The Registry Hall did not tolerate noise.
Even whispers dissolved beneath its vast ceiling, absorbed by polished marble and ancient sigils etched into the stone. Tall columns lined the chamber in perfect symmetry, each one engraved with records older than the kingdom itself—names, ranks, and legacies carved into permanence.
Above them, faint lines of mana pulsed through the ceiling, glowing softly like veins beneath translucent skin.
This was a place where worth was decided.
At the center of the hall stood the Registry Array, a circular platform of black stone surrounded by runic pillars. It was here that mana was measured, cores acknowledged, and futures sealed.
Today, the array lay dormant, yet its presence alone weighed heavily on every soul within the chamber.
The hall was filled.
Barons sat beside counts. Dukes occupied elevated rows closer to the dais. High-ranking officials and military commanders stood along the sides, their expressions carefully neutral.
No commoners were permitted entry—this ceremony was not meant for them. Beyond the walls, however, mana-driven broadcast arrays transmitted the proceedings to the capital and beyond.
The kingdom would witness the results, even if it could not hear the whispers exchanged inside.
Today, the royal princes would be ranked.
Anticipation coiled through the air like a restrained beast.
Time passed—measured not in minutes, but in restrained breaths and controlled stillness. Then, without announcement, the atmosphere shifted.
The King entered.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the unshakable certainty of a man long accustomed to command. His fair skin bore the marks of age earned rather than suffered, and strands of white threaded through his dark hair like steel woven into silk. The moment he crossed the threshold, the hall responded.
Every noble rose.
Heads bowed deeply, spines bent in practiced reverence. The scratching of quills ceased. Even the mana lines in the ceiling seemed to dim in acknowledgement.
Behind him walked the Queen.
She moved with composed elegance, her posture straight, her expression serene. Fine lines framed her eyes—not signs of weakness, but of years spent watching a kingdom breathe and bleed. Her chestnut hair flowed freely down her back, unadorned, as befitting a ceremony of judgment rather than celebration.
They ascended the dais and took their seats upon the twin thrones of Isylthor. Only then did the hall exhale.
An elderly man stepped forward from among the officials. His beard was long and white, his robes heavy with embroidered insignia denoting authority earned over decades.
He bowed deeply—once to the King, once to the Queen—then straightened with visible effort.
For a moment, he coughed, pressing a fist to his lips.Then he spoke.
"On this day," his voice echoed through the hall, amplified by hidden arrays, "the princes of the Kingdom of Isylthor present themselves before the Registry to receive their official rankings...This ceremony stands above blood, title, and expectation. Before mana, all are measured equally."
The words were ritual, spoken countless times before. Yet today, they carried a different weight.
"I ask all present," the elder continued, "to bear witness."
He stepped aside.
Silence returned—thick, expectant.
Moments later, footsteps echoed from the far entrance.
The first figure to enter was not announced.
A young man walked forward, clad in a formal black suit, the coat left open in a deliberate break from rigid tradition. His black hair was neatly kept, catching the ambient light as he moved. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet his steps were precise, measured.
Prince Kezzes Isyl.The younger son of the King.
His sharp eyes swept across the hall as he advanced, not in awe, but assessment. He noted the nobles who avoided his gaze, the few who watched him with thinly veiled curiosity, and the many who already wore expressions of expectation—expectation of failure.
Kezzes reached the center of the Registry Array and stopped.
He knew this place well.He had stood here before.Too many times.
As he faced the dais, he felt it again—that familiar, quiet pressure in his chest. Not fear.Not doubt.Resignation.
Before the elder could speak, Kezzes raised a hand.
"Before we begin," he said calmly, his voice carrying without effort, "I request a temporary suspension of the public broadcast. Ten minutes will suffice."
A ripple passed through the hall.Confusion surfaced on several faces. Murmurs threatened to rise but were quickly strangled by decorum. Such a request was… irregular.
The elder hesitated, then turned toward the dais.
The King studied his younger son for a long moment. His expression revealed nothing. Then, with a slight motion of his hand, he nodded.
The broadcast arrays dimmed.Only those within the Registry Hall would witness what followed.
Kezzes allowed himself a small smile—brief, controlled.
"Thank you", he thought. At least this much.
He stepped onto the array and closed his eyes.
Breathing slowly, he reached inward.
Mana responded.
Invisible particles stirred around his body, drawn toward him like filings to a magnet. Those with trained perception felt it immediately—the subtle pull, the gathering density.
The runes beneath his feet flickered faintly as the process began Core formation.
The mana condensed, spiraling inward. Shape emerged. Structure followed.
For a fleeting moment—just a heartbeat—it seemed different.Too different.Kezzes's brow furrowed.
No. Not like this.The gathered mana trembled. Its rotation faltered, lines of cohesion breaking apart as if something fundamental refused alignment.
Then it shattered.
Not explosively—but completely.
The assembled mana dispersed in an instant, dissolving into countless fragments that scattered around Kezzes's body like dust caught in still air.
His eyes snapped open.This isn't normal.
Every previous failure had been violent, painful, abrupt. This—this felt final. As if the process itself had rejected continuation.
Worse still, he felt it.
A faint residue lingered around him—thin, almost imperceptible.Pure mana.
Unaspected. Unaligne.
Kezzes clenched his jaw.
I can't control it anymore.
Around the hall, reactions unfolded in silence.
Most saw only failure.
But a handful—those versed deeply in mana theory—noticed something else. Their eyes narrowed. Their breathing stilled.
The elder stepped forward once more.
His voice, when it came, carried regret—not personal, but procedural.
"It is with solemn duty," he declared, "that I announce Prince Kezzes Isyl has failed to manifest a stable mana core."The words struck like a gavel.
"Under the laws of the Registry, he is deemed unqualified for official ranking." After a pause "I offer my apologies, Young Prince."
Silence reclaimed the hall.Kezzes stood unmoving.He felt it then—the shift.The King's aura changed.Not anger. Not disappointment.Distance.
"Kezzes," the King said, his voice firm and final, "you may withdraw."
Kezzes inclined his head once.No protest. No explanation.As he turned to leave, whispers bloomed behind him—controlled, hushed, but sharp. He did not slow.
At the entrance, another presence passed him.
Tall. Confident. Radiating control.Prince Ren Isyl.The elder brother did not look at him.
Not once.
Kezzes stepped beyond the threshold and into the corridors of the palace, the sound of the hall sealing behind him like a verdict.
He did not return to the main wing.
Instead, he walked—alone—toward the northern district of Isyllia, where the lesser-used castle towers stood. The route was familiar. Quiet.
By the time he reached his chambers, exhaustion settled into his bones.
He shut the door, crossed the room, and dropped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The room was simple. Green walls.
Clean lines. A wooden wardrobe neatly arranged with clothing and books separated with meticulous care. A single window overlooked the distant spires of the capital.
He closed it.
Sitting up, Kezzes exhaled slowly."So," he murmured, "that's that." Embarrassed before the kingdom—spared the public only by his own request. Disqualified. Unranked.
A prince with no measure.
His lips curved faintly.
"…I suppose I should check what that failure actually left me with."
The doors of the Registry Hall closed behind Kezzes with a muted finality.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
The whispers that had been restrained now flowed freely—still quiet, still controlled, but no longer suppressed. Eyes turned back toward the Registry Array, anticipation rekindling like embers stirred by wind.
The elder cleared his throat.
"Proceed," the King said.
Footsteps echoed once more.
Prince Ren Isyl stepped forward.
Unlike his younger brother, Ren wore ceremonial attire woven with faintly glowing threads—mana-reactive silk reserved for those already acknowledged by the Registry.
His silver-trimmed cloak rested perfectly on his shoulders, and his presence alone commanded attention.
Where Kezzes had walked with quiet observation, Ren advanced with certainty.
He stopped at the center of the array and inclined his head toward the dais.
The hall straightened.
Ren closed his eyes.
The change was immediate.
Mana surged.
Not gently. Not tentatively.
It rushed toward him in thick, visible streams, bending the ambient flow of the hall itself. The runes beneath his feet ignited, one after another, glowing with layered intensity.
The nobles leaned forward despite themselves.
This was not merely core formation.
Ren's breathing remained steady as the mana condensed within him. The gathered energy rotated smoothly, forming a stable nucleus almost instantly.
The first layer locked into place—dense, luminous, flawless.
A murmur spread.
Then the second layer formed.
The mana thickened, folding inward with mathematical precision, reinforcing the first core like armor over steel.
The Registry Array responded violently now, runes blazing bright enough to cast shadows across the hall.
Gasps broke free.
And then—
A third layer.
The mana did not resist.
It obeyed.
The third layer sealed itself around the core with a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the marble floor. A wave of pressure rolled outward, forcing even seasoned nobles to brace themselves.
Silence followed.
Then—
Applause.
It began cautiously, as if uncertain permission was required. Then it grew—faster, louder, undeniable. Shocked exclamations mixed with admiration. Even hardened officials failed to mask their reactions.
"A three-layer core…"
"At his age?"
"This hasn't happened in generations."
The elder stood frozen, eyes wide behind decades of composure. When he finally spoke, his voice carried awe rarely heard in this hall.
"Prince Ren Isyl," he declared, "is hereby recognized as a bearer of a Triple-Layer Mana Core."
He turned toward the dais and bowed deeply.
"By Registry law, he is granted the rank of High Heir-Class aside from Prince , effective immediately."
The applause intensified.
The King rose.
The hall fell silent in an instant.
A rare smile touched the King's lips—not wide, not indulgent, but unmistakably proud.
The Queen inclined her head, her eyes shining with restrained emotion.
Ren opened his eyes.
Calm. Controlled. Victorious.
He bowed once—to the throne, to the hall, to the judgment that had affirmed what many already believed.
The future of Isylthor had chosen its face.
Far from the applause, far from the echoing hall and its judgment.
Kezzes sat alone on the edge of his bed.
The castle's northern wing was quiet, untouched by celebration. He had removed his coat and loosened the collar of his shirt, sleeves rolled up as he stared at his own hands.
Slowly, carefully, he reached inward.
The familiar pathways responded—but differently.
There was no core.
No structured nucleus.
Instead, a faint presence stirred.
Pure mana.
Unaligned. Unfiltered. Unclaimed.
It did not move unless he willed it to. When he tried to draw more, the response was immediate—and absolute.
Nothing.
Kezzes exhaled.
"So that's the limit…"
He focused again, guiding a thin thread of pure mana into his palm. It manifested weakly, barely visible, flickering like a dying flame. The strain was instant, sharp, and unmistakable.
Limited quantity. Limited duration.
But—
It responded perfectly.
No resistance. No instability. No rejection.
His eyes narrowed.
Pure mana wasn't supposed to behave like this.
He released it and leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling as a slow, dangerous thought took shape.
"I can't form a core," he murmured.
"But whatever this is… it listens."
Outside, the capital of Isylthor celebrated its chosen heir.
Inside a quiet room, a discarded prince smiled faintly.
Not in triumph.
But in understanding.
" The only problem is...pure mana is weak "