Chapter 208: Dream Or Reality?
The world outside the village was wider than any story had ever prepared him for.
The dirt path became a stone road, and that stone road eventually led to crossroads where merchants, mercenaries, and wandering bards passed by. Igaris kept his head down at first, listening rather than speaking, absorbing every word about far-off kingdoms, dangerous beasts, and great cities that glittered like gold under the sun.
It was during these travels that his talent first drew notice.
In a small town, when a runaway cart threatened to crash into a crowd, Igaris had instinctively raised his hand. Without chant, without focus, the wooden axle of the cart snapped apart in midair, as though obeying his will. The crowd gasped, the owner of the cart shouted in shock, and an old traveling mage approached him with sharp eyes.
"Boy... who taught you that?" the mage asked.
"No one," Igaris replied honestly. "It just... happened."
The mage, whose name he later learned was Maeron, stared at him for a long while before smiling faintly. "You have the spark. The kind that can change fates if tempered properly."
It was Maeron who first mentioned the Grand Academy of Aetherion—a legendary institution where only the most gifted mages were trained. It was where archmages, royal advisors, and warlords of magic began their paths. And according to Maeron, if Igaris applied, his raw talent would secure him a place.
But something inside was getting restless. It felt someone was calling out him.
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Arrival at the Gates of Aetherion
Weeks later, Igaris stood at the base of a hill where white stone towers rose into the clouds. The walls of Aetherion glimmered faintly, as if the very stones were alive with magic. Waterfalls cascaded from hidden channels high in the walls, forming crystal-clear streams that flowed around the city.
At the heart of it all stood the Grand Academy.
Its spires were taller than any tree Igaris had ever seen, and each was crowned with a glowing orb of light that shifted in color with the passing hours. Bridges of marble connected the towers in dizzying arcs, while banners of deep blue and silver swayed in the wind, bearing the crest of the Academy—a circle split into four parts, each representing the elements of magic.
When Igaris stepped through the gates, he felt it instantly: the pulse of magic that saturated the air. Every breath tasted sharper, every heartbeat seemed more deliberate, as if the very world was more awake here.
---
The Examination
The Academy was not a place for the ordinary. Every student had to prove themselves before they could wear the silver sigil of Aetherion.
Igaris was led to a grand hall where hundreds of hopefuls stood. Some wore robes embroidered with runes, others carried staves taller than themselves. Many were clearly from noble houses, their posture and clothing marking them as such. Igaris, in his plain travel clothes and with his unadorned staff, drew curious glances and the occasional smirk.
The exam consisted of three trials.
First Trial – The Crystal Resonance
A massive crystal floated in the center of the hall. The task was simple: place your hand on it and channel your magic. The crystal would measure not only your power, but your control.
When Igaris stepped forward, a noble youth in front of him had just made the crystal flare bright green, earning murmurs of approval.
Igaris placed his palm on the surface.
The crystal did not just glow—it blazed. Waves of light rippled through it, shifting from green to blue to gold before settling into a deep violet, the color reserved for prodigies in the Academy’s history. The hall went silent for several seconds. Even the examiners exchanged glances.
Second Trial – The Elemental Summon
Candidates had to call forth one of the four base elements and shape it into a stable form. Many struggled to hold a flame steady or keep a water sphere intact.
Igaris closed his eyes. He remembered the wind over the wheat fields, the way his mother’s hands guided water from the well, the heat of the summer sun, the weight of the soil. When he opened his eyes, all four elements swirled before him—flame, water, earth, and air, woven together into a single, harmonious sphere.
"Four Elements!"
Gasps filled the room.
Third Trial – The Mage’s Duel:
Here, each candidate faced an examiner in controlled combat. The goal was not to win but to demonstrate adaptability.
Igaris faced a middle-aged mage with silver hair. Spells flew instantly—blades of wind, arrows of ice, arcs of lightning. Igaris moved like water, shifting between shields of stone, bursts of air, and sudden flashes of heat. Without realizing it, he began weaving multiple spells at once, a technique that normally took years to master.
The examiner halted, raising his hand. "Enough. This one is accepted."
---
Life at the Academy
Within weeks, Igaris adapted to the Academy’s life. Days began before sunrise, with meditation to refine mana flow, followed by lectures on magical theory, rune construction, and elemental harmony. Afternoons were devoted to combat training, artifact crafting, or spell experimentation.
Despite his late arrival into the mage’s path, Igaris excelled beyond expectations. The first time he channeled mana, it surged through him like a river breaking its dam. He shaped flames without incantation, froze a stream solid with a flick of his fingers, and shattered reinforced stone with pure force of will.
The Academy, a towering citadel of white marble and floating spires, had seen countless talented students over centuries, but Igaris quickly stood apart. He was a farmer’s son with the raw ability to challenge noble heirs trained since birth. Within weeks, his name was on every tongue.
Some classmates regarded him with genuine admiration, their respect tinged with awe at his progress. Others met him with cold smiles, hiding their envy behind polite greetings. Whispers filled the hallways.
"They call him the Violet Prodigy."
"I heard he’s the reincarnation of an archmage."
"Or maybe a divine blessing, sent from the gods."
Igaris ignored most of it. Titles meant nothing to him. His life in the fields had taught him that praise faded faster than morning dew. He kept his focus on studying, meditating, and training until his body and mind moved as one with mana’s flow.
Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, restlessness gnawed at him.
It was not the kind that came from unspent energy or ambition. This was something deeper, older, as if an unseen thread was pulling at his soul. No matter how much he studied, no matter how many spells he mastered, the feeling never left.
And then came the dreams.
They began faintly — flashes of unfamiliar skies, towering palaces made of starlight, and melodies that carried the weight of eternity. But the visions soon sharpened into vivid encounters.
He saw a woman with vast, feathery white wings that shimmered with silver light. Her purple eyes held a tenderness that made his heart ache, and when she spoke, he could not remember the words, yet felt as though they were the most important he had ever heard.
On other nights, he dreamed of another woman — her hair a river of gold, her beauty so divine it felt unreal, as if she had stepped out from the canvas of a celestial painter. Her gaze was both regal and sorrowful, and behind her stood an endless battlefield beneath a burning sun.
Every time he woke, the sense of longing grew stronger.
During lectures, his quill would stop mid-note as the echo of a distant voice lingered in his ears. In the training halls, he would lose focus for the briefest moments, as if expecting to turn and find the winged woman waiting for him.
One evening, as the moonlight poured through his dormitory window, Igaris sat by the sill, staring out into the sea of stars. He clenched his fist, the cool night breeze brushing his face.
"What are you trying to tell me...?" he murmured.
But the wind carried no answer, only the distant sound of bells from the Academy’s western tower.
And deep inside him, that strange pull only grew stronger.
Time Passed. About 200 years.
Two centuries had turned Igaris from the humble farmer’s son into the most feared and admired mage the world had ever seen. His name was etched into the annals of history, spoken with reverence across kingdoms and whispered with dread in the halls of rival empires. The Seven Supreme Mages held dominion over the magical world Atreya, yet even among them, Igaris stood alone.
His mastery was absolute. Fire, water, wind, earth, lightning, light, darkness, space, time — none could match his command over the elements. He had bent the most ancient and forbidden magics to his will, learned the lost languages of spellcraft carved into ruins buried deep beneath forgotten oceans, and even shattered the limits of what mages believed possible. His battles could reshape mountains and turn seas into boiling maelstroms.
His appearance reflected his transcendence. Centuries of cultivating mana and life essence had perfected his body. His skin was flawless, his eyes glowed faintly with violet light, and his black hair shimmered with faint silver strands whenever the wind brushed against it. His very presence exuded majesty, a force that compelled even the proudest nobles and the fiercest warriors to lower their gaze.
Women from across the world sought his hand — queens, princesses, noble daughters, and even beings from other realms. Yet none reached the quiet, yearning place within his heart. They adored his power, his beauty, his fame... but never truly him.
And still, the dreams continued.
The white-winged woman. The golden-haired goddess. Their faces were clear in his mind, yet they were nowhere to be found in reality. Each time he closed his eyes, he would feel their presence — hear a soft laugh carried on the wind, or catch the glimmer of radiant eyes watching him from beyond the veil of dreams. It was as if they were calling for him, yet trapped far away.
Until, on a day like any other, she appeared.