The sky above Oakhaven was choked by chains.
Not metaphorical ones, but literal, titanic links of enchanted iron that stretched from the bedrock of the earth up into the clouds. They anchored the Sky Haven Academy, a cluster of floating islands that hovered three miles above sea level like the throne of a silent god.
"Ren" stood in the mud at the base of the Ascension Gate.
He adjusted the collar of his rough spun tunic. The Weaver's work held firm; his jaw felt heavy, his nose thick and unrefined. He looked like exactly what he pretended to be: a laborer's son with delusions of grandeur.
Around him, the line for the "Commoner Entrance Exam" stretched for half a mile. It smelled of desperation—unwashed bodies, cheap travel rations, and the acrid tang of anxiety sweat.
In stark contrast, the "Noble Lane" to the right was paved with white marble. Carriages adorned with family crests rolled by effortlessly, pulled by Griffin-Horses that sneered at the peasants below.
"Out of the way, rats!"
A carriage painted in crimson and gold thundered down the Noble Lane. The driver whipped the Griffin-Horses, forcing them to drift dangerously close to the commoner line to splash mud on the applicants.
Elian didn't move. He stood on the edge of the mud puddle, his eyes fixed on the floating islands.
The carriage wheel clipped a pothole, sending a wave of sludge toward him.
Internal Art: Repulsion Field.
Elian didn't use mana. He simply flexed his left hand—the one hidden under a leather glove. He shifted the gravitational density of the air in front of him for a microsecond.
The mud didn't hit him. It hit an invisible wall of heavy air and splattered backward, coating the pristine side of the crimson carriage.
"Halt!"
A young man kicked the carriage door open. He stepped out, his boots hovering an inch above the mud thanks to a Levitation enchantment. He had flaming red hair and the arrogant chin of someone who had never been punched.
Lord Valerius (Tier 3 Fire Mage).
"Who threw that filth?" Valerius demanded, a fireball manifesting in his palm. The heat was stifling, causing the commoners nearby to scramble back in terror.
Elian stood alone in the clearing created by the fleeing crowd. He looked bored.
"It was the ground, my lord," Elian said, his voice rough and deep, an affectation he practiced. "Perhaps your driver should watch the road instead of the pedestrians."
Valerius's eyes narrowed. "A peasant with a tongue? Let's see if it burns."
He flicked his wrist. A Firebolt—weak, meant only to maim or scar—shot toward Elian's face.
Elian didn't dodge. Dodging would imply he was fast. He needed to be "heavy," not fast.
He raised his left arm, clad in a thick leather bracer.
Thud.
The Firebolt hit his arm. But instead of exploding, it dissipated. The Abyss Markings beneath the leather drank the mana instantly, dispersing the heat into Elian's dense bone marrow. To the onlookers, it looked like Elian had simply swatted a fly.
Smoke curled from his sleeve, but the arm didn't waver.
"Your fire lacks... substance," Elian muttered.
Valerius froze. A commoner tanking a Tier 3 spell without a barrier? That was impossible. Before the noble could escalate, a booming voice echoed from the gate.
"CEASE!"
A Proctor wearing the silver robes of the Academy descended on a floating disc. "Fighting before the exam is grounds for immediate disqualification. Lord Valerius, return to your vehicle. And you... peasant... step forward for processing."
Valerius glared at Elian, memorizing the rugged face. "Pray you fail, rat. Because if you pass, you belong to me."
Elian watched him leave. 'I don't belong to anyone,' he thought. 'But your bones will belong to the earth soon enough.'
The processing area was a large tent filled with crystal orbs.
"Name?" the Proctor asked, not looking up.
"Ren," Elian replied.
"Place your hand on the orb. It measures Mana Capacity and Elemental Affinity."
Elian placed his bare right hand on the crystal. He carefully suppressed the Abyss Markings on his left side, ensuring no Void energy leaked.
The orb flickered. Then it went dull grey. Then it cracked slightly.
"Null," the Proctor announced, looking at Elian with disdain. "No elemental affinity. Mana capacity is... negligible. You are functionally a squib. Next."
"Wait," Elian said, planting his feet. The ground trembled slightly. "I invoke the Clause of Iron."
The Proctor paused. The entire line went silent.
The Clause of Iron was an archaic rule from the Academy's founding days. It allowed applicants with zero magic to enter if they could prove "Exceptional Physical Prowess." It was a suicide track. The Academy was a place of magic; physical warriors were treated as meat shields or servants.
"You wish to enter the Martial Division?" The Proctor laughed. "Boy, do you know the passing requirement? You must ring the Bell of Giants without mana reinforcement."
He pointed to a massive bronze bell hanging from a stone archway. It was etched with gravity runes that increased its weight tenfold. Even Tier 3 warriors used body-enhancement magic to ring it.
"One strike," the Proctor sneered. "If it doesn't ring, you go home."
Elian walked toward the bell.
He could feel the gravity runes humming. They pushed down on anyone who approached. For a normal human, walking near it would feel like carrying a boulder.
Elian smiled internally. 'Gravity? You're trying to drown a fish with water.'
As he stepped into the bell's gravity field, his Ring of Weight resonated. Instead of being crushed, Elian felt lighter. The external gravity canceled out his internal burden.
He stood in front of the bell. He didn't take a stance. He didn't yell.
He simply placed his left palm against the cold bronze.
"He's not even winding up a punch!" someone in the crowd mocked.
Elian closed his eyes.
Mass Transfer.
He unlocked the density in his marrow. For a split second, he made his left hand weigh five tons. Then, he pushed.
It wasn't a strike. It was a displacement of reality.
GOOOOONG!
The sound wasn't loud; it was deep. It vibrated in the chest of every person within a mile radius. The bronze bell didn't just swing; it deformed. A perfect imprint of a hand was pressed deep into the metal. The massive chain holding the bell groaned and snapped one link.
Crash.
The bell fell to the ground, embedding itself in the mud.
Silence. Absolute, terrifying silence.
The Proctor's jaw hit the floor. He looked at the mana-less boy, then at the deformed bell that weighed as much as a house.
"Did... did I pass?" Elian asked, rubbing his wrist as if he had just swatted a mosquito.
"Y-Yes," the Proctor stammered, scribbling furiously on a parchment. "Assigned to... Dormitory 9. The Scrap Heap. Designation: Martial Student. Rank: F."
Elian took the parchment. F-Rank. The lowest of the low. The invisible class.
Perfect.
Elian walked through the Ascension Gate, stepping onto the teleportation platform that would lift him to the floating islands.
As the magic circle activated, lifting him into the sky, he looked down at the world below. He was leaving the mud behind, ascending to a paradise built on mana and lies.
But as the Academy came into view—spires of gold, gardens of floating water, and arenas of light—Elian didn't feel awe.
He saw the statue in the main plaza. A giant golden effigy of a knight holding a sword of light.
Sir Alaric.
The inscription read: To the future Head of Security, the Young Lion of Celestia.
Elian's lips curled into a cold smile. His "rugged" face mask felt tight, but his eyes were burning with a dark amusement.
"So, you're the watchdog here, Alaric," Elian whispered as the platform docked. "Try not to bark too loud. You might wake the monster sleeping in your backyard."
He stepped off the platform, merging into the sea of students.
The Black Rose had fallen. But Ren had just risen.