In the world of Eldara, it is widely accepted—taught, reinforced, and rarely questioned—that the higher one stands on the social ladder, the greater their mana, strength, intellect, and even appearance.
Nobility is said to refine blood.
Blood refines mana.
Mana refines destiny.
That is normally the case.
For me, however, my life has been anything but normal.
My name is Ren and currently, I am tied to a chair.
This development occurred shortly after I completed a B-rank request from the Adventurers Guild. A fairly routine job, I might add. A minor mana-beast disturbance in the southern forest. Nothing heroic. Nothing dramatic. I returned to my academy dormitory with a modest pouch of coin and several alchemical materials I had intended to experiment with.
And then someone hit me over the head.
Hard.
I woke up here.
Now, before you assume I am exaggerating for dramatic effect, allow me to clarify the situation properly.
I am seated in what is unmistakably a room within the women's dormitory.
How can I be certain?
An excellent question.
First, there are at least several hundred gold worth of cosmetics arranged meticulously across a vanity table to my left. Second, the air carries an aggressively floral perfume that is both slightly overwhelming and, against my better judgment, somewhat pleasant. Third, nearly every visible surface in this room is some shade of pink.
I feel that last detail is particularly damning.
More importantly, I can hear the young women responsible for my current predicament arguing in the adjacent room.
They are not whispering.
"Clearly he cheated somehow!" one of them shouts. "He's just a commoner! And while he might look slightly better than most of them, a commoner is still a useless commoner!"
Ah.
So that's the angle.
Another voice cuts in, sharper but less certain. "You don't know he cheated. Just because he did better than everyone else doesn't mean anything."
"Exactly," a third adds. "You never know if he's descended from royalty."
I would like to clarify that I am not.
As far as I am aware.
The bickering continues, rising and falling in noble indignation.
You see the issue now, I assume.
One week ago, I enrolled in the Academy of Magical Studies.
During the entrance examination, I achieved the highest recorded theoretical score in the institution's history.
This was not intentional.
I answered the questions.
They happened to be correct.
In addition to that minor social disruption, I also happen to be a registered B-rank adventurer at the age of fifteen.
Apparently, this combination is considered statistically offensive.
Now, while the young noble ladies debate my legitimacy, I have taken the opportunity to examine the magical rope securing my wrists.
It is well-crafted.
Delicate weave.
Moderate mana infusion.
Respectable effort, truly.
Unfortunately for them, it was designed to restrain something roughly the size and intelligence of a marsh rat.
I am slightly larger than that.
With minimal effort, I slip my hands free, allowing the rope to fall silently into my lap. I remain seated.
There is no reason to stand yet.
This is, after all, fascinating.
It is not every day one is abducted over academic performance.
You may be wondering how exactly I arrived at this particular moment—bound in a noble dormitory, accused of cheating simply because my birth lacked a crest.
That is fair.
Since they appear to still be arguing and I appear to have a few uninterrupted minutes, we may as well make productive use of them.
To explain how a commoner managed to offend the entire noble hierarchy within seven days…
We will need to go back a little.
It started before I was born.
No prophecy split the heavens.
No divine chorus declared my arrival.
No ancient seal cracked in anticipation.
My mother simply went into labor on a quiet evening in a modest district near the capital.
The midwife later claimed the clocks stopped.
Not malfunctioned.
Stopped.
Every pendulum froze mid-swing.
Every ticking mechanism fell silent.
For a single breath.
Then they resumed.
The physician dismissed it as coincidence.
Coincidence is a comforting word.
When I was born, the room grew unnaturally still.
Not silent.
Still.
As though something had paused to observe.
And then they saw it.
The crest.
Noble children are born with identifiable sigils — elegant marks tied to centuries of recorded lineage.
Mine did not match any known house.
It formed faintly over my sternum:
A circular pattern,
Broken by a single vertical line,
Subtle,
Balanced,
Unfamiliar.
The physician searched registry tomes.
Nothing.
No matching noble archive.
No temple record.
No documented variation.
"Unknown crest manifestation," the record would later state.
A curiosity.
An irregularity.
Both of my parents were adventurers.
Sub-A rank.
Respectable.
Capable.
Strong enough to survive most contracts.
Not strong enough to earn noble titles.
In Eldara, that distinction matters.
Strength does not equal status.
Blood does.
My father, who had faced wyverns without flinching, reportedly went pale.
Not from fear.
From confusion.
And then came the mana assessment.
Given my parents' ranks, elevated output would not have been shocking.
Sub-A adventurers possess respectable mana reserves.
Strong.
Above average.
But still below true nobility.
The measurement crystal was calibrated accordingly.
It cracked.
Not shattered.
Cracked.
They recalibrated and brought a reinforced instrument.
It flared bright enough to fill the room.
The physician grew very quiet.
My mother asked if that was dangerous.
He hesitated.
"It shouldn't be possible."
That was the official conclusion.
My mana pool was recorded as:
"Excessive for non-noble lineage. Likely inherited amplification from dual high-rank adventurers."
Which is a professional way of saying:
We don't understand this, but we will rationalize it.
The unknown crest?
Written off as a mutation.
Rare.
Uncatalogued.
But not political.
Because without a recognized house mark, I remained a commoner.
And commoners cannot threaten doctrine.
Of course, I remember none of this.
My earliest memories are simpler.
Training fields.
The scent of steel and mana-burn.
My parents correcting my stance.
Showing me how to conserve movement.
They did not train me like nobles train heirs.
There was no doctrine.
Only practicality.
"Efficiency keeps you alive," my mother would say.
"Waste kills you," my father would add.
Those lessons stayed with me.
When I first began casting deliberately, something became clear.
My mana pool was deep.
Deeper than theirs.
Deeper than it should have been.
But depth is meaningless without control.
So I learned control.
I learned not to overflow.
Not to overcast.
Not to intimidate.
Most people with power want to display it.
I found it more useful to contain it.
You see, the thing about being born to adventurers is that danger stops feeling abstract very early.
Most children are warned about monsters.
I was shown how to skin them.
At ten years old, I registered with the Adventurers Guild.
G-rank.
The bottom.
Courier work.
Herb collection.
Clearing minor vermin infestations.
Officially, I was not supposed to engage in real combat.
Unofficially, monsters rarely consult official guidelines.
My first assignment that deviated from expectations involved what was labeled a "forest wolf sighting."
It was not a forest wolf.
It was a juvenile direfang.
Three ranks above the mission's classification.
The guild clerk had misfiled the report.
I discovered this after it tried to remove my left arm.
Now, here is the part most people label as luck.
The creature lunged.
I slipped.
Its momentum carried it forward.
It struck a stone outcropping and briefly stunned itself.
I finished the fight with a precisely timed mana-infused thrust.
Lucky, they said.
I disagree.
It was overextended.
The terrain was uneven.
Its weight distribution was front-heavy.
It was predictable.
Still, the guild revised my evaluation.
G-rank.
But noted.
The second incident occurred six months later.
A "minor cave cleanup" contract.
Rated F-rank.
Inside the cave was not a swarm of small mana-bats.
It was a partially matured stonehide basilisk.
Technically E-rank.
Possibly D.
The report had been outdated.
Again.
I did not overpower it.
I observed.
Stonehide basilisks rely on intimidation.
Partial petrification aura.
Slow but crushing strikes.
Their eyes are their strength.
Their underside is not.
When it lunged, I did not retreat.
I stepped forward.
Under its field of vision.
Mana concentrated into a narrow line rather than dispersed through a wide cast.
Efficiency.
Precision.
The guild called it remarkable luck.
I began climbing ranks.
E.
Then D.
By twelve, I had developed a reputation.
Not as powerful.
But as "unusually composed."
By thirteen, I stopped correcting people when they called my success fortunate.
It was easier.
At fourteen, during what was classified as a routine escort mission, we were ambushed by a mana-displaced chimera.
Solid C-rank threat.
The party panicked.
The leader froze.
The chimera moved according to pattern.
Everything moves according to pattern.
Its aggression cycle lasted six breaths.
Its recovery window lasted two.
Its blind spot shifted with its dominant head.
I did not shout.
I did not rage.
I adjusted.
The chimera fell.
The guild promoted me to C-rank.
Now.
About the Lesser Dragon.
Technically, it was classified as a Lesser Flame Wyvern.
Which sounds far less dramatic.
It was still a dragon.
The guild had not intended for me to be anywhere near it.
The contract I accepted was a standard B-rank containment request: a mana-beast migration disrupting trade routes along the southern forest.
Routine.
Predictable.
Then the sky turned red.
That is usually a sign something has gone wrong.
Lesser Dragons do not migrate quietly.
They establish territory.
They burn it.
The creature descended near a merchant caravan half a league from my assigned patrol route.
There were civilians.
Children.
Two escort adventurers.
One already injured.
This was not a pattern I could maneuver around.
Dragons do not slip on uneven terrain.
They do not overextend carelessly.
They do not possess obvious blind spots.
They overwhelm.
The logical course of action would have been retreat.
Report.
Regroup with higher-ranked adventurers.
That would have been correct.
It would also have resulted in casualties.
I remember standing there, watching the wyvern unfurl its wings.
Heat distorted the air.
Its mana pressure rolled outward in waves.
Most people, when faced with that kind of presence, feel fear.
I felt… irritation.
Not at the dragon.
At the inevitability.
If it attacked, people would die.
That conclusion was unacceptable.
So I stepped forward.
Now, to be clear — this was not strategy.
This was not efficiency.
This was the first time I allowed my mana to rise without restraint.
For years, I had treated my reserves like a deep well that must never overflow.
That day, I stopped containing it.
The crest over my sternum burned.
I had never felt it before.
Not like that.
Heat spread outward, not painful — just intense.
The dragon exhaled flame.
I did not dodge.
I met it.
Mana surged through my body in a volume I had never released.
Not thin streams.
Not focused threads.
A wave.
The flames split around me.
The ground cracked under the pressure.
I crossed the distance between us in three steps.
The dragon struck.
Claws meant to cleave stone.
I caught its forelimb.
I did not calculate leverage.
I did not measure angles.
I pushed.
And it moved.
That surprised both of us.
There is a moment in every battle where one side realizes the outcome has shifted.
The dragon realized it first.
I drove mana into my blade — not in a refined line, not in an efficient lattice.
Raw.
Compressed.
Violent.
When the strike landed, it was not precise.
It was overwhelming.
The wyvern fell.
The forest burned around us.
The caravan survived.
Two civilians with minor injuries.
One escort unconscious but breathing.
I stood there, blade buried in scaled hide, wondering what exactly I had just done.
The guild called it extraordinary.
Reckless.
Heroic.
Stupid.
There was an investigation.
Witness statements conflicted.
Some claimed my mana flared like a noble's.
Others said it felt… older.
The official report concluded:
"Subject displayed temporary overextension under crisis conditions."
Temporary.
Yes.
That is a comfortable explanation.
I was promoted to B-rank within the week.
Privately, I was warned not to repeat such recklessness.
I agreed.
I had no intention of losing control like that again.
Now back to the current situation at hand.
The door opens.
Four noble girls step into the room.
Seventeen.
Upper C and Lower B ranks.
Very confident.
Very prepared.
They stop when they see me sitting comfortably, rope resting loosely in my lap.
I incline my head.
"Ah. The committee returns."
Cassia is the first to react.
"You were restrained."
"Yes."
"You slipped a reinforced mana binding."
"I prefer to think it experienced performance anxiety."
Elara turns away abruptly.
Vivienne folds her arms.
Seraphine steps forward.
"You defeated a Lesser Dragon alone."
"Yes."
"At fifteen."
"Yes."
Cassia snaps, "You're fifteen."
I blink once.
"Wow," I say evenly. "You know how numbers work."
Silence.
Elara makes a choking noise.
Cassia goes red instantly. "That's not what I meant!"
"I assumed it wasn't," I reply. "But the observation was accurate."
Vivienne narrows her eyes. "You are younger than all of us."
"Yes."
"And yet you're officially B-Rank in the guild."
"Yes."
"And you think that's normal?"
"I think it's documented."
Cassia steps forward, lightning crackling.
"Commoners do not overpower dragons!"
"Dragons rarely pause to verify birth certificates," I say calmly.
Elara loses composure completely for a moment.
Seraphine's voice lowers.
"You're younger than us. Lower year. Lower status."
A beat.
"And you're not intimidated."
The room is quiet.
Cassia's lightning flickers faintly at her fingertips.
Vivienne watches with analytical focus.
Elara's wind magic hums softly in the background.
I consider the question.
Then I tilt my head slightly.
"Intimidated?"
A small pause.
I let my mana breathe.
Not surge.
Not explode.
Just… expand.
The air changes first.
Subtle pressure.
Like the moment before a storm breaks.
Cassia stiffens.
Vivienne's pupils narrow sharply.
Elara inhales.
The room grows heavier.
Not violently.
But undeniably.
Mana rolls outward from me in a controlled wave — dense, steady, layered.
Not chaotic like Cassia's lightning.
Not sharp like Seraphine's flame.
Deep.
Like something vast pressing gently against the edges of the room.
The curtains tremble.
The lamp flickers.
Cassia takes an involuntary half-step back.
Her lightning dies instantly.
Vivienne's composure fractures for a split second.
"That density—"
Elara's wind magic collapses completely.
Seraphine stands her ground.
But even she feels it.
I keep my voice level.
Calm.
Almost conversational.
"Why should I be?"
The pressure increases slightly.
Not enough to harm.
Enough to demonstrate.
The walls creak faintly.
The air feels thick — like trying to breathe underwater.
Cassia's jaw tightens.
Vivienne's hands tremble despite herself.
Elara grips the edge of a desk to steady her balance.
Seraphine's eyes sharpen.
The pressure fades.
The air lightens.
The curtains stop trembling.
Cassia inhales sharply as her lightning flickers back to life.
Vivienne's fingers twitch as she re-stabilizes her own mana.
Elara straightens slowly.
Seraphine does not move.
I fold my hands neatly in my lap.
"I prefer not to do that," I say mildly. "It's inefficient."
Silence lingers.
Heavy.
Measured.
Cassia finally manages, "That wasn't B-Rank output."
"I was sitting," I reply.
Vivienne's eyes are sharp now.
"That density felt—"
She hesitates.
Seraphine finishes quietly.
"Ancient."
I ignore that.
Instead, I glance down at the rope still draped loosely across my lap.
"Now," I say calmly, "are we continuing the interrogation, or will I be escorted back to my dormitory like a normal academic hostage?"
Elara blinks.
Cassia sputters.
Seraphine's gaze hardens slightly.
"You think this is amusing?"
"I think," I say evenly, "that if you intended to intimidate me, the chair was unnecessary. I would have attended voluntarily."
Cassia snaps, "You're not taking this seriously!"
"I was unconscious earlier," I remind her. "That part was quite serious."
Elara fails to suppress a laugh again.
Vivienne exhales slowly through her nose.
Seraphine studies me.
"You're remarkably calm for someone kidnapped by four nobles."
I tilt my head slightly.
"You tied me up to ask about homework."
A beat.
"I'm struggling to feel threatened."
Cassia clenches her fists. "We could make this unpleasant."
"You already redecorated my evening," I reply. "Let's not escalate further."
Elara actually turns away to hide her expression now.
I stand slowly.
The rope slips from my wrists and falls to the floor in a soft coil.
No one stops me.
Which is wise.
Because if this escalates further, explanations will become inconvenient for everyone involved.
I straighten my uniform jacket.
Smooth the sleeve that still carries faint scorch marks from earlier guild work.
"You kidnapped me to verify my competence," I say evenly. "Verification complete."
Cassia Thornmere bristles.
"You—"
"If you intended to intimidate me," I continue mildly, "the chair was unnecessary. I would have attended voluntarily."
Elara fails to suppress a laugh.
Vivienne exhales through her nose.
Seraphine does not react immediately.
Her eyes remain on me.
Sharp.
Focused.
Calculating.
"You embarrassed noble houses," Cassia says.
"I was unconscious," I reply.
"That's not the point!"
"It feels relevant."
Cassia's lightning crackles faintly at her fingertips.
Vivienne's mana tightens — structured, controlled.
Elara looks between them and me, clearly reconsidering several life choices.
Seraphine finally speaks.
"You're too calm."
I consider that.
"I was attacked by a dragon two months ago," I say. "This lacks scale."
That silences the room more effectively than the mana pressure did.
Because it's not arrogance.
It's comparison.
Seraphine studies me for several long seconds.
Then—
"This isn't over."
I nod once.
"I assumed as much when I was struck from behind."
Elara winces slightly.
Cassia looks away.
Vivienne adjusts her posture.
Something has shifted.
Not surrender.
Not reconciliation.
Just uncertainty.
And uncertainty is far more destabilizing than anger.
I step toward the door.
No one blocks my path.
That, more than anything, tells me this has gone differently than they expected.
At the threshold, I pause.
Turn slightly.
"If you plan future interrogations," I say calmly, "less visible rope is advisable. Public transport is inefficient."
Elara bursts into laughter.
Cassia looks as if she may attempt spontaneous combustion.
Vivienne presses her fingers to her temple.
Seraphine's lips almost curve.
Almost.
But not quite.
I leave before that becomes important.
The hallway beyond the room is dimly lit.
Lanterns burn low.
Most students are in their quarters.
Which means fewer witnesses.
Which means—
Only moderate damage control required.
My footsteps echo softly against polished stone.
Behind me, voices rise again.
"You're just letting him walk away?"
"What were we supposed to do, escalate further?"
"He humiliated us."
"He was tied to a chair."
"…That's not helping."
I decide not to linger for commentary.
The main doors of the women's dormitory come into view.
Tall.
Decorative.
Inconveniently visible from the courtyard.
I pause briefly.
Consider the architectural choice.
Then push the doors open.
Cool night air greets me.
Lantern light spills across academy stone.
The courtyard stretches outward in quiet symmetry.
The sky above is clear.
Stars unobstructed.
I step forward onto the academy grounds.
The doors close behind me with a muted thud.
For a moment—
Silence.
No shouting.
No lightning.
No noble accusations.
Just the soft hum of distant mana lamps and the faint rustle of wind between towers.
I inhale slowly.
Stable.
Mana steady.
Crest dormant.
No residual flaring.
Good.
I adjust my collar.
"…I wanted tea," I mutter.
Instead, I received interrogation and mild political destabilization.
Progress is unpredictable.
Somewhere behind the dormitory windows—
Someone is watching.
Seraphine Valemont does not strike me as someone who enjoys uncertainty.
And I have introduced quite a bit of it.
That realization settles in quietly.
Not heavy.
Just present.
I take another step forward into the courtyard.
Seven days at the academy.
Entrance records shattered.
B-rank registration confirmed.
Kidnapped.
Mana density demonstrated.
Noble heirs unsettled.
Efficient week.
Very efficient.
I exhale once.
"…This will escalate."
And with that thought—
I walk away from the women's dormitory.