No Path Chosen

Griven Academy stood like a city within a city—its towers of glass and stone reaching high into the skies of Mirage city. Every hall echoed with ambition. Students walked its marble corridors in tailored robes, each dreaming of ascension to one of the Nine Paths: Swordhand, Cogmaster, Elementarch, Voice of the Throne, Pathseeker, Wavewalker, Greenwarden, Alchemy, and the elusive Aesharion.

In Lecture Hall VII, shimmering diagrams floated mid-air as Professor Argan droned through another Cogmaster demonstration. Students scribbled notes in a hurry, trying to absorb every word.

Leon Edolious sat near the back, slouched with his arms folded behind his head, fingers drumming on the desk. His shoulder-length hair—bright orange with black-tipped ends—flickered with the sun filtering through high windows, catching firelight that didn't come from any spell. Orange eyes half-lidded, he watched the projection lazily.

A fireborn, yes—but that wasn't what made him special. What made Leon remarkable was how easily he mastered everything—alchemy, elemental theory, astral logic, enchantment. Everything except swordsmanship, which bored him out of his mind. And lately, everything else was beginning to as well.

To his side sat Servin Morvain, ever composed. His deep blue eyes were steady, his sky-blue hair tied back, with two neat bangs falling beside his face. Son of the legendary swordsman Jerad Morvain, Servin was the finest blade in the academy—and Leon's closest friend.

"You're going to fall asleep before he finishes the intro," Servin said quietly.

Leon gave a tired smirk. "Already did. Mentally."

"Still sharp enough to top the scores again, I assume?"

"Unfortunately."

The sound of polished heels echoed down the aisle.

Claire Elworth took her seat two rows ahead, her usual fashion on full display—a silver-buckled jacket over navy velvet, a capelet trimmed in gold thread. Her wavy brown hair framed her elegant features perfectly, and when she sat, it was with the grace of a noble. Eyes sharp. Attention sharper.

She didn't look back. She didn't need to.

"So," she said coolly, "what's your excuse this week? Too brilliant to care, or too bored to try?"

Leon leaned back in his chair. "Why choose?"

Claire smirked. "Must be nice, pretending the rules don't apply."

"I'm not pretending," Leon said. "They don't."

Their rivalry was well-known. Claire—second-best in nearly everything—had already ascended to Greenwarden. One of the most admired normborns in the academy, especially for her archery skill. Everyone was drawn to her.

Except Leon.

They had once lived under the same roof, back when both were children in the Duskline Orphanage. Since the start to Griven, she and Leon had stood on opposite sides of everything.

Servin glanced at them both. "You two really should just duel and get it over with."

Claire let out a soft laugh. "Leon wouldn't last five seconds in a bow match."

Leon shrugged. "Good thing I aim higher."

Their banter faded as the lecture resumed, but the weight of it lingered.

That night, after curfew, Leon stepped through the sealed doors of the library's west wing, where the air smelled of rotting leather and sleeping glyphs. Most students didn't even know this wing existed.

He searched without knowing why. There was no plan—only instinct.

And then he found it: a crumbling sheet of parchment, wedged behind a cracked panel. Symbols spiraled across its surface in ink so faded it almost bled into the fibers. It wasn't written in any magical tongue he recognized. Not alchemic, not elemental, not spiritual.

It wasn't from any of the Nine Paths.

He took it.

The next morning, Leon approached Professor Relden in the greenhouse courtyard. The man was known for his brutal honesty and surgical mind.

"I found this in the archives," Leon said, holding the page gently. "Any idea what language this is?"

Relden took it, frowning.

A long silence passed.

Then, "I've… never seen this before."

Leon blinked. "You've been teaching for three decades."

"Exactly," Relden said quietly. "And not once have I come across symbols like this. Not even in forbidden texts."

"Could it be pre-Council? Or something erased?"

"Possibly. But even in whispers, I would've heard of it." He handed the page back with visible discomfort. "Don't show this to anyone else. Especially not faculty."

"Why?"

"Because nothing scares Griven more than what it can't explain."

Relden walked away, leaving Leon clutching the page like it was a secret weapon—or a curse.

Over the next six days, Leon didn't attend class. He locked himself in his dorm, studying the page, cross-referencing glyphs with old languages, redrawing the lines. Where understanding failed, he relied on instinct. And flame.

Once, Servin brought food and said nothing.

Once, Claire stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "You'll go mad chasing shadows," she muttered. Then left before he could reply.

And once, Kenny showed up.

Tall, broad-shouldered, easygoing. A normborn a year older than Leon, he had a Voice of the Throne mark burned into his collarbone and a gun charm slung low on his belt.

"Still hoarding secrets like they're treasure?" he asked with a crooked grin.

Leon gave a rare smile. "Thought you'd be busy commanding legions."

"I'm on break. Besides, someone has to make sure you don't turn into a hermit."

Kenny had once been Leon's roommate, back when they were locked up in juvenile. No spells. No books. Just bruises and cold walls. He had clawed his way out, ascended, and found a path. And when the time came, he'd vouched for Leon—got him into Griven when no one else would.

"You really think it's ancient?" Kenny asked, nodding to the page.

Leon's expression darkened. "I think it's older than what this place wants us to know."

Kenny gave a low whistle. "Just don't blow yourself up."

On the seventh night, Leon stood on the cliffs behind the academy. The sea below roared like something restless. The stars burned clear above him.

He held the spell in his mind. The one he had pieced together. Modified. Completed.

"If this works… I won't need any of their paths."

He cast it.

A pillar of white-gold fire erupted from his hand. It roared silently, bending the air, shattering the night. The world felt thinner, like time itself blinked.

Then the fire vanished.

Leon dropped to one knee, breathless.

"I did it…"

Back in his room, he stared at the journal filled with his notes—every test, every failure, every breakthrough.

And one by one, he fed them to the fire.

He watched the flames consume everything.

"Let it die," he whispered.

Servin appeared in the doorway. He stood for a long moment, then left without a word.

Leon thought he was alone.

But outside the window, just beyond the glow of the hearth, a cloaked figure stood silently beneath the stone arches of the academy. Still. Hidden. Watching.

No words. No face. No presence Leon could sense.

They had seen everything.

Then, without a sound, the figure vanished into the night.

Leon sat on the edge of his bed. He opened his palm.

A single flame hovered there—cleaner, brighter, sharper than before.

"No path chosen," he said softly.

The flame swayed like it understood.

"But maybe… something more."

Then one day, the world changed.

A tenth path emerged.

Dark. Twisted. Viral.

It spread like wildfire—appearing in cities, among the strong, the desperate, the broken. Unlike the Nine, it had no name from the Divine Council. No rules. No source.

Leon stared at the symbol when he first saw it in the news.

His blood ran cold.

The formula… the structure… the ignition thread…

It was the same spell he had created.

The one he burned.