The sun had just begun its slow descent westward when the skies above the Grand Courtyard of Dwiwana Academy turned a radiant shade of amber-gold. From afar, the chime of the sacred bell echoed, ushering in a line of examinees into the grounds of the second trial.
The Practical Trial.
A vast circular field, carved from ancient black Éra stone, shimmered faintly with spiral runes of old. At the center of this arena stood a towering colossus wrought of Éra and age-worn metal: the Brahmandhala Golem — three times the height of a grown man, cloaked in dark iron, its veins aglow with molten red Éra. Its eyes burned like twin torches, its chest rumbled like thunder chained in patience.
This was no ordinary golem. Not a mere Bhamandala used in everyday training.
This... was the Brahmandhala — a construct born of three great disciplines: the brute force of Kanuragan, the mystic energy of Kwisenan, and the spiritual resonance of Kadeyan. Forged not to be defeated, but to test the limits of mortals and immortals alike.
As the students arrived in waves, a mix of awe, anxiety, and muted cheers drifted over the arena like a thin veil of fog. In the semi-circular gallery overlooking the stage, spectators gathered — instructors, evaluators, and upperclassmen — their murmurs a blend of tension and excitement.
"That's the same golem from the Arunika generation's selection fifteen years ago..."
"They say even the seniors couldn't bring it down."
Seated on the high dais was Reswara, Chief Examiner, draped in crimson-black robes adorned with flowing Éra-batik patterns from collar to sleeve. His eyes scanned the field with piercing clarity.
He rose. His voice, amplified by a sound-resonance mantra, boomed across the arena:
"Today marks the Demonstration Trial — an assessment of your foundational mastery over the three disciplines: Kanuragan, Kwisenan, and Kadeyan. You will face the Brahmandhala Golem for a full three minutes."
"Not to win. Not to defeat. But to endure. To think. To demonstrate your grasp of the path you've chosen."
"This golem will seek out your weaknesses. It will not hold back. But you are free to use every technique, incantation, or strategy at your disposal."
"Survive for three minutes... or be forced out of the arena... or surrender. That is the measure."
The air fell still. Even the wind dared not stir.
"And remember," Reswara added, his voice now deeper, sharper,
"This trial is not the end. It is merely the sifting stone. For beyond this..."
"Only the worthy will survive the Final Trial."
"The Ascent to Ardhakesuma... a place even the Masters seldom tread."
Some students visibly tensed at the name.
Ardhakesuma was no mere mountain. It was a sacred site — cloaked in ancient mystery and peril. Those sent there were not promised to return whole... or to return at all.
"Better to fail here," Reswara muttered under his breath, barely audible,
"than to die up there."
The trial began.
A gong resounded. Names were called one by one.
The crowd erupted — cheers, wild bets, jeers — but as each name echoed into the arena, that frenzy turned into a silence laden with anticipation.
The first wave entered.
Brahmandhala raised its massive right arm — a hammer forged from stone and fused Éra — and brought it down with thunderous might. The ground shook. A student stumbled, bloodied but struggling to rise, only to be thrown beyond the edge — disqualified.
Some strutted in arrogance, flaunting their strength, their heritage, their cloaks of prestige.
Others, unremarkable in appearance — no noble insignia, no grand robes — moved with a grace that defied belief. One weaved through strikes like a leaf in the wind, flowing with Éra as water flows through a stream.
"...Could that be a forbidden mixed blood ?" one examiner whispered.
Yet fortune did not favor all.
A student from the Windlands School — renowned for air manipulation and speed — was struck down by a single swipe from Brahmandhala, bones snapping. The Pangreksa medics were summoned immediately. This trial was no performance — it was a wager of life.
Then came a youth, pale-skinned with sharp ears — unmistakably an Ardhian, a race attuned to the Light Éra and the natural world.
His steps barely touched the earth, each stride rippling the air with soft Éra echoes. When Brahmandhala struck, he countered with swift arcs of a radiant, slender blade. His movements were a blur.
"That's the Giritra style," one examiner murmured. "A secret form from the Wening Mountains."
For three breathless minutes, he didn't merely survive — he danced with danger. Though not without wounds, he succeeded.
Then came a small girl — wild mane like a lion's, her golden-brown skin glistening.
Two ethereal claws of Éra arced from her back, pulsing with feral life. She fought not like any dojo-trained disciple.
She fought like a beast — coiling like a serpent, pouncing like a tiger. A single cry from her cracked the stone beneath her.
"Dangerous... if that child loses control," Reswara muttered, unblinking.
"She's... Manusa Siyung. A beast-kin of the forest."
Then came someone unexpected — a name not listed, a presence unknown.
No famed clan announced her. No examiner recognized her.
A woman stepped into the arena — her movements slow, deliberate.
Her face veiled in the shadow of her hood, features blurred and forgettable. But most striking was her robe — Éra-woven, glowing faintly like living roots, clearly not of mundane origin.
"That's no ordinary fabric. The Éra patterns are alive," whispered an examiner.
As her foot touched the ground, the ambient Éra seemed to draw inward. Her fingers formed an unfamiliar mudra. Then came the chant.
Not of Kanuragan. Not of Kwisenan.
Symbols appeared in the air — ancient and untouched by modern scrolls.
From those glyphs, mist unfurled... and a presence emerged: a great white tiger, silent but thunderous in aura.
"A summoning spirit? No — this is... Kwikrama," one voice trembled.
"Legacy magic of the Éra-spirits. Not learned... but inherited."
Brahmandhala stirred. Its stony body cracked subtly, alert.
The crowd murmured — cheers replaced by wary hushes.
Among them, seated mid-row and slightly apart, sat Raka. Sharp-eyed, calm, his attention fixed on every movement — of student, of golem. In his lap, a worn journal, scribbled with swift, precise notes. Not once did he cheer, nor flinch.
"Its movements are too precise… but patterned. For a golem that size, it draws immense Éra. And its adaptation... it responds in real-time. Is someone guiding it from behind the veil?"
As the white tiger emerged from the mist beside the unknown woman, Raka paused his writing. His gaze lingered, longer than before.
"Éra manifestation... familiar. But not trained. She... was raised within it?"
Elsewhere on the edge of the stage, Larasa stood among the crowd, composed, waiting for her turn. Her eyes flicked now and then toward the commotion, but mostly — they were fixed on one figure in the stands.
A young man who did not cheer, but wrote.
A thin mist drifted between them, as though marking an unseen border. No words were exchanged.
But in the brief glances they stole...
It was clear:
They were watching. Measuring. Each trying to find a way through this trial — in silence.
And both knew...
Sooner or later, they would become part of the same storm.
The examiners began murmuring among themselves — no longer speaking of grades alone.
"Those some... they'll be the stars of a new age."
"Or... the thorns in academy's side."
"Not all that shines brings hope."
"Some are born to set the world aflame."
And then, through the hum of tension, a single name rang out:
"Next: Laras Candrakirana."
Silence fell like a blade.
Amidst the remnants of cheers, one sound pulsed like a heartbeat — soft, but unnerving.
A young girl stepped forward.
Her spellbook hung from her hip, her left hand glowing with a slow-burning Éra seal.
A battle-sorcerer — not merely one who recites spells, but one who lives them.
Brahmandhala stared down at her.
Its eyes flared.
She opened her book.
And the world... seemed to hold its breath.