Vane pushed open the massive oak door marked 1-A and stepped inside.
The room was an amphitheater built specifically to intimidate. It was large enough to hold a hundred souls but contained only twenty desks carved from polished basalt, arranged in steep, rising tiers that looked down upon a central podium made of volcanic glass. The acoustics were merciless. The slight scuff of Vane's boot on the threshold echoed like a gunshot, ringing against the cold stone walls.
Seventeen students were already seated. They were the cream of the global crop. Prodigies from the vast Empire, the distant Eastern Kingdoms, and the isolationist Elemental Palaces had clawed their way into this room through bloodline, boundless wealth, and ruthless tutoring. Zenith was the only place on the planet where the heirs of warring nations sat in the same room.
When Vane and Valerica entered, seventeen heads snapped toward the door. The chatter died instantly. The silence that fell over the room was heavy, pressurized, and thick with judgment.
Vane scanned the battlefield, cataloging threats instinctively.
Anastasia Aurelia, the Imperial Princess, was seated front and center, exactly where royalty should be. Her golden hair was coiled in intricate perfection, and her posture was regal enough for a throne room. She did not turn around. To acknowledge their arrival would be to admit they were worth noticing. The two seats flanking her were empty, a silent demilitarized zone that no lesser student dared to cross.
Valerica Sol, the stoic titan from the neutral territories, ignored the tension completely. She walked past Vane to the back row with heavy, deliberate steps. She chose a corner desk. Vane did not follow her.
He felt the weight of the room's assessment pressing against his [Courtier's Mask]. He was a street dog in a kennel of purebred wolves. He chose a seat in the middle tier, near the wall and by a high, narrow window. It gave him a clear strategic view of the door, the podium, and the majority of the class without being in the center of attention.
He sat down. The basalt desk was cold to the touch, leeching the heat from his fingertips. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, as the other seventeen students subtly shifted, angling themselves away from the Rank 1 anomaly who had no flag and no family name.
Then, precisely at 08:00, the door at the front of the room opened, and Instructor Rowan Draeven walked in.
He was not a professor in tweed. He was a weapon that had been sheathed reluctantly. He looked to be in his mid thirties, built like a fortress that had weathered too many sieges. He had short, steel grey hair and a jagged scar that ran from his left temple down to his jaw, pulling one corner of his mouth into a permanent, cynical grimace. He carried no tablets, no books, and no notes. He carried only an overwhelming aura of disciplined, lethal violence that made the air in the room feel suddenly thin.
Rowan walked to the obsidian podium and stood there, silent, for a full ten seconds. He let his presence fill the room, pressing down on the young elites until some of the lesser nobles squirmed in their seats.
"This is Class 1-A," Rowan said finally. His voice was low and rough, like stones grinding together in a mixer. "You think you are special because you are in this room. You are wrong."
He leaned forward, placing his scarred hands flat on the volcanic glass.
"Most of you are here because you have mastered the standard arts of mana manipulation. You have spent your lives learning how to shape energy into fire, ice, or steel. But four of you are different. Four of you are here under Special Admissions status."
Rowan scanned the room, his eyes pausing on Anastasia, Valerica, and finally Vane.
"These four possess an Authority. While the rest of you work within the known laws of mana, an Authority is a supernatural power that exists beyond those boundaries. It is an ability that does not follow the standard logic of magic. It is a raw force that functions on a level that your standard arcanic theories cannot fully explain."
He straightened up, his gaze hardening.
"Do not mistake this for a permanent status. These starting ranks were assigned based on the perceived weight of your magic and the potential of your gifts. They are temporary. According to your performance in practical evaluations and combat trials, these ranks will change. If a Special Admission cannot justify their presence in this class, they will be stripped of their standing and replaced by one of you who is hungrier and more efficient."
Rowan's iron colored eyes settled on Vane. The look was clinical. He was judging whether the guttersnipe from Oakhaven had the structure to survive the coming months.
"The world has invested billions in your potential, and it expects a return on that investment. I am not here to coddle you. I am not here to teach you how to cast a pretty light spell to impress your parents back home. I am here to sort you."
"If you are defective," Rowan said, holding Vane's gaze for a second longer than necessary, "you will be broken. If you are weak, you will be discarded. Zenith is a crucible. My job is to turn up the heat until only the gold is left."
He tapped the obsidian podium. A large holographic display flared to life above it, showing twenty names with Vane at the top, alongside a list of combat archetypes.
"Your first task is to define your existence here. You will choose your Primary Combat Discipline for Year 1. This will determine your practical training, your weapons issue, and your combat trials for the foreseeable future."
The list appeared on the crystal tablets embedded in their desks:
Blade (Sword/Rapier/Dagger)
Spear / Polearm
Arcane Focus (Pure Caster)
Unarmed / Brawler
Support / Utility
Hybrid (Requires Instructor Approval)
"Choose carefully," Rowan warned. "You can petition to change later, but it will cost you rank, time, and respect. If you pick something you cannot handle, you will be exposed in the Arena tomorrow. Don't be stupid."
In the front row, Anastasia tapped her screen instantly. On the main holographic display, next to her name, the word [Blade - Rapier] appeared. In the back, Valerica chose [Unarmed / Brawler] without a moment of hesitation.
Vane stared at the list on his own desk. Daggers had been his life. They were fast, easily hidden, and perfect for the way he had lived in the gutters. But daggers struggled against heavy defense. He needed something with more leverage and more penetration.
His mind went to the spear forms he had observed. He needed a weapon of war, not assassination. It required spacing, discipline, and a foundation he was only beginning to understand. But it was the best delivery system for high damage, and it would keep monsters like Valerica at arm's length.
Vane made his choice. He tapped [Spear].
At the podium, Rowan's eyes flickered. He looked up from his own display, locking onto Vane instantly. Vane felt the weight of a master's gaze dissecting him. Rowan was reading Vane's posture, sizing up whether he had the structure for the king of weapons. He held the stare for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
It was not approval. It was acknowledgment of a wager placed.