Chapter 3: Introductions
I was ten when the crown first bloomed.
They say it's a blessing. "A chance at greatness for people like you." Proof that your will is strong enough to shape the world.
But it didn't feel like a blessing. It felt like chains — just fancier, shinier ones.
What I wanted was distance. Quiet. A way out of the world I hated looking at. But the world had other plans. The stars cracked open, and something ancient listened. It stitched that longing into my bones and carved a crown across my mind.
Now I'm twenty.
And today, I wear a uniform that doesn't belong to me. One stitched for ghosts — too tight in the chest, shoulders stiff with years of dead ambition. It smells like blood. Like the sweat of a hundred kids who wore it before they broke.
Kael is a well-built man with rugged, chalky hair and sharp, iridescent silver eyes donning a contrasting uniform. The new stuff is combat-minded, with arc-conductive boots and comfortable cargo pants and a tight-fitting, compressed shirt with the crest of Centralis.
Centralis Institute claimed to be a school, but it wasn't really was a proving and hunting ground for those crowned. Kael didn't know if he was lucky or not finding himself in the last year of it.
A place to forge tools… and discard the ones that don't cut deep enough.
The city it sits in has no king, no clans, and no crown of its own. Just watchtowers. Walls. Wards humming with passive deterrents. A perfect place to grow tools with no attachment.
Others arrived in branded convoys and marched in beside banners. Me? I walked in alone. i had no name stitched across my chest. No legacy biting at my heels.
And yet, I could feel it — the tension as I passed. A flickering pressure behind every eye.
Some of them wore colours that sang of empire: crimson robes from the Ashborne, black and gold sashes of the Thousand Edged Sovereigns, and the deep green shrouds of the Verdant Reign. Names with weight. Names with crowns forged over generations.
There was a cluster of redheaded elites in martial garb, their eyes sharp and teeth sharper. One of them elbowed another as I passed.
"Seems they let in more flickerheads," I heard one whisper, not even trying to be subtle. The group chuckled, their laughs dry and rehearsed.
Sword students flared their nostrils, eyes narrowing with suspicion. I caught one of them tilting his head, trying to scan the threads of my Crownlight.
They didn't recognise it.
I didn't flinch. Didn't blink and just kept walking.
Let them wonder.
The atrium of Centralis loomed ahead. Black marble walls carved like twisted veins of obsidian. Spires that jutted upward like the bones of a dead god. The building itself seemed to breathe, lit from within by soft pulses of Crownlight — magic and tech fused in unison. Everything was whispered.
At the gates, in silver script etched into stone, stood the only rule Centralis had ever spoken aloud:
"The worthy are forged, not born."
How ironic.
Inside, the entrance hall buzzed with a low celestial hum. Holograms swayed. Statues blinked. The air was thick with crown pressure — the residue of past and future monarchs.
I sat in the assembly, shoulders straight, eyes calm. All around me, candidates jostled for presence. Some let their crowns shine subtly — an echo, a haze, a flicker behind the eyes. Even that was enough to feel the weight of them.
And then the lights dimmed.
A figure stepped onto the grand plinth in the centre of the hall — robed in ivory and iron, a glowing crown-shaped sigil beating crimson on his chest. His voice hit like thunder, and yet… it came from everywhere at once.
"Welcome, final years. You are not children anymore. You are candidates. For power. For legacy. For survival."
Silence spread like wildfire.
"As of today, you begin your Ascendant Semester. There will be no forgiveness. No hesitation. No looking back. You will be tested in your sovereignty. You will be hunted. You will be watched."
Behind him, a hologram bloomed — a star map, a throne, and a humanoid figure wrapped in ancient glyphs and flickering veins of light. The schematic of the Crown system.
Kael's gaze locked on it. A memory stirred.
That strange night. Ten years old. Watching the sky split open. The weight of something immense pressing on his mind. Not a gift, a curse. To Kael, anyway; he was sure of it.
"Each of you has been chosen. Not by us — but by the world itself. That is what the Crown is: a pact with something older than time. Some of you will grow. Others will collapse under the weight. Few will understand their true potential before the end."
Kael's hands curled into fists in his lap.
He looked around the hall. Dozens of clan heirs. Born into legacy. Born into structure. Their Crown paths are practically guaranteed. They could afford to experiment. Fail. They would always be caught.
What did he have?
No clan. No bloodline. No family name inked in Crown records. His power didn't make sense to them, and that made him worse than a threat.
It made him… unfamiliar.
And the unfamiliar in this world? It's not feared. It's discarded.
"You will form squads," the Dean continued. "Enter a certified Death Zone. One untouched by crowned hands for nearly twenty years. Return alive… and you qualify for the Solis Regalia."
That got them. Even the cocky ones sat straighter. The Solis Regalia was a well-known tournament. It was the world stage. The proving ground for monarchs. Winning it meant recognition from the Clans and what remained of the world.
Kael's brow tightened. He'd heard of it, of course. Never planned to chase it. Never dreamed of a throne.
But a fight?
A fight he could do.
"To stand on that stage is to carve your name in myth. To crown yourself not in ceremony, but in combat. Every crown bears weight. Every legacy demands blood."
Kael exhaled slowly. A grin formed — thin, sharp.
He didn't ask for this power.
But if they were going to give him the stage — if they were going to watch — then he'd show them.
"The world is not ruled by kindness. It is ruled by intent. By the will made manifest. Vetra. Each of you has one crown. Some may earn more. Others will burn before they get the chance."
Kael thought of the feeling again — his Crown's blooming. Like light condensed into pressure, like gravity wrapping around his soul.
He had never seen another one like it.
And that scared people.
"The reclamation campaigns in the east are accelerating. Europa is almost ready. Our kind must be ready too. You are the future of the Crowned. But you are not the future of humanity."
Kael froze at that.
"Not the future of humanity."
So they finally admitted it.
Crowned weren't just tools. They were something else now. Above. Removed. Even those who claimed to fight for the people didn't consider themselves part of the same species anymore.
"We do not rest. We do not hesitate. We are the fire that does not go out. The Crowned do not kneel."
The speech ended.
But Kael's thoughts didn't.
"How will I form a squad…?" That problem pressed hard against his ribs.
Most of the Clans would never let a crownless outsider join their heirs. Especially not one like him. A stray star. A Crown they couldn't catalogue.
He could already feel it — the gap. The separation.
But he didn't need to be accepted.
He just needed to be better.
One win. One real fight. That's all it would take.
One moment to show the world that not all fires start from a match.