The village of Leitha was a small settlement on the outskirts of the state, simple in every sense.
Its people lived a harsh rural life: dilapidated wooden houses, dry lands that yielded little, and one common hope uniting them all — that one day, their children might earn a place among the Orders.
On a morning unlike any other, a parchment sealed with the mark of the Third Order arrived, announcing the date for the "Initial Recruitment Trial."
It was a rare event.
The summons came only once every few years, and only villages classified as impoverished were selected to send their fifteen-year-olds.
The village's youths gathered in the dusty square, standing in a single line before a designated transport cart.
Before boarding, Levan approached the elderly woman who had raised him.
She waited for him at the edge of the square, barely able to stand.
She placed her frail hand on his head and said in a trembling voice:
"Walk steadily. Fear no one."
She did not cry.
She did not plead.
But in her eyes, the farewell was harsher than any words could express.
Meanwhile, Romo said goodbye quickly to his mother and siblings, smiling awkwardly as he tried to hide his nervousness.
His mother kept repeating gently:
"Be strong, and return to us with your head held high."
They boarded the simple wooden cart silently, settling onto narrow benches.
The driver — an old man from a neighboring village — looked at them coldly and said:
"Hold tight. The road is long."
The cart moved, the landscape of dry fields and simple homes shrinking behind them.
No one spoke for a long while.
The silence weighed on them like a heavy blanket.
After some distance, the driver spoke again, his voice gravelly:
"This isn't a journey toward survival… it's a sorting."
"When you arrive, you will be nothing but numbers."
One of the trainees asked hesitantly:
"Were you like us once?"
The driver fixed his eyes on the path ahead and replied:
"I was. I learned that your first step matters more than strength itself.
Your stance, your gaze, even your breathing… all determine your worth."
Levan remained silent, staring ahead as if seeing something far beyond the road.
The journey stretched on for hours, over harsh, unforgiving paths.
Finally, they arrived.
Before them stood the side gate of the Third Order — wide open, waiting.
They disembarked, gathering in small groups before the grand square.
Some checked their clothes nervously; others simply stared at the surroundings in silent awe.
The square was paved with polished black stone, crisscrossed with delicate copper lines forming intricate patterns.
None of them had ever seen anything so refined.
Compared to this place, their village felt like a fading, worn-out memory.
They all stood, tense, waiting for the signal to begin the trial — their eyes sharp, their breaths heavy, their hopes hanging by a thread.
They did not have to wait long.
From a side gate leading into the square, a tall man appeared, seemingly in his mid-thirties, with pale skin and narrow eyes.
He stood firmly before the trainees and spoke in a steady voice:
"My name is Nolvar Sin.
I am the Supervisor from the Sixth Order for the Initial Assessment Program."
"From this moment, you are under the scrutiny of the Ten Orders."
"Every behavior you display today… will be recorded and never forgotten."
He motioned to his assistant, who quickly moved toward a side table and announced loudly:
"Begin the name registration."
The trainees lined up.
Each stepped forward in turn, stating their name, age, and place of birth, before having a leather strap with a number tied around their wrist.
Romo, a boy of fifteen, medium height, with short brown hair and bright eyes, registered his name and stepped aside.
Levan, the protagonist, also fifteen, slender, with medium-length black hair falling over his forehead, approached silently, wrote his name, and returned to his place without a word.
Ina Nes, a girl with her red hair tied high and brown eyes, advanced quietly, registered her name, and retreated without saying anything.
Then came two others who immediately drew attention:
Kairon Valma: A sixteen-year-old tall boy, sharp features, light brown hair — from the Valma family linked to the First Order.Sever Nyle: Slightly shorter, sturdily built fifteen-year-old with short black hair — from the Nyle lineage connected to the Third Order.
One of the onlookers whispered:
"Direct descendants... but this is their first real test."
Nolvar raised his hand, and all whispering ceased at once.
He then pointed toward another gate.
As the trainees clustered nervously in the polished square, a massive stone side door creaked open.
The grinding of stone against stone echoed heavily across the courtyard.
From the shadows of the passage, ten figures began to emerge, walking with measured, deliberate steps.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air seemed to grow denser.
It wasn't some magical haze, nor a dramatic mist — it was a primal instinct:
the presence of people who had lived through real battlefields.
Their attire was uniform:
Chest armor of dark polished silver covering their torso and shoulders.The emblem of their Order engraved neatly within a black circle bordered with fine silver threads.Above it, another symbol: a straight sword surrounded by two intertwining olive branches — the mark of a Knight's Rank.
The First Delegate:
A tall, broad-shouldered man, his short-cropped gray hair sharpening the severity of his features.
He appeared about thirty-two years old, his sharp eyes weighing everything around him with a single glance.
He bore the emblem of the First Order.
The Second Delegate:
A woman with bronzed skin and tightly braided black hair, moving with the precision of a seasoned soldier.
Her age seemed around thirty.
The emblem of the Second Order shone on her chest.
The Third Delegate:
A young man of medium height, messy short blond hair, and a faint, humorless smile tugging at his lips.
About thirty-four years old.
He carried the emblem of the Third Order.
The Fourth Delegate:
A slender woman with short, flyaway gray hair and pale, lifeless eyes.
Around thirty years old.
She bore the emblem of the Fourth Order.
The Fifth Delegate:
A massive man, dark-skinned, his facial bones sharp and solid, exuding silent sternness.
Approximately thirty-eight years old.
The Sixth Delegate:
A young man in his late twenties, short dark brown hair, fair skin, and calm, detached features.
He held a leather-bound book in his left hand, as if battle started with knowledge first.
Twenty-eight years old.
The Seventh Delegate:
A small-sized young woman, her short black curly hair framing a simple, upright stance.
She was about twenty-five years old.
The emblem of the Seventh Order adorned her armor.
The Eighth Delegate:
A short, thickset man with messy reddish-brown hair, his face marked with old battle scars.
His restless eyes scanned the trainees like a seasoned hunter.
He appeared around forty years old.
Bearing the emblem of the Eighth Order.
The Ninth Delegate:
A woman with silky white hair falling neatly to her shoulders, cold gray eyes that seemed to pierce through illusions.
About thirty-five years old.
The emblem of the Ninth Order etched brightly on her armor.
The Tenth Delegate:
The tallest among them, a man with neatly parted black hair and a face void of emotion.
Thirty-two years old.
He carried the heavy presence of the Tenth Order like a living monument.
As the delegates seated themselves before the trainees, the atmosphere subtly changed.
Breathing didn't become impossible, but it required focus —
as though the very air had thickened, not from magic, but from the accumulated weight of experience, survival, and battle these warriors carried.
Every movement, every glance, became calculated.
Nolvar's voice rang again, crisp and firm:
"These before you are not mere soldiers." "Each of them... is a Knight acknowledged by their Order." "Every stance, every glance, every moment of hesitation you show... will be measured." "One of them may choose you." "Or you may pass by them... unnoticed."
A heavy silence fell over the field, tightening the trainees' postures.
Once all the trainees stood still, Nolvar Sin moved toward the center of the square again.
He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly scanned each face in front of him before raising his voice:
"Before we begin, you must understand exactly what you stand before today."
He paused deliberately, letting his words sink deep into the hearts of the gathered youths.
"The (Inclination or Will) you carry inside you is not an extra power... it is the foundation of survival itself." "Every human is born with an Inclination ." "Without it, the body cannot resist the poisoned air... cannot endure the crushing pressure that exists since the Second Cataclysm."
He gestured toward the overcast sky above:
"When the Abyss appeared 200 years ago... the laws changed." "The Inclination became the first rule of life."
He paced slowly in front of them:
"Those without a Inclination ... do not survive."
His voice turned instructional, clear, sharp:
"The Inclination is divided into five known stages:"
1-Flicker of Survival:The weakest form of Inclination .Provides basic resistance: against hunger, exhaustion, disease.Insufficient for real combat.
2-Pulse of Power:The body starts channeling the Inclination's energy.At this stage, primitive control over one of the basic elements may emerge: (water – fire – wind – earth, and possibly more).This level allows a trainee to begin serious combat training.
3-Core of Control:The Inclination becomes an inseparable part of body and spirit.The user can wield unique abilities and participate in real battles.Most Order Captains and Vice-Captains have reached this level.
4-Extension of Inclination :A very rare level.Control extends beyond body and element, creating new extraordinary abilities.Only two people have ever reached this level.
5-Core of the World:A legendary stage.Achieved only once in the distant past.Said to allow the user's power to merge with the laws of reality itself.
Nolvar allowed a brief silence, ensuring the gravity of the information was fully absorbed.
Then, his tone grew heavier:
"But having a Inclination ... is not enough."
He moved forward with measured steps and began listing methodically:
Official Ranks:
Soldier:Possesses basic Inclination (Level 1).Requires extensive training.
Skilled Soldier:Inclination Level 1 enhanced by real-world experiences.
Fighter:Transitioning towards Level 2 Inclination .
Skilled Fighter:Fully stabilized Level 2 Inclination .
Knight:Adept control over an element or combat skill.
Advanced Knight:Close to mastering multiple elements or techniques.
Expert Knight:Master of Level 3 Inclination , qualified to lead and be appointed to high positions.
He lowered his hand after listing them all, his voice sharp and merciless:
"Every rank you climb... Inclination cost you." "In effort, in blood, and in the choices you make."
His gaze was cold as iron as he added:
"And hesitation... means falling behind."
Turning slightly, Nolvar gestured toward a stone pedestal in the center of the square, upon which rested a gently glowing crystal orb.
"The first evaluation... begins now."
The trainees lined up closely in front of the black stone platform.
In its center stood a transparent crystalline orb, about the size of a human head, emitting a soft, rhythmic white glow.
Beside it stood Nolvar's assistant, who raised his voice with official clarity:
"This is the Analytical Orb, designed to measure the initial pulse of your Inclination ." "It is used only for those who have never undergone formal training." "You will place your right hand on the orb, one after another." "Your latent Inclination strength will be immediately measured." "The result is instant... and cannot be altered."
He continued:
"The orb Inclination display one of three intensities of white light:"
Dim White — Barely detectable Inclination , very weak.
• Stable White — Complete Level 1 Inclination , ready for development.
• Radiant White — Active Inclination , primed for rapid advancement.
The first trainee stepped forward.
A thin boy with a pale face, his eyes shifting nervously.
He stretched out his right hand toward the orb and waited.
A few seconds later, the orb flickered with a dim, unstable white light.
The field assistant recorded calmly:
"Dim Pulse — basic eligibility."
The boy stepped aside, face frozen in disappointment.
The evaluation continued.
A sharp-eyed girl with her hair tied back walked confidently to the orb.
She placed her hand firmly.
The orb glowed with a steady white light.
The assistant noted:
"Stable Pulse — Level 1 Inclination confirmed."
Murmurs fluttered among the waiting trainees.
Then came a girl with bright red hair tied high.
It was Ina Ness — from the southern village of Kalyan.
Her steps were steady; she showed no visible fear nor overconfidence.
She placed her hand gently on the orb.
The orb glowed again with a stable white, bright and unwavering.
"Stable Pulse — Inclination confirmed."
She calmly stepped back, her face revealing neither pride nor relief.
After Ina, it was Romo's turn.
He, a sturdy boy with shining brown eyes, wore a nervous smile.
He approached with a hint of hesitation but firmly placed his hand on the orb.
Within seconds, the orb pulsed a stable white with a brief strong flash at the beginning.
The assistant announced:
"Stable Pulse — Active Level 1 Inclination ."
Romo smiled, breathing a little easier as he returned to his place.
Some whispers passed between the trainees:
"Best result so far... after the radiant flashes, at least."
The examinations continued.
Some produced only dim flickers, some achieved stable lights.
Everything seemed normal.
Until it was time for the name everyone would remember.
Nolvar lifted the next slip of parchment and read aloud:
"Levan. Step forward."
A hush fell over the square.
All eyes turned toward the boy.
Even the mists hanging in the air seemed to pause.
Levan walked steadily toward the orb, his slender frame cutting through the tense silence.
He stood in front of it, extended his right hand slowly...
and touched the cold, smooth surface.
Everyone waited.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three...
Nothing.
The orb remained completely dark.
No glow.
No flicker.
No heartbeat-like pulse.
The once murmuring square turned into a pit of silent confusion.
Among the seated delegates, some leaned forward, narrowing their eyes.
Others frowned subtly.
Romo stiffened, his fingers twitching.
Ina's eyes sharpened as she stared at Levan, sensing... something wrong.
A barely audible whisper floated from one trainee:
"Did he touch it properly...?"
The Sixth Delegate, the young man who had been writing notes quietly the whole time, looked up sharply, interest flashing across his normally calm face.
A strange, fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
The Second Delegate, shifted slightly, murmuring:
"That's... impossible."
The Eighth Delegate, folded his arms tightly and muttered:
"A person without Inclination ?... can't survive."
"How is he even standing?"
A few heartbeats passed.
Nolvar, for the first time that day, appeared unsettled.
He approached Levan, checking carefully — yes, the boy's hand was properly placed.
Still nothing.
Nolvar straightened slowly and spoke:
"Try again."
But Levan did not move.
He stood like a statue — hand pressed to the orb, blank eyes gazing into some far, unreachable distance.
Another moment crawled by.
Then Nolvar stepped back and raised his voice for all to hear:
"This is not a failed result."
"This... is a condition."
"An undefined condition."
"Levan... is to be transferred immediately to the Sixth Order for specialized assessment."
In the rows behind the platform, among the delegates, only one person moved.
The Tenth Delegate.
He had been silent and unreadable the entire time — but now, something in him cracked.
He rose from his seat slowly, the heavy leather creaking slightly under his armor.
Without speaking a word, without casting a single look toward the others,
he turned and began walking away from the square.
His assistant, a young man in a dark uniform, rushed after him, whispering anxiously:
"S-sir... the testing isn't finished yet!"
But the Tenth Delegate gave no reply.
His steps were slow, deliberate, as if weighed down by the enormity of what he had just witnessed.
After a few strides, he finally muttered under his breath, so low that only the assistant could hear:
"This... this is something new."
"A case not recorded in any archives."
A pause.
Then a colder whisper:
"The Leader must know. Immediately."
And he disappeared through the arched side gate, vanishing from view.
Meanwhile, back at the stone seats, the First Delegate —
remained still, but his gaze tracked the Tenth's exit.
He tightened his grip on the arms of his chair, the leather groaning faintly under his fingers,
but he said nothing.
He only watched.
Watched and calculated.
In the center of the training square, a heavy, unnatural silence had settled.
The trainees, the assistants, even Nolvar himself —
none of them spoke for a long moment.
No one looked at the orb anymore.
No one remembered the next candidates waiting in line.
No one even dared breathe loudly.
All focus, all thought, all fear centered on the single boy being escorted quietly toward the side entrance...
Levan.
It was as if, with his mere presence, he had split the course of their futures —
as if the very rules they had all learned,
the foundations of their world,
had been subtly, irreversibly cracked.
In that moment, even the wind seemed hesitant to blow.
And from the shadows of the great stone tower,
history — silent, waiting — held its breath.
Because a boy without Inclination …
was not supposed to exist.
And yet, here he was.
End of Chapter Two: "Between Departure and the Test."