Celestial_Trinity

After the Wilderness exploration, worn and battered students returned to the Academy. Their hearts and minds still reeling from unknown echoes of the past days, they nevertheless felt a quiet sense of relief at the sight of the towering spires and familiar courtyards. Home, of a sort. And with that familiar comfort, their taut nerves slowly began to uncoil.

With their first year at the Primordial Academy officially concluded, the students were granted a full month of respite—a vacation meant for rest, reflection, and reunion with their families. Dormitories buzzed with activity. Trunks were being packed, letters exchanged, and carriages arranged. The air brimmed with eagerness, nostalgia, and warmth.

Yet, amid the tide of departure, one figure remained unmoved by the wave of excitement.

Dawn.

He did not pack.

He had no home to return to.

The town that once bore his name had long since been devoured by fire and madness—ravaged by cultists, twisted by an incident he still could not piece together.

So, while the others busied themselves with farewells and family plans, Dawn sought solitude. Not in despair, but in discipline. He retreated into the Grand Archives, a cathedral of knowledge, where ancient texts whispered secrets to those willing to listen.

Rows upon rows of tomes flanked him. Dusty scrolls, glowing glyph-bound grimoires, and whisper-etched crystal slabs lined the shelves. He hungrily devoured their contents. Anatomy of Primal Creatures. Philosophies of Light. Recorded Insights of the Transcendents.

Yet even as he read, part of him wandered—troubled by something not entirely remembered.

It was then that Gary and Ingrid found him.

Gary looked amused, arms crossed. "You're actually studying? Now? Most of the others are two cups deep in celebration wine."

Ingrid raised a brow, giving him a once-over. "Honestly, I half-expected you to be meditating under a waterfall or sparring with shadows."

Dawn gave a rare smile. "I did spar with shadows. They were disappointingly quiet."

Gary chuckled, while Ingrid sat beside him.

"You really planning to spend the whole month here?" she asked, tone softer.

Dawn shrugged. "There's still too much I don't know. Too much I need to understand."

Gary's expression shifted—somber for a breath. "We all felt it, Dawn. That… gap. Something happened. Something big. And we all forgot."

Ingrid added, "But you're still chasing it. Even if we can't see it."

Dawn nodded. "It's not just a feeling. I remember… refusing something. That's all. Just that. A single, overwhelming refusal."

The three sat in silence for a moment, bound by an unspoken understanding. Then Gary stood.

"Well. Our carriages won't wait forever."

"We'll meet again in a month," Ingrid said. "Don't go exploring everywhere without us."

"Or at least send a note before you rush over the mountains and rivers," Gary added with a grin.

They bumped fists, a quiet pact exchanged.

And then they were gone.

Dawn returned to his table, the weight of their absence sudden in the stillness. He stared at the open page before him but couldn't read a word.

A thought struck him.

He'd forgotten something.

Not a fact or a book. A feeling. A presence.

He shut his eyes.

Breathed deep.

And there—tightness.

Not pain. Not obstruction.

But a pressure in his chest. Like a coiled star. Not constraining him—but grounding him. Empowering him.

He willed—and the halos began to stir.

One.

Two.

Three...

They shimmered like twinkling glows, radiant rings blooming from his chest, tightly bound to his very soul.

Four… five… six…

He paused.

No. They weren't stopping.

Seven… eight… nine… ten… eleven… twelve.

His eyes widened.

Twelve Halos.

His breath caught. The ordeal he had forgotten… it must have been immense. Enough to shape his Primal Origin Light in silence—without his awareness.

He sat back, brows knit. What had he done?

What had he become?

And why, even now, did he feel like it wasn't enough?

In the vast halls of the Academy, only instructors remained, watching over the grounds like silent sentinels. Some among them had no homes to return to either—only duties, oaths, and buried regrets.

But among the sea of absence, Dawn remained. A boy with no past to revisit, and a future that stared back at him, demanding answers.

The month of silence had begun.

And for Dawn, it would be anything but restful.

---

Meanwhile, from the tallest spire of the Academy, the Grand Instructor watched the gates as they slowly closed.

Every year, he stood there. Watching the students leave. Watching the cycles begin and end. His gaze had grown dull with repetition—but this year, it held a glimmer of curiosity.

Dawn.

An orphan. Homeless. Yet no longer aimless.

Would he find a home here, in the cold expanse of marble halls and silent archives?

Or would the loneliness carve into him the way it had carved into others who had chosen to stay?

Would he become like them?

Or would he defy even that?

The Grand Instructor's eyes lingered on the boy huddled beneath a canopy of knowledge, and a whisper passed through his thoughts:

"Let's see what path you carve, Dawn."