The Quantum Academy's central hall glowed dim under flickering lights, its high ceiling lost in shadow. Students swarmed the space—hundreds of them, their voices a steady hum weaving through the air. Some clustered near holo-displays, tapping stats from yesterday's drills; others shoved past, hauling gear or dodging stray sparks that fizzed bright. A sharp chirp cut through—a quantum flicker, a tiny bird-like creature made of light, darted between kids, its wings buzzing with energy. A girl laughed, coaxing it onto her finger, its glow pulsing soft. Pets, they called them—quantum animals, bonded to strong students, born from the academy's energy wells. The air buzzed thick, sharp with power that pricked Albert Jr. Faustin's skin. He stood near a wall, Aetherion's crate at his side, its foam cradling the sword's faint hum. His dark blue jacket hung loose, sleeves rolled up, his gray eyes scanning the crowd. Too loud—he didn't care for it, just the grind ahead.
Toren Vale pushed through, coin flipping in his hand. "Heard Rhyd's got a new test today," he said, grinning. "Something big—whole yard's talking about it." The coin vanished, popped five feet off, then zipped back. A quantum shimmer—a lizard of shifting light—crawled up his shoulder, its tail flicking. "You in?"
Albert's voice stayed flat. "If it's worth it." Drills didn't matter—only progress did. The hum in his chest stirred, his Coherence Bloodline restless since yesterday. Moving three cubes had sharpened his sight—Aetherion's gift sinking in. He'd heard breakthroughs strengthened the body, hardened it with each step. His felt different—tougher, steadier than most, like the sword fed him more. He needed to push harder.
The hall pulsed louder, students jostling past—holo-watches glinted, boots scuffed stone. A boy near him whistled, and a quantum wisp—a glowing orb with tendrils—floated over, nuzzling his hand. Albert stepped around it, silent. A girl tripped, her stack of holo-pads clattering down, and her flicker—a moth of light—darted to help. She muttered apologies, but Albert ignored her, focus tight.
Sera Kade cut through, amber eyes sharp, a quantum ember—a fiery cat—prowling at her heels. "Rich boy," she said, smirking faint. "Hiding by the wall? Thought you'd be swinging that toy already." Her tone jabbed, her glance testing him.
"It's no toy," Albert said, voice low and steady. He let her words slide—results would answer.
Elara Solis trailed behind, blonde hair catching the light, her smile soft. A quantum breeze—a gentle bird of mist—perched on her shoulder, cooing. "Don't mind her," she said, stepping closer. "Yesterday was amazing—you're getting stronger." Her warmth brushed him, but he turned his head, saying nothing.
Mira Lune followed, silver hair glinting, violet eyes on the crate. A quantum veil—a shadowy fox—slunk beside her, its form faint. "It's the sword," she said, quiet. "It's pulling you. Be careful." Her warning hung, soft but firm.
Albert's grip tightened on the crate's handle. "I'll handle it," he said, curt and cold. Their voices—Sera's edge, Elara's warmth, Mira's caution—didn't sway him. He'd carve his own path.
A sharp crack split the air—students flinched, heads turning. Near the hall's center, a holo-display sparked, static slashing across its screen. A boy stumbled back, yelling, "It's glitching again!" His quantum spark—a beetle of light—dimmed, skittering away. The crowd rippled—dozens of voices rose, quick and tense. "Shroud's doing it!" "They're here!" A kid dropped his gear, bolting for the exit; another froze, his wisp trembling as sparks rained down. Fear spread fast, thick and heavy.
Albert's eyes narrowed, a flicker of hate stirring. Quantum Shroud—his mother's killers, he was sure, proof or not. Their shadow hung in every glitch, every broken thread. He pushed it down, focus returning.
Rhyd stormed in, his voice booming. "Quiet!" The air trembled, students freezing mid-step, their pets dimming. His wild gray hair caught the light, his glare cutting through. "It's a tech fault—nothing more. Get to the yard." The crowd shuffled, murmurs fading as they spilled out, quantum animals trailing—flickers, embers, wisps darting in the chaos.
Albert dragged the crate after them, boots loud on stone. The yard opened wide—tiles scarred, arches glowing, students swarming in clumps. Hundreds moved, their shouts steady, pets buzzing or prowling beside them. Rhyd strode to the center, pointing at Albert. "Faustin, up here. Rest of you, watch."
The crowd parted slow, a sea of faces—some stared, others whispered, their pets glowing soft. "That sword kid?" "He's with Rhyd again." Albert set the crate down, pulling Aetherion free. Its runes pulsed, the hum syncing with his blood—stronger, like his body held more than most. A stack of five cubes waited—taller, heavier than yesterday's three. Rhyd crossed his arms. "Lift them. Fifteen feet."
Albert's jaw tightened. Five—a steeper climb. He'd trained for this—breakthroughs weren't just force, but grasping laws, quantum truths. The Law of Binding flickered in his mind—connection, control, threads tying things as one. He swung the blade slow, the air rippling, feeling its pull. His blood hummed, sight keen—every crack, every shift in the cubes, vivid. He pictured them linked, bound by that law. The blade flashed, and a wave shot out. Three lifted—steady—then wobbled; the fourth budged, the fifth stayed. They crashed eight feet off, dust rising.
Rhyd's eyes narrowed. "Again."
Albert reset, focus cold and deep. The law wasn't raw power—it was threads, weaving tight. He swung harder, the air cracking loud, seeing those threads—thin, faint, but there. Four cubes rose, trembling, the fifth scraping an inch. They flew twelve feet, slamming down with a thud. His head throbbed, sweat stung, but the threads felt closer—tighter.
A faint buzz cut through—a holo-watch on a kid's wrist sparked, then died, its wisp fading. Gasps rippled—dozens of students stepped back, voices spiking, pets dimming. "Shroud's here!" "It's them!" A girl clutched her arm, her breeze trembling; another bolted, her ember trailing as she shoved through. The crowd churned, fear wild and sharp.
Albert's hate flared, sharp and brief. Shroud—always them, snapping what he'd weave. He pushed it down, gripping Aetherion tighter. Rhyd's voice roared. "Enough!" The air shook, silencing them, pets steadying. "It's nothing—focus!"
Albert turned back, the law humming in his head—threads, not chaos. He swung once more, fast and sharp, weaving them in his mind. Five cubes lifted—shaky, slow—drifting fourteen feet before dropping hard. His breath came fast, a cold rush filling him—close, so close. The crowd hushed, staring, pets glowing faint, but he tuned them out.
Rhyd nodded slow. "Better. You're getting it. Keep going."
Albert lowered the sword, its hum steady. His sight stayed sharp—every face, every flicker in the yard, clear as glass. He'd felt the threads, the Law of Binding brushing his grasp—his body felt solid, tougher than it should. The Shroud's glitches wouldn't stop him—he'd master this, then them.
Toren jogged over, his shimmer blinking. "Almost had it," he said, voice low. "They're still spooked—Shroud's got them bad."
"Don't care," Albert said, flat and steady. Sera strode up, her ember prowling, smirking. "Getting there, rich boy," she said, her glance quick. "Don't choke now." Elara followed, her breeze cooing, smile soft. "You'll do it soon," she said, too close. He stepped back, silent. Mira hung back, her veil slinking, voice quiet. "It's too fast," she said, eyes on the sword. "Slow down."
Albert dragged the crate off, boots loud. The yard buzzed—students drifted back to drills, their shouts thin, pets darting or pacing. Sera's jab, Elara's warmth, Mira's warning—they faded behind his focus. The Shroud loomed, Aetherion hummed, solid like his hardcovers. He'd weave those threads—step by cold step—until nothing broke them.