"To be named is to be seen. To be Ranked is to be owned. But to walk without a chain—that is power."
—Anonymous Graffiti, Scorched Dormitory Wall
The city of Aetherhold was aflame with color.
By dawn, crimsn banners fluttered from every tower of the Skybound Academy, dancing on silver winds. The Ranking Festival had arrived—a thrre-day spectacle of strength, blood, illusion, and rank trials. Thousands gathered to witness the academy's finest prove their status. But this year, unknwn to most, a storm was slipping through their gates.
And at its center stood a boy with no number.
Return to the Lion's Den
Kairo wore his borrowed uniform like a lie—a freshly pressed deep-navy jacket bearing the false sigil of Rank 9. Lyra had forged his records and smuggled him through the academy's hidden tunnels. He walked now among the outer courtyards, back straight, eyes burning.
It felt like stepping into a memory that had been rewritten.
Everything looked the same—the marble towers, the levitating platforms, the humming crystals that powered the city. But he was no longer the invisible street rat cowering in the shadows.
He was here on borrowed time.
And every second pulsed like a countdown.
"Keep your head down," Lyra whispered beside him, dressed now in her noble uniform—silver trim, black boots, hair tied in a combat braid. "You're officially 'Kieran Vale' now, a Rank Nine from the Eastern Wards. Don't draw attention. Not yet."
"I'm wearing stolen clothes, a fake name, and carrying a cursed secret inside me. I think we passed subtle five steps ago."
She gave him a look.
"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't react to insults. And whatever you do—stay away from Reign Azaril."
Kairo narrowed his eyes. "Who's that?"
"The current Rank One," Lyra muttered. "And the Headmaster's heir."
The Festival Begins
The Festival Grounds were massive—floating above the academy courtyard on a hovering obsidian platform that shimmered with fire runes. Ranks 1 through 99 stood in crisp formation, each row higher than the last like a pyramid of living power.
Below them stood the unranked—huddled in gray, eyes down.
Kairo felt his throat tighten as he glanced at the group where he once belonged.
I was there. Forgotten. Laughed at.
Above them, floating on a separate stage, the Headmaster rose in a storm of light.
Grandmaster Veylor Azaril.
He was a tall, cold man in long black robes, with white hair braided with gold. His presence alolne silenced the crowd. Magic crackled in the air around him like static.
"Today," he boomed, "we celebrate not only strength, but order. Not only magic, but structure. You were born into chaos—but here, you are given a name. A place. A Rank."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Kairo clenched his fists.
Veylor continued. "Let the Trials of Flame begin. And may the weeakest be burned away."
FirstBlood
The first trials were brutal.
Ranked students battled one another in duels that bent the sky. Swords that sang with fire. Chains made of lightning. Elemental dragons shrieked as they collided mid-air. Shields shattered. Bodies flew.
Kairo watched from the Rank 9 platform, surrounded by students who eyed him with curiosity and suspicion.
"Never seen you before," one boy muttered.
"New transfer," Kairo lied. "Eastern Sector."
Another girl frowned. "But the Eastern Ward doesn't produce dual-core wielders."
Kairo blinked. "I—uh—"
Before the interrogation could go further, a new name was called from the dueling list.
"Reign Azaril. Rank One. Challnger: General Draw."
A hush fell.
From the highest platform, Reign Azaril descende in silence.
He was breathtakingly calm—silver-haired, ice-eyed, dressed in black armr with violet trim. A greatsword hovered behind him, not strapped, just floating—bound to his will.
The challenger—a hulking Rank Three general—barely got a word in before Reign raised one finger.
A single flick.
A silver flame exploded from the sky and erased half the dueling platform.
When the light faded, the challenger was unconscious, the arena scrched.
Reign didn't smirk. Didn't bow. He turned and walked away as if swatting a fly.
The crowd roared.
Beside Kairo, Lyra whspered, "That's who you'll have to beat… eventually."
Kairo stared after Reign.
His own chest ached—not in fear, but in recognition.
Because in that silver fire… he saw something familiar.
That same forbidden energy.
Sparks and Distance
Later that evning, while others celebrated and drank skywine in the upper gardens, Kairo stood alone beneath an obsidian arch, watching the stars flicker above.
Lyra joined him quietly.
"They bought your act," she said. "For now."
He didnt answer.
"You did well," she tried again.
"I'm not afrad of Reign," Kairo said suddenly.
Lyra stiffened. "You should be."
"No, he shook his head. "I'm afraid of what I'll have to do to win. What I'll become."
A silence stretched between them.
Then—softly—Lyra touched his hand.
And for a moment, the world slowed.
"I don't want to lose you," she said. "To this war. Or to the power inside you."
He looked into her eyes—and saw the same grief he carried.
"You won't," he whispered.
But even as he said it… a voice deep within him whisperd something else:
That's a promise you can't keep.
Secrets Unbound
That night, as Kairo lay in his bunk in the Rank 9 dormitory, something inside him snapped.
His chest burned.
The mark reapeared—glowing gold, crimson, then black.
His vision blurred.
He sat up, panting, as the walls around him twisted into shadws. Not real shadows—memories.
A voice echoed in his skull:
"Do not let them name you. You are not theirs. You are the Breaker."
Suddenly, he saw flashes—visions of ancient beings, thrones of broken stars, a sword carved from moonlight. And standing above them all—himself, eyes glowing like the sun.
And then—
CRACK.
The mark vanished.
His body slumped.
And from outside the dormtory walls, an alarm blared.
Someone had triggered the forbidden artifact vault