteration.
Only one question truly mattered now.
“Lucas…
How does one obtain this Pentacle?
I had to obtain it.
No matter the agonizing pain, no matter the years chopped off my lifespan.
Lucas shook his head sadly, reading the dark hunger in my eyes.
“It’s impossible for now, Drey.
The factions holding the secret to this transition are extremely rare.
There’s the regular army, the bounty hunter league, and a few rare large-scale criminal organizations.
Eresboros possesses this knowledge, but they don’t entrust it to nobodies.
You’ll have to climb the ranks and reach a much higher standing to hope they grant it to you.”
A glaring, sharp inconsistency then struck my mind, and my gaze hardened into a piercing glare.
“In that case…
Why does a simple thief from the low quarters like you already possess a Pentacle?”
My question fell like a heavy guillotine through the cell’s suffocating air, threatening to unearth secrets Lucas had kept carefully buried for years.
Panic flickered across his face, his lips parting to formulate a defense—
CLANG!
A sharp, violent metallic screech tore through the low hum of the dormitory.
The heavy iron bars of the main entrance gate slid back with an agonizing grind that made several recruits jump.
The murmurs and whispers died down instantly, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.
A figure slowly descended the stone steps to position himself in the exact center of the room.
He towered over the mass of filthy, battered recruits like an aristocrat inspecting livestock.
His appearance was a jarring, unnatural contrast to the rotting stench of the dungeons: he sported a gleaming, silver-framed monocle over his left eye, a perfectly slicked-back streak of deep purple hair framing his forehead, and a tailored three-piece suit of a striking, blood-red velvet.
He ran his gloved fingers over his lapel, smoothing out an invisible speck of dust.
Then, he cast a glance of absolute, infinite contempt upon the room.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, melodic, yet laced with a razor-sharp frost that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up:
“Well, dear recruits…
It is time to clean house.”