The castle gates led him out into a vibrant picture.
White towers shouldered the sky. Banners of Valoris fluttered between stone lions along the Lion’s Path, a marble road reserved for royal processions.
Children chased each other under a colonnade; merchants stacked figs in careful pyramids, and a bard played a song to a small crowd about the Hero coming from a distant world to save them.
Unfortunate.
This was Metrodorian, the Human Kingdom’s capital, and the King’s City as it was commonly called.
It was an odd feeling standing before it.
Coming from the past... the future...?... the whatever—everything felt strangely out of place.
To Percival’s mind, he had been here only a few weeks ago.
In this timeline, this was his first time ever stepping into it.
He walked silently, avoiding the piercing gazes of the guards standing in quietude. He wondered what they thought of him.
"Sir! Sir Hero!" a voice piped, bright and breathless.
Percival paused, ears perked. That was a voice he recognized.
"I–I mean, Lord Hero! No—Hero, sir!"
A boy darted into his path, a mop of fiery red on his head, a grin on his face, a knapsack slung over one shoulder, and boots too large for his feet,
He was a disorderly boy. He couldn’t manage a bow without making a mess of it. And even when he tried again, he still stumbled.
It was typical of him.
Bean.
"My name is Bean, sir!" the boy said with enthusiasm, struggling with the knapsack. "Bean of the Copper Lanes, at your service. I’m to be your Cadet.
"Please don’t mind that I look a little skinny. I promise that I’m able. I run, carry, fetch, polish—I’m fast, sir Hero sir, faster than Assassins even, swear it!"
Percival stared.
Bean was a terrible liar. He always cut off his own sentences whenever he was telling a lie. That much Percival could remember.
He could also remember Bean being smaller. Maybe a memory had made him small. It wasn’t important.
The last time Percival had seen Bean was when he buried him.
His young Cadet had been killed by the Demon King himself. Seeing him alive now; it drew a warmer emotion from Percival, though he couldn’t offer the courtesy of showing it.
"I’m sorry," Percival said. It held two meanings.
Bean’s grin disappeared. "Sir Hero?"
"You won’t be my Cadet."
Bean froze, confusion in his boyish features. "But... but I was assigned. They picked me."
He straightened to fight for his job, one he knew meant a stable income for his family. "I’ve been practicing, sir. Waking up before the bells, carrying two buckets at once, running and sparring. Ask my mother, she says I’m made of legs."
"Stay away from him, boy," came a voice behind them.
There was a diviner standing at the end of the steps. It was the Chief Diviner.
Bean glanced back. "But he’s the summoned Hero, isn’t he?"
The Chief Diviner’s mouth thinned with disgust and anger. He looked at Percival the way one would look at a difficult stain.
"He is no Hero."
Percival said nothing. Taking one final glance at Bean, he turned and walked.
He felt Bean’s eyes follow him until he was out of sight.
After a long trek, Percival arrived at the Avenue of Saints, where the capital’s God Temple stood. Its shadow was long enough to cool the whole street.
God Temples were that big.
Reserved for a particular god rather than all of them, God Temples were the gathering ground all over the realm during the Awakening Event.
Today.
The god this temple was built for was Azrael, the god of life and death.
Some people believed him to be the first of all the gods.
Considering his title, Percival assumed he would also be the last.
Two golden palms arched over the gate, as though to lend a helping hand to those in need.
Parents hovered around it, praying in hopes that their children, who were ripe for awakening, would be amongst the lucky ones.
Percival wondered if he should pray too.
It was a god who had given him a second chance, wasn’t it? Maybe they would listen.
He thought against it a second later.
Gods were as untrustworthy as the people they create.
Percival carried on.
He had been inside this God Temple before, but never down here.
During his awakening in the former timeline, he had sat with the king and other nobles, and was presented to the people like a stage play.
Now, he was standing amongst the people.
Here was fine. Percival preferred it.
He could see how high the ceilings were, feel the sunlight pouring down in thin, bright cataracts. He could smell the incense in the air and the breath of a thousand anxious teenagers.
They were in their best clothes and shoes, and their faces were ridden with anxiety.
They needed a victory grand enough to shame the clouds and make their lineage forget two near decades of doubt.
Returning to their parents with good news about being awakened was the best way to achieve that mythic triumph.
Percival’s case was different.
He had no parents here to deliver good news to.
He had no parents in his former world either.
For him, awakening was about survival.
Protection.
At the far end, he saw the Awakening Altar.
It might have been an ordinary dais, if not for how dramatic they’d made it.
Two large hands made of pure gold unfurled from a platform, palms open toward the crowd. Between them, a circle of magical symbols.
Standing on that circle, between the embrace of those giant, gilded hands, meant submitting yourself to the judgement of the gods.
It was there that the fate of every eighteen-year-old’s future was decided.
Beyond that, a wall climbed toward the light. And on top of it, a gallery.
Nobles sat in comfortable chairs there, all glare and gemstone. Powerful Awakeners stood beside them, arms crossed, eyes stern. Guild leaders sat with intrigue. And at the center, King Alfred.
Percival was supposed to be up there with them.
But then again, down here was fine.
From a side door, a master of ceremony strode to the dais. It was the same one as before. Tall, darkskinned, bald but framed with a silver beard.
He was all voice and velvet, the kind of man who could sell a drink to an ocean.
"Children of Evernia, behold the final day of the year, behold the Awakening Event!"
Drums beat into the air as he spread his arms wild, flames rose to the sky, courtesy of six Fire Mages, standing behind the wall.
Fantasy worlds loved their theatrics.
"Many of you know fully well how this event goes," the man continued. "Your predecessors performed this very ritual and now it is your turn.
"Today, the gods turn their palm toward you. Some will awaken. Others will serve in different ways. Always remember that all Classes are sacred. Awakened or not."
He allowed the words to resonate in the silence. Percival heard someone gulp.
"Until the day ends, you will be called one by one," the man continued. "You will stand within the circle. If the sigils burn bright, you will be marked as Awakened, and the crest of your Class will crown you.
"If there is no light, the gods will assign a Class of mortal vocation to you, and your crest will appear all the same. Either way, your future begins today."
A page carried a bronze gong to the dais and set it to the master’s side. The man struck it once.
The sound was sharp. It pressed into the ribs, and kept going.
"First," he called, consulting a scroll. "Aarona Cuttlefish of Riverward."
Percival watched as the event proceeded. The Hero should have been first.
Perhaps the man had been informed that the summoned Hero had rejected his role.
The girl that was just called stepped into the Altar.
The crowd speculated what her Class would be.
In the last timeline, Percival had awakened the Swordsman Class. He remembered the crest; two crossing blades beneath a simple arc.
Some people were disappointed.
They weren’t anymore when he evolved to Sword Saint.
He wondered what he would awaken this time.
Or if he would awaken at all.