Hundreds of quills scratched across parchment, ink flowing like rivers of desperation as the examinees battled not monsters, but words and numbers. The written exam was not meant to weed out the powerful. It was designed to expose the unprepared.
Alexander Stark sat at the far end of the room, shoulders square, eyes steady. His hand moved quickly but not recklessly, the quill dancing across the page with confidence. He'd read every book in his village's small library, devoured scraps of borrowed scrolls, and memorized what little knowledge he could afford. For him, this test was not difficult. It was survival.
One last line of ink bled into the parchment. He set the quill down. His chest rose and fell with controlled rhythm as he reviewed the paper one final time.
Finished.
He stood. The creak of his chair unnaturally loud in the vast room, drawing a few stares.
But he wasn't the only one.
From the other side of the hall, another chair scraped against the floor. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her.
Golden curls shimmered under the morning light streaming through the tall windows. A girl walked with the grace of nobility, her back straight, her chin tilted just so. Her presence demanded attention even in silence. Alexander recognized her instantly from the whispers he'd overheard outside the room: Celine Ashfall, daughter of the Duke of Ashfall.
She shouldn't have been here. By birthright, she could have bypassed the exam entirely. Yet she had insisted on proving herself. That defiance alone had already turned heads.
Alexander turned his paper in first, sliding it onto the proctor's desk. Out of instinct, he glanced behind him.
Celine's sharp blue eyes caught his for a moment and narrowed. Irritation. The faintest flicker of pride wounded that some country nobody had stood before her.
Alexander returned to his seat without a word, ignoring the heat of her gaze. Yet even as he sat, he felt it linger. A challenge without words, a silent acknowledgment that he'd stepped on the wrong toes.
He exhaled slowly. "Great," he thought. "I've already made an enemy without trying."
The written exam passed, and the students were ushered out in groups toward the second stage.
The Awakening.
This was what truly mattered. Knowledge could be studied. Strategy could be learned. But talent? raw, innate affinity to mana could not be manufactured. It was the foundation of a mage's worth.
The Awakening Hall was impressive, its vaulted ceiling covered in runic inscriptions that pulsed faintly with mana. At the center stood a massive crystal the height of three men, clear as ice yet filled with shifting lights. The air around it thrummed with energy, vibrating against the skin.
Students lined up, the weight of destiny pressing against their shoulders. Some whispered nervously. Others grinned with arrogant certainty. For many, this was the moment that would define the rest of their lives.
"Alexander Stark," a voice called.
His heart jumped.
He stepped forward, trying to steady his breathing. Every step felt heavier than the last. Memories flashed in his mind. The farm fields, his father's tired hands, Wendy's voice and its warmth. And the promise he had whispered to himself when he boarded the train: I will become a mage. No matter what.
The proctor gestured to the crystal. "Place your hand on it. Do not resist the pull."
Alexander raised his hand. His fingers trembled only slightly before making contact with the cold, smooth surface.
The crystal pulsed.
Light swirled within, faint and hesitant at first, then stronger. Energy flowed from his palm, threads of his being pulled and examined by the crystal's ancient will. For a moment, he felt naked, as if the deepest parts of him were being dissected.
The glow intensified then faltered.
A weak shimmer filled the crystal. No grand surge of colors. No powerful resonance. Just a dim, fragile light.
The proctor's lips pressed into a thin line as glowing lights formed inside the crystal.
Red. Fire Affinity.
The hall seemed to grow colder.
Alexander's throat tightened. His heart hammered, not with excitement, but with dread.
Red.
The lowest of the low. Below the standard. Below what the Academy even considered worthy. History had been clear: Orange was the minimum expectation.
He staggered back a step, withdrawing his hand.
The murmurs began almost immediately.
"Red?"
"Pathetic."
"Why did he even bother coming here?"
"Maybe the capital's gotten too soft, letting in country bumpkins like him."
Alexander lowered his gaze, fighting the flush of humiliation burning his face. Relief and devastation warred inside him. Relief because at least he wasn't unawakened. He had something. A spark. But devastation crushed that tiny comfort. Red core meant nothing. It was a door slammed shut, a future denied before it began.
Still… he had awakened. That thought clung to him like a lifeline.
I'm not talentless. I can still fight. Somehow… I'll make this work.
He returned to his seat, the weight of whispers pressing on him like stones. He clenched his fists beneath the desk. Across the room, Celine Ashfall's gaze flicked toward him again. Her expression was unreadable, cold and aristocratic, yet sharpened with something else. Perhaps disdain, perhaps curiosity.
He ignored it.
The proctor called the next name, and the process continued as if his humiliation was just another line in the Academy's endless history of failures.
The ritual concluded. Students whispered, compared cores, boasted, despaired. Alexander sat silent, stare still lingering on his palm.
Then, footsteps approached.
A guard in Academy colors stood before him, towering and expressionless.
"Are you Alexander Stark?" the man asked.
Alexander swallowed and nodded. "Yes."
The guard's eyes flickered with recognition. "You're to follow me. Now."
Alexander blinked. "Why?"
The guard gave no explanation.
Murmurs spread again as Alexander stood. Dozens of eyes followed him. Some with pity, others with amusement, a few with contempt. The boy with the lowest possible rank being escorted away like a criminal or a curiosity.
His chest tightened, but he forced his legs to move. Dragging each legs against the stone floor, carrying him further from the hall.