The announcement slammed through the grand entrance hall like a war horn.
"Students of the Academy," the instructor's voice cracked overhead, rough as broken glass, sharp as a blade. "Forget the dorms. Your first order of business is your inaugural classes. Report to your assigned lecture halls immediately."
The crowd groaned, a low ripple of frustration, but it died the second the instructor's eyes swept the hall—flat, cold, the kind of stare that could carve stone.
Ace exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.
"Yeah, wouldn't want us getting comfortable," he muttered, shifting the worn strap of his satchel. "Gotta earn the right to unpack."
Beside him, a guy let out a dry laugh. Brown hair stuck out under a crooked Academy cap, uniform already wrinkled, scuffed shoes screaming 'ran here from nowhere.'
"Guess the nobles'll have to pop their champagne after class," the guy quipped, clutching a battered old book like it was armor. "Klaus. Commoner, obviously—socks kinda give it away."
Ace's eyes flicked down. One sock striped blue, the other plain grey. Both worn to hell.
The smirk sharpened. "Ace. Technically noble." He lowered his voice, deadpan. "Barely enough to scrape through the front gate."
Klaus snorted. "Underdogs, then."
They moved through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, swept along by the current of pressed uniforms and smug expressions. House crests glittered everywhere—emerald, sapphire, gold—each one louder than the last.
The air stank of money, ambition, and entitlement.
Ace? Plain coat, frayed edges, bag heavy on his shoulder. Klaus? Socks from different universes, half-laced shoes.
They stuck out like rust on a polished sword.
But they weren't the only ones watching.
A group of nobles clustered near the stairs, eyes darting, evaluating, already sorting the weak from the irrelevant. Ace caught one of them sneering at Klaus's socks. Another sized Ace up like he was some particularly disappointing appetizer.
Klaus elbowed him. "Good news—looks like we're famous already."
Ace shrugged. "Let 'em stare. They'll be staring harder later."
The hall split ahead, crowd fracturing toward different lecture wings. Arcane runes pulsed along the walls, faint light bleeding through the stone. Ancient. Old magic humming like a heartbeat underfoot.
Klaus slowed, tilting his head toward the etchings. His eyes lit up, wide with honest curiosity.
"See that?" he whispered. "Lines that clean? Bet that enchantment's worth more than my whole house."
Most students stomped by without so much as a glance. Generational wealth. Generational indifference.
Ace's smirk twitched wider. Kid's got eyes. That's rare.
"Pyro for you?" Klaus asked, jerking his thumb at the hall draped in crimson banners. "Sounds toasty."
Ace snorted. "Knowing my luck? Probably a masterclass in third-degree burns."
Klaus laughed, thumb still tapping the spine of his ragged book. "Water for me. Figure I'll be learning how to… I dunno, make people wet?"
Ace's grin sharpened like a knife. "Day one and you're already promising to get the student body wet? Bold."
Klaus choked, nearly dropping his book, his ears turning crimson. "Gods—words sound so wrong coming from you."
"Technically accurate, though," Ace shrugged, dodging a couple of nobles glaring as they passed.
Klaus cracked up, drawing side-eyes from a tall, snooty kid in silver trim. Neither of them cared.
Ace rolled his shoulders, easing the satchel strap digging into his collarbone. The halls buzzed—students peeling off to elemental wings, banners marking the paths: Fire, Water, Air, Earth, the lot.
The real games were starting now.
Klaus clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't roast yourself, yeah?"
"Same to you," Ace shot back, eyes flicking toward the blue-bannered hall. "Try not to drown in… ambition."
Klaus wheezed, peeling off toward the Water halls, vanishing into the tide of students.
Ace paused, watching the Pyro wing loom ahead.
Banners rippled overhead, crimson cloth embroidered with gold sigils—fire, phoenixes, roaring flame. The air smelled faintly of burnt ozone.
His boots scuffed over polished stone as he moved.
His House? Low-tier. Practically extinct in the noble food chain.
His name? Unknown. Easy to forget.
But under the quiet jokes, under the ragged edges of his coat, Ace carried something else entirely.
His skin shimmered faintly as he flexed his hand—the molecular hum beneath his flesh alive for a heartbeat, then gone.
They don't know yet, he reminded himself, slipping deeper into the Pyro hall. But they will.
[Status Window – Ace Dragnell]
Name: Ace Dragnell
Age: 16
Noble Status: Low-tier (Decorative, mostly)
Strength: D
Agility: D
Endurance: C
Intelligence: S (Surprisingly sharp)
Willpower: A (Stubborn enough to survive)
Charisma: D (Polish? Never heard of it)
Arcane Power: C+
Unique Ability:
* Unique Ability: Molecular Disassembly & Regeneration (Untrained - some basic control achieved)
* Description: The innate power to disassemble one's body to a molecular or even atomic level and reassemble it at will. Can regenerate from a single cell or atom. Can reassemble specific body parts, which will possess the same inherent power as the main body. This ability is currently raw and unrefined, its full potential unknown even to Ace, but he has begun to exercise rudimentary control over it. At this stage, it manifests without any apparent drawbacks.
Elemental Affinities:
Fire. Air. Lightning.
Skills:
Basic Self-Defense — (C)
Wilderness Survival — (D)
Weapon Forging — (B-)
Wealth:
300 Silver Crowns (Translation: Flat broke compared to the room)
Reputation:
Unknown. Easy mark. Disposable in noble politics.
Ace adjusted his coat, boots echoing over marble, eyes scanning the crowd.
Laughter sparked somewhere behind him. Sharp, practiced. Nobles already forming packs. Already hunting weak links.
Let 'em hunt, Ace thought, fingers twitching as he pushed into the flame-lit corridor.
They'll choke on it later.