Language is the way humans express themselves. Writing, speech, movement. The more we use these tools with quality, the better we will be understood, and the better we express ourselves. Enchantments, signs, and rituals. The more you express magic, the better you perform, the higher your output.

  That's why, on the walls of the arena, complex symbols are embedded in the rocks and drawn in the air by yellow aura. Self-sufficiently maintained, they drain power from the glowing orbs on the upper edges of the arena. Their intention is clear: the containment of whatever beast is trapped there.

  For the instructors, an invisible force protects them from me. However, my gaze pierces the veil of invisibility that permeates the humans' vision and sees golden lines across the arena. They fly like fireflies, dozens upon dozens of tangles. I walk one foot after the other through the myriad of translucent lines, watching as my body is enveloped by what no one else can perceive. Everyone with dominion over basic magic manipulation would be able to see them. It's no surprise that barely anyone can.

  Looking more closely at the symbols on the walls, I can see how detailed they are—but still mundane and human. I wonder if they really are capable of withstanding the Unknown, or if they haven't broken until now out of sheer luck. Regardless of the answer, it's a pointless question—perhaps purposely to paralyze me for a few mere seconds before I'm tested.

  The Instructor raises his hand. The first test begins. At the side of the arena, one of the instructors points his finger at the perimeter and concentrates. In front of me, he conjures.

  Stones expand from the air until they become solid. They pile up against each other until they take on a humanoid shape and fall to the ground. A tremor spreads through the arena due to the weight—and in a few seconds, a golem looms in front of me.

  I breathe in.

  Mana is authority. Authority to change, to dominate the surrounding world that has been granted to men. In it, we have the presence of the supernatural that manipulates the preternatural, mundane world. We have the rules we create so that we don't get caught in the crossfire that is the world beyond the senses, we try to understand the rules that exist in it based on our own mathematics.

  But magic is not science. Rules are mere observations of pattern, descriptions are mere categorizations of the power to change. If flawed human science can barely help them control material worldliness, the control of spiritual action becomes mere suggestions piled up that decay as soon as magic crosses the blurred line of what is possible to become a miracle.

  None of this matters to Chaos.

  I see the golem advancing, three meters of massive stone pushing the ground hard enough to crack it.

  In my soul, I feel a push. Like trying to stand up after being crushed by a big wave on the beach, like trying to hold an angry dog by the collar without it taking you with it. I fight against the discomfort—the omnipresent pressure that has always tormented me, that which warms the spiritual muscles, the anguish that rises from my belly to my chest as if it were tearing me apart.

  I fight to keep control of Chaos.

  The Unknown fights back.

  I won.

  My eyes glaze over. I retrace my steps. Become one, and at the same time, return to nothingness. I pull on the power that comes out through the gaps in the closed Gate, and I feel the spark of infinity advance from the confines of my consciousness until it burns through my veins.

  The more powerful the quality, the better you can intensify it. I know my body is weak, but there's another component to the equation—mana.

  At the first moment, I intensify my speed and strength, and although I don't feel my muscles change size, the power that surrounds my body becomes a flash before stabilizing itself in a matte state. In the second moment, I step under the golem's fist and hit the joint below the shoulder. Rocks rips through the air and my fist sinks, but I pull it out and take advantage of the momentum to punch the elbow behind me.

  Another bang, and the arm was useless. I ducked to avoid being thrown to the ground by the golem's spin, threw myself backwards to avoid being hit, and rolled to avoid its foot.

  The stones that the golem lifts off the ground with its attacks break and accumulate in the cavities I make. With each dodge, a kick or punch makes stone fly—unlike human flesh, however, it keeps its consistency.

  I push myself back as the golem recovers and I feel my breath running out. Even magic can't ignore my own physical strength. As I become tired, the golem keeps reconstructing itself.

  Regeneration. What were they thinking…? That thing…

  A drop of sweat trickles down the side of my forehead. I face the instructors, who remain unmoved by the battle. Yes, this is a test to prepare me for the opening of the Gates. I don't need to fight or demonstrate anything. I need to destroy it—show that I can withstand a spell that destroys it.

  If this is the case…

  I fix my legs on the ground, concentrate and use alteration to compress the air in my hands and turn it on its axis. Then, I conjure heat together with the missing chemical components, making the oxygen burn until flames form on my palm.

  I see the golem invest. The mindless stone machine approaches like a figure, its repetitive movement would be accurate against a tired boy. I link hands to create the physical symbol—

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  “Fieria, Ifrit,” I recite the incantation. Heat explodes from my hands. “Ignite.”

  The fireball sails through the air and tears it into a trail of smoke, then explodes in a yellow-orange flash against the stone. The temperature covers the arena momentarily and muffles it as if it were surrounded by treetops again. Behind the smoke, beyond what the ordinary eye can perceive, yellow lines flow from the arena to correct the damage done to it—in its center, however, half of a golem's body crashes to the ground in the third and final bang.

  Dust rises and mixes with the smoke. Another drop of sweat—now on my forehead. My body feels hot, and I intensify my regeneration so that my bloody fists from punching the stones can recover. It doesn't work, of course. I'm terrible at regeneration.

  The servants do as they are told. They pour concrete to fill in the holes in the arena and help the seal. Since it no longer held the mana that created the fireball—and which consequently created the smoke—it quickly crumbles inside the room.

  I'm ready—now more than ever. So I face the instructor, who signals by raising his hand.

  “Are you ready, Sieghart?”

  I agree.

  I inhale and put my hands together and make the characteristic sign. She trembles, even though she can visualize my success. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  An ocean in a cup.

  “Very well.” He says, but stops before signaling. “Beg-”

  “One last thing!” An instructor says with a raised finger and withdraws his attention from the test. Zherdos raises an eyebrow in his direction, and the servant apologizes in whispers as he approaches. Whispers are exchanged between the two, and despite the instructor's visible annoyance and his subordinate's embarrassment, he directs his gaze at me.

  “…?”

  “Your classmate… Elron, that is, the son of the village chief, ordered me to wish you 'Good luck' for him.”

  The instructor releases him with a hand signal. “Can we start?”

  I spit out a laugh. A smile breaks out on my face—the first that many in the room have seen me give.

  Beyond myself, there is the world in my being that refuses to order itself. Beyond this world, in the depths of my consciousness, where there is the untouchable itch of what once was and what will be, a black beach supports the crimson storm. Beyond this beach, a gate accesses infinity.

  “Yes.”

  The instructor clasps his hand and gives the signal.

  Divine authority passes through my being and makes every muscle tremble, every vein map and every drop of blood burn. False memories and visions of a distant future flash before my eyes, demons, and dragons scream while angels sing. Smiling and crying, the gnashing of teeth collapses against the joy of laughter.

  In the midst of hurricanes, earthquakes, stars and darkness, in the midst of passion, fear, death and temptation, there is a child who walks through infinity, who awakens repressed power within himself.

  Perhaps this feeling—this momentary confidence and happiness that I let drift through the divine—is just a delusion. A mere possibility that I've taken too seriously.

  Perhaps the eyes that disapprove of my existence are right, and that the Creator made a mistake when he built my body. Perhaps my mission on this earth is to persevere alone in a hut, careful not to destroy the world. Or perhaps I was created to destroy it when the time came.

  Maybe I'm saying all this so that the divine will take pity on me and deliver me from my own fate, that it will kill me before it does, or that it will assume its mistake and eliminate my existence without me having to be set on fire in the eternity to come. Perhaps this is my punishment for secretly hating creation and the Creator. There was no possibility of reality bending just because I once thought it would. Even so, I smile one last time.

  “Open.”

  Mana explodes from the pores of my skin. Red covers my vision and a ruddy storm covers my body. The floor that should be immune to magic is twisted like rubber, the pure air becomes fire and poison. I hear distant screams on the horizon, whispers close to my ears. Thousands of whispers shout in agreement in my ears:

  Fight.

  My form—my body—refuses to bend in the face of chaos. A glass, unable to hold ocean water, lets it flow as it enters. Focus. Behind the whispers, illusions disappear before my will.

  The instructor shouts, but his voice breaks up in the cacophony. His order is paradoxically clear. The crushed soil becomes fire. Fire becomes ice, and upon my will, concrete. I wrap the metaphysical leash around the Unknown's neck and force it to obey me. I withstand the pressure of the wave and impose myself in the face of the storm.

  In the face of this will, the air becomes pure. The whispers stop, the lions commit suicide, the screams cease, and finally, the storm subsides.

  I clench my fists. The red struggles not to recoil. It makes my nose bleed as if the flow were bursting out of my guts, fails my arms and dizzies my head. Even so, the light beyond the gates of despair echoes louder. My heart beats fast. Control fades amid the damage, but still-

  The Lion appears in front of me.

  Something's wrong. My hands are shaking. In the midst of the chaos, I hesitate, but shake my head and steady my feet.

  No. Not yet.

  Aldwyn is not here. I trust what I believe. Even so, I don't move forward. Not in the face of the demons tearing through the sky, in the face of memories so vivid that they put me back in that prison.

  Something is wrong. Something in the veil that separates dream from reality. In the face of the light that appears behind the despair and renews my hope little by little—

  Afraid. I'm afraid.

  I clench my teeth. My blood bubbles and rebuilds itself, my pressure drops, but I struggle to stay conscious. My muscles tear, but I use the power to keep myself upright. Wings break through my skin, grow and glow. I feel worms crawl under my skin and consume it, I feel my flesh being replaced. My form loses the fight and changes, carried away by the waves of the ocean of blood and delivered to the storm of randomness.

  Not yet.

  I let it be carried so that it maintains its consistency. As long as it remains standing, it doesn't matter if I gain a head or not. As long as it's just my body—as long as I can change it just so it doesn't die—I can control Chaos.

  Even if I can't go back—if I live like a monster lost in the middle of the forest—if I can control the Unknown—

  “SIEGHART, THAT'S ENOUGH!” The instructor's voice pierces the storm.

  I feel the power of the endless crushing me like an insect. I feel the pressure of Chaos consuming reality. I feel the cry of the air and the scream of the earth. Reality tears like cloth and shatters like glass—holes through which the Unknown breaks through to overtake the imaginary. Beyond everything and nothing, the dim light behind the Gates gets further and further away.

  Not yet.

  A man swimming against the current of a storm. A constant that is unable to fight against the sea of variables.

  Please.

  Please, not yet.

  I feel the mana being peeled off me like the scab of a wound. I scream in pain and denial, but suddenly the very reality I'm trying to save betrays my expectation and ceases my vision. Then my hearing, smell, taste, and touch.

  Finally, my conscience.