Seven Scars of Heavens

Smoke. Thick, black, and suffocating—curling like dying serpents over the shattered peaks of a mountain range that had once pierced the heavens. Lightning cracked across the sky, born not of storms but from broken fragments of rubble suspended in midair. Stone pillars crumbled like brittle bones, heat bleeding through their molten veins. Amid the charred ruins, two figures faced one another. One cloaked in crimson fissures, his body glowing as though it had been torn apart and stitched back together with blood-red light. The other wrapped in shadows, his frame outlined by piercing streaks of blue sparks that hissed and snapped in the silence. The silence—unnatural. Heavy. It wasn’t peace. It was the absence of breath, as if the world itself had given up on the will to live. Then— Clash. The impact shattered the sky. Shockwaves ripped through valleys, tearing centuries-old trees from their roots, evaporating rivers into steam, splitting the clouds apart like wet parchment. The blow was too fast to follow. There was no movement to trace—only the devastation left behind. Only trails. Only consequences. Only— Two figures, fighting like gods. And just before the dust could even settle— A scream. Raw. Unhinged. “REN, I WILL KILL YOU!” The voice echoed through the ruins, and then the world blackened into nothingness. Mornings at this academy were quiet. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Quiet in the way a hospital is quiet: clinical, sterile, drained of life. A silence where outcomes felt already decided, and even the walls waited for something inevitable. Ren walked through the front gate of Velarium Academy, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as the sting of early spring bit at his skin. Velarium Academy—the first and only institution in the world built solely for the teaching of magic. Three branches: London, Brazil, Japan. And here he was, standing at the heart of the most prestigious of them all—London. From the outside, the building betrayed nothing. No towers crowned in flame, no glowing runes pulsing with arcane light. Just a dull, gray structure drowned in fog, crouched at the edge of a forest. A forgotten place for unforgettable people. Two security cameras blinked red as Ren walked past—watching, always watching. Inside, the halls stretched long and empty. Echoing. Hollow. Just two hundred students. Ten classrooms. No outsiders. Every person within these walls was born of bloodlines steeped in magic. It was never spoken aloud. It didn’t need to be. You could feel it in the air when you passed them—like static brushing down your spine. And this year, tension weighed heavier than ever. Everyone knew. The war was coming. Ren pushed open the third door on the right—Room C-2. Five students sat scattered within. None of them reading. None whispering. Just waiting, as if silence had been assigned as part of the curriculum. Ren slid into his usual seat by the window. The desk’s surface was cold beneath his hands. Outside, the trees stood frozen, branches unwilling to sway. Moments later, the door clicked open. “Took you long enough,” a voice called. Ren didn’t need to look. He knew that tone. Noah El Volcarion. Sharp-eyed. Black coat. Tie worn carelessly loose. That lazy confidence that belonged only to those who never felt the need to prove themselves. Ren didn’t lift his gaze. “You’re early.” Noah dropped into the chair beside him, movements casual yet edged—as though something had kept him awake through the night. Ren didn’t answer, but he felt it too. At exactly eight, the door opened again. Professor Teshin entered. A towering man with veins faintly glowing beneath his pale skin, though it wasn’t magic that made them shine. Something unspoken. Something alive. Silence walked with him, thickening the air. Every step of his boots against stone clicked like a countdown. He crossed to the blackboard without a word. Picked up a stick of chalk. And in jagged strokes, he scrawled a single word across the slate: REALITY. The room tightened. Several students shifted in their seats. Ren remained slouched, staring at his desk. Time itself seemed to pause. “Good,” Teshin said at last, his voice calm yet relentless. “No absentees. None of you ran away.” A smirk ghosted across his lips, but his eyes remained sharp. Cold. Hunting. He lifted his hand, palm open. “Yonvok.” The world collapsed. Walls dissolved into dust. The classroom warped into a black void, stars blazing in the abyss around them. Desks floated like wreckage on a cosmic sea. The air felt thin—too thin—yet every breath they drew was disturbingly steady. Too steady. The floor cracked beneath them, glowing like fractured glass. Markers of some unseen destination bled through reality itself. Students froze. Some gripped their desks, knuckles white. Some half-rose to flee but could not move. Ren’s head snapped up, his boredom dissolving into razor-sharp awareness. Teshin stood unbothered in the void, his coat stark against infinity. “This,” his voice cut through the silence, steady as a blade, “is the truth of magic.” He snapped his fingers. The classroom flickered back. Desks thudded onto stone. Walls reformed, though cracks still spidered faintly across the floor as if to remind them. Students exhaled—shaking, whispering, or blank-faced. Ren leaned forward, eyes locked on the professor. Teshin tapped the word on the board again. “You all use magic,” he said, tone like ice. “That does not mean you understand it. Magic is not power. It is not fire, wind, or light. Magic is a structure. The hidden grammar of existence itself, written before science learned to crawl.” He paced slowly. “Electricity. Magnetism. Atomic force. Those are tools. Magic is the framework that allows them to exist at all. You don’t cast spells—you solve them.” His voice softened, but the weight never lessened. “Understand magic, and it ceases to be magic. It becomes reality.” A girl in the back raised her hand, her voice hesitant. “Sir… what happens if someone casts it wrong?” Teshin paused. Then smiled—a smile with no warmth. “Then reality reminds you it isn’t yours to command.” The practical session followed in the training dome. Students lined up to attempt the Solek incantation. Teshin demonstrated with clinical precision. “Solek.” A ribbon of flame uncoiled from his palm, smooth and controlled. “Sole’k.” The flame detonated, then fizzled. “So’lek.” It slowed, blue-tipped and eerie. “Break the syllables. Shift the intent. You decide the outcome.” One by one, students tried. Sparks sputtered. Flames faltered. Then a tall boy with too much pride stepped forward. “Solek—!” His voice cracked. The spell snapped. A vortex of red fire tore through the dome, violent, twisted. His body convulsed, flesh charring, twisting grotesquely. He collapsed in silence. Dead. Noah’s voice cut through, flat. “Idiot.” Another student muttered, “One less.” Several smirked quietly. Ren’s gaze swept the room. No grief. No fear. Only hunger. Competition. His fingers twitched. His mind screamed: Kill them. End them now. Bring peace. But the black eye of the surveillance camera fixed on him. “Not now,” he hissed under his breath. And he did nothing. Later, beneath the shade of a tree near the training grounds, Ren sat silent. Noah idly tossed pebbles, their soft clinks breaking the stillness. The breeze shifted through the leaves. The hum of the academy’s boundary sensors droned faintly. Watching. Always watching. Ren finally broke the silence. “You ever wonder what it’ll feel like if your name’s the one that gets chosen?” Noah didn’t glance his way. “Maybe we won’t even know until it’s too late.” “Or maybe,” Ren murmured, “we’ll feel everything.” They both looked up. The sky was streaked gold. Quiet. Almost peaceful. Later that evening, Ren leaned against the sink in the washroom, phone in hand. News headline: Daytime Shooting Stars Shock the World. Divine Sign or Aliens? He scoffed, locking the screen. Yet the image of burning trails across the sky lingered. Somewhere across the world, unseen but connected, others felt it too. A signal. A warning. A divine truth. One event. And the myths… had not even begun.