The academy gates did not open.
They judged.
Tall obsidian pillars rose from the earth like the teeth of some ancient beast, carved with bloodline crests and runes that pulsed faintly as students passed through. Mana swept across every child—measuring, tasting, categorizing.
Lucien Arvayne stood at the threshold.
Small hands.
Straight posture—too straight for him.
He immediately corrected it.
Shoulders slouched.
Eyes lowered.
Breathing shallow.
The gates glowed faintly… then dimmed.
No resistance.
No recognition.
Lucien stepped inside.
The Royal Astraeon Academy was not a place of learning.
It was a sorting ground.
Children of nobles filled the vast courtyard, grouped unconsciously by bloodline strength alone. Some stood surrounded by admirers. Others by servants pretending not to hover. Mana signatures clashed like invisible banners.
Fire.
Lightning.
Holy light.
Ancient blood.
And then—
Lucien.
Barely a flicker.
Eyes slid past him without effort.
Whispers bloomed instantly.
"That's the Arvayne failure."
"Lowest bloodline resonance ever recorded."
"Why is he even here?"
Lucien hugged his bag tighter.
Excellent, he thought calmly.
Instructors walked among the students, long robes whispering authority. Their gazes lingered on some children—and skimmed others.
Lucien felt one pause on him.
Then move on.
Confirmed.
Placement began before noon.
Crystalline tablets floated before each student, inscribing class assignments in glowing script. Gasps, cheers, restrained pride echoed through the courtyard.
"Class A—Combat Prodigies!"
"Class B—High Mana Theory!"
"Class C—Support Lineages!"
Lucien waited.
His tablet flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Class F — General Remedial
Silence around him.
Then laughter.
Not even subtle.
Class F.
The lowest.
A polite name for discard pile.
Lucien's eyes widened.
"…F?" he whispered, voice breaking.
Someone snorted openly.
"Figures."
Lucien bowed his head deeply, cheeks flushing crimson.
Inside—
Exactly where I want to be.
Class F was located in the oldest wing of the academy.
Cracked stone.
Outdated wards.
Classrooms that smelled faintly of dust and resignation.
Lucien sat at the back, feet not touching the floor.
The other students ranged from mediocre to hopeless—children whose bloodlines were diluted, whose families lacked influence, or who had already been written off.
The instructor, Master Rolfe, sighed as he entered.
"I won't lie to you," he said bluntly. "Very few of you will graduate."
Lucien flinched.
Rolfe's eyes passed over him without stopping.
"You," Rolfe said, pointing to a boy with a weak earth affinity. "Demonstrate mana shaping."
Lucien watched carefully.
Not the mana.
The teacher.
Disappointment.
Low expectation.
Routine neglect.
Predictable.
When Lucien's turn came, he failed gently.
Not dramatically.
Just… enough.
Mana wavered.
Structure collapsed.
Rolfe waved him off without comment.
Lucien returned to his seat, shoulders hunched.
Underestimation achieved.
What no one in that classroom understood—
Was that Lucien was being nurtured.
Not by kindness.
By neglect.
No pressure.
No scrutiny.
No interference.
Perfect conditions.
That night, while Lucien slept lightly in his dormitory bed, another presence moved.
The Shadow Avatar had already embedded itself within the academy.
Not as a student.
As absence.
It followed staff corridors. Slipped between patrol routes. Listened through walls warded only against magic, not irrelevance.
It learned schedules.
Shift rotations.
Names spoken only behind closed doors.
Then—
It found something wrong.
Beneath the eastern spire lay a chamber that did not exist on any blueprint. No magical barrier guarded it.
Instead—
Permission did.
Only those carrying a specific resonance could perceive the entrance.
The Shadow Avatar did not open the door.
It was simply allowed inside.
Voices echoed in the chamber.
Adult.
Measured.
Dangerous.
"…the academy cycle is nearly complete."
"This year's harvest looks promising."
"The lower classes remain ideal. Less oversight."
Lucien felt it through the link.
Not emotion.
Clarity.
This was not an academy.
It was a recruitment ground.
Talents were identified, shaped, and—when necessary—claimed.
Hidden factions used the academy as a sieve.
Gods?
Noble houses?
Secret organizations?
Lucien didn't yet know.
But he would.
The Shadow Avatar memorized symbols etched into the chamber walls.
A sigil layered beneath sigils.
Old.
Administrative.
System-adjacent.
Lucien's heart beat once—hard.
Morning came.
Lucien entered Class F with red eyes and slow steps.
No one noticed.
He took his seat, hands folded obediently.
Inside—
Plans aligned.
He now understood the board.
The pieces.
The rules he was never meant to see.
Lucien lowered his head and let his lips tremble faintly.
A perfect picture of weakness.
But behind that borrowed expression, the strategist smiled.
So this place creates tools, he thought calmly.
Good.
His fingers curled slightly atop his desk.
Then my first manipulation…
will begin here.