The academy grounds were already crowded when Ren arrived.
He saw the outer gates first—iron and stone woven together, runes carved deep into the surface.
They didn't feel decorative.
They felt like warnings.
Beyond them, the academy rose like its own city. Wide halls of pale stone. Towers connected by elevated bridges. Open courtyards framed by columns so tall Ren had to tilt his head back until his neck ached.
Statues lined the main walk—not kings, not saints.
Mages.
Figures caught mid-casting, hands raised, carved so precisely Ren almost expected the stone to spark.
Candidates clustered in nervous packs—voices too loud, shoulders too tight. Ren followed the line into the testing hall.
The building swallowed sound as the doors closed behind them.
Ceilings arched high overhead. Pale pillars etched with runes worn smooth by thousands of hands. Testing circles were set into the floor at intervals, each watched by officials who barely looked up unless something interesting happened.
Names were called. Palms touched crystal. Results were spoken.
Then people were waved on without ceremony.
Ahead of Ren, a boy stepped onto the circle with his chin raised like he'd already won. He pressed his hand to the crystal slab.
The stone hummed, then flared—clear and bright.
A thin ribbon of water spiraled up his arm, trembling like it wanted to become something bigger.
The official's voice cut through the noise.
"Water affinity."
The boy's shoulders loosened—relief flashing across his face before he forced it away. The official tilted the crystal slightly, watching the readings settle.
"Tier Two."
Cheers rippled from the crowd. The boy stepped off trying not to grin too hard.
Ren's pulse quickened.
That's not the highest. But it's real.
When his name was called, Ren stepped forward and placed his palm against the cold crystal.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—warmth.
Not dramatic. Not bright. Just a faint internal response, like the stone had finally noticed him.
The official's gaze sharpened a fraction.
"Mana present," he said.
Ren's chest lifted before doubt caught up.
Mana. So I'm not empty.
The crystal flickered again—uneven, restless—like it couldn't decide what shape to settle into. The light stuttered, rose, then collapsed into nothing.
The official watched the readings a moment longer than he had with the others.
Then he spoke, flat.
"No stable nature formation."
Ren's stomach tightened.
The official tapped the crystal once, as if confirming the refusal. He turned his head just enough to announce it for the record.
"Tier Four."
A number. Nothing else.
Ren stepped off the circle, shoulders tight, throat closing.
He felt it immediately.
Not pity.
Space.
A few candidates shifted aside without meaning to. Others avoided his eyes altogether—Tier Four was a category most people didn't linger near.
Behind him, voices rose—not loud enough to be challenged, but loud enough to be heard.
"Tier Four?" someone scoffed.
"Why is he even here?"
"Someone padded the numbers."
A quiet laugh followed. Not sharp or mocking—worse. Casual. Dismissive. Like he wasn't worth the effort of contempt.
Ren kept walking.
His hands felt wrong. Not weak—wrong. Like his mana was there, but refusing to behave in a way that mattered.
The line moved.
Then the atmosphere changed.
Not because someone failed.
Because someone didn't make sense.
A few circles down, the crystal lit up so hard it washed the official's face pale. A gust of wind snapped through the hall like the building had exhaled.
"Wind affinity," an official called, voice sharper than before.
The crowd reacted instantly—gasps, excited murmurs.
And then—the crystal flared again.
Heat rolled across the stone floor.
"Fire affinity—"
People shouted over each other.
"That can't—"
"It's—"
Then the crystal flashed again, different, harsher—like metal catching sunlight.
The official's composure cracked for the first time all morning.
A pause.
Then, carefully, as if saying it wrong would make it stop being true—
"Third affinity confirmed."
The hall erupted.
Ren didn't see the candidate clearly from where he stood. Only the shape of someone surrounded by officials suddenly acting like they mattered.
He heard the name ripple through the crowd in fragments—half-spoken, repeated, disbelieved.
Ren's chest tightened.
Not with envy.
With the sharp, sick awareness of how far apart they were.
That's what talent looks like. And I'm… Tier Four.
A bell rang.
"Next group—written examination," an instructor called.
Names followed in a steady rhythm—clean, emotionless. One after another. Faces lifted. Feet moved.
Ren drifted for a moment, the sound washing over him without meaning.
Then—
"Ren."
The name cut cleanly through the noise.
He stepped out of line and moved forward with the others—boys and girls his age, some walking stiff-backed with nerves, others with forced calm, a few with quiet confidence that felt practiced.
Hope and fear sat shoulder to shoulder in the crowd.
Ren threaded through them, jaw tight, posture straight. He felt the weight of the moment settle—not crushing, but real.
The written hall swallowed sound.
Rows of desks stretched across pale stone flooring, spaced far enough apart to make cheating impossible. Candidates filled the room unevenly—some already seated and rigid, others whispering in the back before being silenced by a look.
Ren took it in as he walked.
A boy two rows ahead bit his nails raw. A girl near the aisle bounced one knee endlessly. Several students leaned back, arms crossed, relaxed in a way that felt deliberate—trained.
Some wore better clothes. Some didn't.
Here, they were all just candidates.
Ren sat.
The room hummed with restrained tension, the kind that grew louder the longer no one spoke.
A senior instructor stood at the front.
"You have one hour," she said evenly. "This examination values understanding. Not speed. Not spectacle."
Her gaze moved slowly across the hall.
"Answer what you know. Leave what you don't. Guessing reveals itself."
She paused.
"The academy values those who have knowledge," she said evenly, "but more than that, it values those who still want to learn."
Silence tightened.
"Begin."
The desk beneath Ren's hands shifted.
Stone flowed like water, reshaping itself. Pages rose from the surface, binding together into a thin, luminous book. Runes settled along the edges, faint and orderly.
Ren blinked.
So this is what mana can do.
He reached for the pen out of instinct—and froze.
There was no ink.
Then the pen warmed in his fingers.
Light threaded down its length, responding to his grip, flowing when he moved.
His breath caught once.
Then steadied.
The first question formed on the page.
Outline the core structure of the meridian system.
Ren didn't rush.
He'd studied this long enough that it wasn't theory anymore.
Channels came first—trained paths, shaped over time. Without them, mana had nowhere to go.
Gates followed. Not power. Control. Limits that decided how much could pass without tearing something apart.
Then the core. The anchor everything looped back to.
His pen moved steadily.
Around him, chairs creaked. Someone sucked in a sharp breath. A student two seats over froze, staring at the page like it had betrayed them.
The next question settled into place.
What purpose do meridian gates serve?
Ren paused for half a breath.
Not strength.
Permission.
He wrote carefully—thresholds. Points that proved stability. Proof that the body could handle what came next.
Across the aisle, a boy erased the same line twice. Three rows down, someone didn't hesitate at all.
List the recognized meridian stages in order of progression.
This one felt familiar. Almost calming.
Emberveil. Wayline. Veincrest. Flowbind. Heartline. Soulcurrent.
Names he'd traced in the margins of borrowed books until the paper thinned.
Time moved strangely after that.
Pens whispered. Pages turned. A quiet panic rose and fell in waves.
Ren felt it too—but it didn't overwhelm him.
When the hour ended, his fingers ached faintly.
"Time," the instructor said.
Desks stilled.
"Leave through the rear exit."
A door formed where there hadn't been one before—stone sliding aside on command, revealing light beyond.
"That path leads to the training rings," she continued. "Based on your written and initial results, duels will determine placement before the final trial."
Students stood.
Ren closed the book. It dissolved back into stone.
He didn't feel proud.
Just… exposed.
Outside, the air felt louder.
Candidates poured into the courtyard as results were posted in stages. Names shifted. Rankings recalculated—written and practical combined.
Ren found his.
Still low.
Not last.
Close enough that his stomach dipped anyway.
A sharper bell rang.
"Duel brackets will be posted shortly. Prepare."
Ren exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the sound of his own breathing.
Across the courtyard, laughter burst out—too loud, too confident. One boy leaned against a stone pillar like the entire academy bored him. Heat flickered lazily across his knuckles, a controlled flame displayed on purpose.
He caught Ren looking.
Smirked.
Ren's heart kicked—not with excitement, but with a cold, clear awareness.
I don't belong here.
But his hands were steady. His breathing even.
And beneath the doubt, his body remembered how to move before his mind could interfere.