Seraphist of Shattered Yokes

If Promethean was the workbench, then Sui-Jen was the playground. 

In the place of densely-packed forges and smithies were huge expanses of raw wilderness and massive estates. Exotic flora from distant star systems adorned the ringworld's avenues, gardens, and palace grounds. Demiplanes that should be reserved for farming or housing were casually utilized as basements where people might toss in their forgotten childhood toys or secluded spaces where they enjoyed forbidden pleasures.

On Sui-Jen, all registered residents were either someone of wealth, power, or both (they only made up a fifth of the local population, but the rest were just hired help and thus beneath consideration). Culturally, they avoided walking as much as possible, seeing that it was a somewhat embarrassing activity reserved only for the lower strata who had neither the means nor the imagination to ride in something that did not involve their own feet. 

Being the crown jewels of society they were, the residents soared on customized sa-ravens, rode white-scaled horses with draconic heads, or relaxed within luxurious cabins drawn by such creatures. There were also the Porter Miracles not unlike the one Manziholet and Kylla were traveling inside of. 

A bubble shimmering with iridescent hues broke the sound barrier and carried them through the cloudless sky of Erziehung District. The ancient Sol shone above them, casting its light over sprawling, perfectly designed circular lakes of pale blue water, each bordered by ribbons of lush forest and precise roadways.

Exactly one hundred of those lakes were distributed at random to three population centers of the Districts, which was corresponded to three institutions: Victrix Academy (where children of preordained greatness rubbed shoulders and received education as a by-product), Quillmaster Academy (eternal enemy of Victrix), and Ivory Collegium (religious and therefore being silently taken over by the other two with government's blessing). 

Their bubble joined in the flying beasts and other Miracles that were heading to Vixtrix Academy. The traffic was busier than usual given that the graduation ceremony was about to happen, although it could hardly explain why more Chainbreakers in their blue armor and cracked bronze pauldron were also patrolling around the area. This was Sui-Jen Ring, where crime was a novelty. Manziholet asked Kylla, who had no idea as well.

The traffic converged on Vixtrix's center – a silvery tower with ten rectangles tiers that was stacked like a spiraling staircase towards the sky, culminating in a sharp golden tip. The Miracle bursted when it landed on the porch of the seventh tier. There, one of the vice principals was waiting for the boy, who had finally come up with a concept of a speech. 

"You're late, Manziholet," he said with a frown. "And your clothes."

Kylla's <> only applied to living beings. Understandably, all the dirt and blood during the tournament remained. He did not need a mirror to know he looked like a stray who was adopted by a pack of street dogs.

"I had a minor accident. Don't worry, my body is fine." He looked at Kylla. "Now that your task is done, are you returning to Ausaessig or are you staying? We can arrange a seat."

The Seraphist decided to stay. After all, as a Vixtrian who graduated at the third of her Class, she could spare some time to see how the new generation turned out. The vice principal had his assistant lead Kylla down to the fifth tier, where students and their family were gathering, and another fetch an uniform for Manziholet while they went over the plan.

"–then after the Principal finishes the bestowal, I will come out and introduce you. Can you give me a copy of your speech?"

"I can't." Manziholet tapped his forehead with a finger. "Every single word is in here," he said. 

"But is it good then? Actually," he added with a dismissive wave, "no need to tell me. We don't have much time. You scored the highest in Rhetoric. I trust you."

"I won't disappoint. Also,–" Manziholet pointed out of the window "–what's with the Chainbreakers?"

"Oh," the vice principal groaned, "they claim there'll be an attack. A group of disgruntled Ivory Collegium's teachers or something, which was ludicrous. Not even their Church dare to openly cause trouble on Sui-Jen. I bet those Chainbreakers are just trying to justify their monthly necessary expenses."

Manziholet was inclined to believe him. The Order of Chainbreakers was not what it used to be. Their masters had shifted from the weak and the poor to whoever with the most forisma in their pockets, and they also kept the crime rings on Promethean organized. 

After he had changed into a new set of uniform, topped with the golden regalia of the Vixtrian Paragon, Manziholet waited backstage as the opening performance (the usual choral music, a ode recital from a visiting governor, a surprisingly entertaining reenactment of the Academy's founding, followed by a vice principal's reading of a letter from the Imperator) took place one by one. 

The fifth tier's main hall had been redecorated in Western Thessa architecture, with mosaics depicting humanity's victories against proto seraphists and daemonic anchors on the walls, framed by marble pillars with intricate relief. The victories did not include the religious military, because the government insisted that thousands of battles had not been narrowly won by Redeemers at all. 

Round tables had been set along the hall, occupied by important mortals and Seraphists. Vixtrian students of Class of 1920 stood out with their dark red robes and a custom-made yet empty scabbard on their belt. Menials, dressed in white toga and wearing glass wings on their back, were running around to serve food and drinks. A dozen Chainbreakers, a new addition compared to last year, were watching from the far end of the hall. 

"Here you are, Manziholet," Someone sneaked up from behind him and loosely wrapped her left hand around his right arm. "Everyone was looking for you. We thought you would come sooner."

He had sensed Aezixia's arrival long before they touched, her presence announced by a halo of fragrance radiating subtly outward within a meter of her, equal parts fresh and sweet like mint and honey. He recognized it everywhere.

"I had to run an errand," Manziholet said while concentrating very hard on the performance. If he looked at her, he was afraid his heart would jump out of his chest. 

Aezixia was, by acclamation and common sense, the most irresistible girl in the Academy. If commanded to describe Aezixia's beauty under the threat of death, most poets would stutter and resign to merely gesturing helplessly at her. 

To earn her love, many boys had gladly groveled on the floor or received a spear in the gut. "Did I miss anything?" the boy asked.

"The usual nonsense," she replied with a laugh. "Jarith and his friends released a bunch of Vem nomads from the Preserve, then pretended to be their gods and herded them towards the Proctors' Office. Needless to say, chaos."

The Preserve was where they went to learn about ancient civilizations. Its demiplanes were populated solely by mortals unaware of the broader society, carefully isolated to simulate history as authentically as possible. Each had been put there since they were just babies before being subjected to time acceleration to create generations. The Guild of Demiurgic Sciences sold those demiplanes at a fortune. 

"The proctors must be pissed."

"They are. They'd probably skinned Jarith alive, but you know how loaded his family is. Anyway,–" her left hand tapped his right arm twice before disengaging, allowing him to lean back on the wall and look at her "–I'm coming back to the table. Looking forward to your speech. Will you mention my name, by any chance?"

"If you want to. I'm still in the process of writing one, so all suggestions are welcomed."

"Very funny, Vixtrian Paragon." She gave him a smile and lightly punched the medal on his chest. It was a part of the official regalia worn by all students who had managed to outperform their classmates to reach the top. 

Aezixia turned around to leave, but halted at forty-five degrees. "Yes," she said. "It'll be a great honor if you mention my name. I'll appreciate it." 

He got as many choices as a fly in a spider's web, and they both knew it. "You have my word."

After the opening performance came the Principal's address to Class of 1920. By all accounts, she decided to play it safe, with neither a mention of the imminent war nor a call for the students to join the military. Most of the speech was devoted to stroking the students' ego (and, by extension, their family) as well as the usual excellency and honor. An Overwatch Miracle amplified her voice across the hall.

She then summoned each student to the stage and ceremoniously bestowed upon them rapiers with slender azure blades. Their design was visually impressive, though the offensive capability was no greater than standard steel, worth more as an ornament displayed on a wall rather than a weapon in a duel. Scabbards were also available, but for the last four years many students had also decided to bring their own to suit their fashion.

Manziholet was not granted one. Those weapons were, after all, cheap replicas to the real Vixtrian Rapier, one that was forged on a dissonant world and thereby imbued with a broken reality. It would be granted to the Vixtrian Paragon, preferably after he finished his speech without disappointing his mother. 

He calmed himself down as the vice principal began his introduction. He had the boy's last name wrong, Sylvektor Claisara instead of the other way round. It could be a genuine mistake or the man was attempting to curry favor with his mother. Either way, if his speech turned out to be substandard, he would have a joke to divert attention to. 

Before long, Manziholet was standing in his place, looking down on thousands of people. He could feel the gaze of his mother, who was sitting at one of the frontmost tables, the sixth most important mortals in the hall. Failure was not an option. He began to speak.

"That was beautiful," the vice principal said later, when Manziholet returned backstage. The man was clapping with vigor, and so had the audience. "The bit about being effective, it was pure genius."

"Thank you." The boy sat down on a bench. The Vixtrian Rapier, which had come with its own ornate scabbard (thick black leather with gold inlays and velvet-lined interior) laid on his lap. "Although I think it might be too pretentious, given that I'm just fifteen."

"You're joking. I think you could have led them right into battle with that speech." The vice principal looked at a hand mirror and fixed his hair. The ceremony still needed him. "Regardless, congratulations, Manziholet."

After he left for the stage, the boy slipped in an empty dressing room and locked the door behind him. He made himself a glass of iced tea and chugged it down, before coming to stand in the middle of the room.

The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the Rapier's black ivory grip and settled comfortably inside its swept hilt, which was made up of multiple golden rings and bars that ended in bulbs of sapphire, before unsheathing the weapon.

Its blade smoothly left the scabbard, and in doing so introduced a piece of dissonant world into this reality. A caustic pattern of white radiance flashed and rippled across its azure surface like sunlight dancing on water. Across the blade, within three millimeters of it, the air imperceptibly hummed and shifted into a blue hue. 

The boy brought it closer to his face for inspection. Like most rapiers', the blade featured a quadrangular design, with four precisely beveled facets tapering toward the point, so masterfully polished that they reflected his face with clarity.

Per the specifications requested by him, the blade also reached one point one meters in length and three centimeters in width at the base. Its edges were as sharp as the tip, optimized to output the maximum devastation in both thrusting and cutting.

He pinched the tip and bent it to the side but failed to overcome the rigidness. Not that he could touch the warm surface for too long. His skin felt very funny as if being bitten like tiny insects. 

That was understandable. The blade was thinly coated in what was known as "time god's tear" by its crafters or aeon by laypeople. The nigh indestructible material, along with everything inside its blue field, was advancing through time much faster than the usual rate. Flesh would be aged and steel would be rusted at its touch. For the aeon blade's targets, time was not on their side.

When extending the Vixtrian Rapier fully outward, the boy's arm felt strained under the weight, and its balance was a little off to the wheel-shaped pommel, but the flaws could easily be compensated through practice. He jabbed and parried imaginary opponents a few times, before pointing the aeon blade deep into a wooden mannequin. 

With his left hand holding its head to keep the target still, he applied a bit of pressure through the other. The Vixtrian Rapier slided forward as if the mannequin was not there, warping the wood and turning it into fine dust. That was, the boy must admit, quite awesome.

And with the damage already being done, he had an excuse to wreak further havoc on the poor mannequin before sweeping broken pieces of wood and piles of dust into the trash. His new toy gone back to its scabbard, the boy fixed his uniform and returned to the ceremony. 

Just as he was about to reach the table where his friends and Aezixia were sitting, fate decided to make sure this day would be remembered for centuries to come. The Chainbreakers, incompetent as they might be, were right to be ready. Quite unfortunately, however, they were wrong about everything else.