The morning sun crept through the blinds, washing the room in soft gold.
Han Jiwoo blinked awake to the familiar hum of the city — buses rattling below, vendors calling out breakfast orders, and the low buzz of mana-powered generators from the neighboring building. Seoul looked the same as always, but to him, the world felt different now.
He sat up slowly, his body still sore from the resonance test. For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream — the light, the shockwave, the way the resonance stone shattered. But the faint warmth pulsing in his chest reminded him it was real.
He exhaled, steadying his thoughts.
A soft vibration came from his desk — his phone lighting up with an incoming call.
Mom.
He answered, and the video call connected after a short delay. Lee Mirae's face appeared on the screen, framed by the soft light of her office somewhere overseas.
"Jiwoo," she said gently. "You look tired."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm fine. Just… sore."
"Expected," another voice joined in — his father, Han Seojin, stepping into frame beside her. He looked the same as always: calm eyes, lab coat slightly wrinkled, a data pad in hand.
"We got your results from the Association," Seojin continued. "Dual-class awakening, Combat and Unknown. You handled it better than we expected."
Jiwoo tilted his head slightly. "You sound surprised."
"Not surprised," Mirae said with a faint smile. "Proud."
Her tone softened as she added, "We think it's time you train properly. Why don't you take the Eclipse Academy exam?"
That caught him off guard. "Eclipse? Isn't that the old hero school near Suwon?"
"It's still one of the best," Seojin said. "Not as famous as it used to be, but the curriculum is strong. You'll get proper training and access to certified combat instructors."
"And your sister is already there," Mirae added. "She's doing well. It'll be easier if you're both in the same place."
She paused, her expression unreadable. "It's where you'll grow best, Jiwoo."
He nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll go."
"Good," Seojin said, a faint relief in his tone. "Focus on learning control. Power means nothing without it."
The call lingered for a few seconds before Mirae smiled one last time. "We love you. Call us when you arrive, okay?"
The line disconnected.
Jiwoo stared at his phone for a while, his reflection ghosted in the glass screen.
He didn't understand why his parents sounded… tense, almost cautious. But he didn't dwell on it. The only thing that mattered now was moving forward.
A Week Later
Eclipse Academy stood on the outskirts of Suwon, its tall iron gates overlooking the river.
The campus blended old and new — stone courtyards beside glass buildings, modern mana sensors wired discreetly into the walls.
The banners at the front gate read:
"Eclipse Academy — Where Light Meets Resolve."
Once, Eclipse had been the heart of Korea's Hero System — its graduates leading national defense teams and world-ranked Students.
But time changed things. Newer academies, better funded and politically connected, had taken its glory.
Now, Eclipse carried the weight of its own legend — not forgotten, but no longer shining.
Jiwoo tightened his grip on his bag and stepped through the gates.
The crowd around him was full of other applicants — students his age, some chatting nervously, others radiating quiet confidence.
He caught snippets of conversation: names of famous heroes, speculations about exam types, and even a few whispers about "the Association kid who broke the resonance stone."
He ignored them. Gossip didn't interest him.
The academy staff directed them into the main hall for the entrance test.
The first part was written — hero law, monster ecology and basic mana theory.
Rows of students sat at long desks under flickering lights, mechanical pencils scratching against thick exam paper.
Jiwoo answered each question with practiced focus. He wasn't the fastest, but his responses were clean, accurate, and precise.
He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate.
When the proctor called for time, he set his pen down, quietly confident.
The second part was combat.
Outside, a wide training field stretched across the courtyard, surrounded by spell-warded barriers.
Wooden weapons and mana sensors lined the racks. Instructors in black coats stood watch from the sides.
Each candidate took turns entering the ring. Their task was simple — defeat a projection dummy powered by condensed mana, a stand-in for low-grade monsters. It tested control, precision, and adaptability.
When Jiwoo's turn came, the instructor checked the clipboard.
"Han Jiwoo, right? Association record — C-Rank Combat, Unknown secondary."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Show us what you can do."
Jiwoo stepped forward, grabbed a practice sword from the rack, and faced the target dummy. The construct shimmered with dull blue light, taking a defensive stance.
He didn't rush. He circled once, watching how it shifted to match him. Then, with a sharp exhale, he moved — fast, direct, no wasted motion. The blade struck clean across the shoulder joint, disabling the dummy's left arm.
He followed through with a second strike, disrupting its mana core. The dummy's light flickered, then went out.
"Time: twenty-one seconds," the instructor noted, surprised. "Stable mana output, minimal excess use. Good control."
Jiwoo bowed slightly and stepped back.
After all candidates finished, the results were posted on a digital board in the lobby.
His number — 219 — sat near the top of the list.
He'd passed with near-perfect marks.
He stared at it for a moment, expression unreadable.
There was satisfaction, yes — but not pride. He expected no less from himself.
The crowd around him buzzed with chatter.
"Who's that?"
"Han Jiwoo… the Association kid?"
"He's strong, but quiet. Kind of intimidating."
He ignored the noise and left the building.
A few days later, an envelope arrived at his apartment.
The seal on the front bore a silver crescent moon — Eclipse's emblem.
He tore it open carefully.
"Congratulations, Han Jiwoo.
You have been accepted into Eclipse Academy's Hero Development Division.
Dormitory: Sector B, Room 214.
Classes begin in two weeks."
He folded the letter once and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Outside, the evening wind carried the hum of the city — cars, laughter, the faint crackle of mana lamps switching on.
The world felt ordinary again. But under that stillness, something was stirring — in him, and beyond.
He looked toward the fading skyline and muttered, almost to himself,
"Eclipse Academy, huh… let's see what I'll become there."
He walked on, unaware that far across the sea, his parents were staring at the same letter's data copy — their expressions unreadable.