NOVEL NEXT Chapter 80 - To The Next Phase
[Volume 2 Epilogue | Chapter 80: To The Next Phase]
Alaric Ptolemy never loved Thaumaturgy.
He may have been born from the House of Ptolemy, a House of High Nobility famous in Orion Province and longstanding rivals to the House of Altair, blessed with exceptional tutors commoners could only dream of, as well as a vast array of knowledge only accessible to nobility.
He may have been born with ⸢Ephemeral⸥, an extraordinary Inherited Birthright that allowed the user to implant mental suggestions through eye contact that integrate seamlessly with a target's consciousness.
But he never enjoyed it.
Thaumaturgy was merely an extension of the House of Ptolemy's power. Perhaps when he grew more distorted, he enjoyed "exercising" said power to feel a sense of dominance over others... but that was moreso him liking the effects that Thaumaturgy offered than Thaumaturgy itself.
No, he didn't love it. Not in the same way that he loved the brush, paints, and the easel.
Ever since he could breathe, he loved art.
Painting. Sketching. Drawing. Coloring. Watercolor, oil, acrylic, gouache, tempera, ink, pastel, and crayon. He'd tried them all. He'd painted landscapes, portraits, and abstracts. He'd filled sketchbooks with his creations, pages acting as windows into his soul. Art was his escape from a world that demanded so much of him, yet offered so little in return.
And he was a genius at it.
He remembered distinctly when he was 12 years old, and he'd entered a provincial competition in Straiton.
The rules were simple: submit a single painting that encapsulates the spirit of Orion Province.
Alaric had painted a scene from memory: a flower shop in Magnolia run by a middle-aged woman who had the warmest smile. A small, inconspicuous establishment, but one filled with the most vibrant flowers. He'd visited once, on a rare outing alone, and the memory of the colors and scents had stuck with him.
He'd titled it: 'A Glimpse of Sunshine.'
It had won first place.
Judges called his talent "absolutely generational" and "once in a lifetime."
They offered him a scholarship to study in the prestigious Academia of Fine Arts in the Imperial Capital of San Corona, where he would have the chance to develop his abilities and make a career as an artist, free of the burden of tuition or familial pressure.
It was the greatest secondary school on the planet in terms of cultivating the arts, a place where like-minded generational talents like himself could hone their craft.
Until…
"Art? Alaric, isn't it time you started acting like the heir to the House of Ptolemy?"
His father, Hector Ptolemy, had said that. The words still echoed in Alaric's mind to this day. They'd haunted his nightmares ever since.
"Art is a hobby for commoners. You are my successor, Alaric. Focus on your studies and Thaumaturgy. These are the tools that will secure our family's position, not childish games."
His father's words had shattered his dreams of becoming an artist.
The scholarship, the opportunity of a lifetime, had been torn away from him with a few cold sentences and a dismissive wave of Hector's hand.
"I have no need of an artist in the House of Ptolemy. I need a leader. Leaders, my son, do not have the luxury of pursuing such feminine passions. Their lives belong to their duties alone."
He remembered looking at his mother, Zuzana Ptolemy, that day, begging for her support with his eyes.
She had only averted her gaze, as if the sight of his hopes dying before him was too much to bear.
It was the last time he ever asked her for anything personal.
Around that same time, his younger sister, Dana, had manifested a tremendous affinity for Thaumaturgy. Young as she was, her talent was undeniable. She was a prodigy, the kind that could define the House of Ptolemy's legacy for generations to come.
Jasper, no more than two years behind Dana in age, also showed promise with Thaumaturgy, though not to the extent that Dana did. He was instead, an intellectual. Brilliant and cunning, he was the type of brother that could turn a conflict of words into a weapon. Alaric knew that much; they had often sparred in debates growing up.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Both of his siblings had potential, and both received their parents' love and attention accordingly. Both were held up as paragons of Ptolemy virtue, their every achievement celebrated, their every desire indulged.
Yet, Alaric was deemed the heir that would succeed Hector.
Just because his father's and mother's consummation decided in some crapshoot of a random possibility that he was born first before them.
That was it.
That was the difference.
That was the reason for him to be the heir.
It wasn't fair, nor was it right.
He'd always wanted to be an artist. To create, not to rule or dominate. But in the eyes of his family, that dream was as fleeting and ephemeral as his Birthright. A passing fancy, nothing more.
So he'd buried his paintbrushes and sketchbooks in a box, hid them in the back of his closet where they couldn't accuse him of "feminine" and "childish passions." He'd done everything he could to meet his parents' expectations, to prove to them that he could be a leader, a noble, a Ptolemy. That required him to dedicate himself entirely to Thaumaturgy and academics. He'd spent countless hours in the training halls, private tutors, and the library, honing his skills, pushing himself to his limits and beyond, all in the name of the family.
But then, he realized something at the age of 13, just right before he officially became an upperclassman at Windsor Preparatory.
He was not a prodigy.
Of course, Alaric, due to his genes, possessed above-average Prana Quality and a respectable Veyl Count. His baseline exceeded those of many commoners, middle-class citizens, even several lesser nobles. The genetic lottery of his birth had given him advantages that most could only envy from afar.
But advantages were not the same as excellence. Privilege was not the same as talent.
And in Upper Preparatory, where talent truly revealed itself as Birthrights matured and potential crystallized, the divide between the merely gifted and the genuinely exceptional became a chasm that no amount of noble breeding could bridge.
First came Leila Trafalgar.
Her brilliance was blinding, her potential limitless. When she cast spells, it was as if the Miracle Art bent to accommodate her will rather than the reverse. Her mastery of Oscillation spells by 14 exceeded what most achieved by 20. On top of that, her noble pedigree as a scion of the House of Altair with one of the stronger manifestations of ⸢Empyrean⸥ in the past few decades.
Alaric could rationalize this. She was, after all, the daughter of Eleanor Trafalgar of the House of Altair and Sirius Trafalgar, the Empire's technological genius who transcended his commoner upbringing. Her blood was as blue as his own. Leila's genius, while painful to witness given the rivalry between their houses, was at least comprehensible within the framework of his worldview.
But then came Elias Scryer.
That was the fracture in Alaric's worldview.
A commoner. A commoner. Son of a military officer whose older brother had died in the war, protecting some nameless soldiers who lacked the sense to protect themselves. How could such ordinary stock produce someone who outshone the heir to the House of Ptolemy?
Yet, Elias's talent was undeniable. He was born with a Spontaneous Birthright, ⸢Windwaker⸥, which only a handful of people around the Empire had. Not only that, but his mastery over Wind Thaumaturgy was on par with Leila's mastery over Oscillation Thaumaturgy.
It came to them naturally, as if the art of miracles was as easy as breathing. They made Thaumaturgy look beautiful, graceful, like a dance rather than a contest of wills and calculations.
It started with just those two.
Then it became three.
Then five.
Then twelve.
The list of those who surpassed Alaric grew longer with each passing semester, until his standing descended from "promising" to "above average" to merely "decent." A damning word for the heir to a House of High Nobility, and a death sentence for his father's ambitions.
No matter how many hours he dedicated to training, he never closed the gap. Others bloomed while he withered. If he grew an inch, they grew a mile.
He blamed his instructors, who surely favored others.
He blamed his parents, who placed him under impossible pressure.
He blamed the system, which somehow failed to recognize his rightful place.
But in the darkest corners of his consciousness, he knew the truth.
Alaric Ptolemy never loved Thaumaturgy.
There was no drive to learn born of genuine curiosity.
There was no passion to test new spells for the pure exhilaration of discovery.
There was no ambition to grow stronger for the sake of mastery.
His pursuit had always been performative. A hollow pantomime enacted for the sake of appearances, for status, for family approval. For his father's stern nod, for his mother's fleeting smile, for some advantage over Dana and Jasper in the silent competition that defined their relationships.
Never for the joy of it. Never for the art of it. Never for the miracle that Thaumaturgy truly was.
And so, unconsciously, his mind sabotaged his progress. His prana resisted his will. His Integration Sequences frayed at critical junctures. His spells lacked the vital spark that separated the mundane from the miraculous.
He grew to hate himself for this inability to love what duty demanded he excel at.
Until one fateful evening.
As he brooded in the restricted section of Windsor Preparatory's library, seeking some obscure text that might give him an edge, his hand brushed against a tome he had never seen before. It was ancient and heavy, with a binding that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
He opened it.
The pages were blank at first, but then, a pink light began to spread across the parchment, forming words that seemed to address him directly.
Words that understood his struggles, promised solutions, and offered recognition of his true worth.
For once, just once, Alaric felt something stir within him as he read about Thaumaturgy.
Something that, if not quite love, was at least akin to desire.
It felt just like art.