Aria lightly tapped the podium, and the faint murmurs lingering in the classroom vanished instantly, as if someone had cut a thread holding them together.
"All right," she said calmly, her violet eyes sweeping across the rows of students. "Since today is your first day at the academy, we won't be doing anything strenuous."
A collective, almost imperceptible sigh of relief spread through the room. Some shoulders relaxed. A few students leaned back in their seats.
"Instead," Aria continued, her tone shifting subtly, "I'll be going over a few important matters. Things you must understand if you intend to survive—and graduate—from this place."
The relief evaporated.
The atmosphere changed, growing heavier.
"This academy does not care about your background," Aria said flatly. "Nobility. Guild lineage. Wealth. Influence."
Her gaze sharpened.
"None of it matters once you step into this classroom."
Several students straightened unconsciously, as if realizing—perhaps for the first time—that their inherited status meant nothing here.
"What matters," she continued, "is ability. Effort. And results."
Her eyes lingered briefly on a few individuals—Freya, Alen, Eleza—before sweeping onward, impersonal once more.
"You are no longer children playing at heroics," Aria said. "You are candidates for the future of the human domain."
Her voice softened slightly, but the weight behind it only grew heavier.
"Those who cannot keep up will fall behind."
She paused.
"And those who fall behind…"
Another pause.
"…will be left behind."
The silence that followed was oppressive, pressing down on the classroom like an unseen force.
"So," Aria concluded, placing both hands firmly on the podium, "use this time wisely. Observe. Learn. And understand where you stand."
Her gaze flicked toward the seating rows.
"Because once training begins, there will be no room for regret."
I swallowed quietly.
This isn't just an academy, I realized.
It's a filtering ground.
And judging by the calm certainty in Aria's voice—
Many of us weren't meant to make it through.
"Now then," Aria continued, as if nothing heavy had just been dropped on our heads. "Today's class will be Bio-Structural Analysis."
A few students frowned.
"It will be a non-practical lecture," she added. "I'll be asking questions, and once we're done, today's academic session will end. After that, you'll proceed to basic training."
A ripple of tension passed through the room.
"Let's begin."
She turned slightly, activating the projection behind her.
First Question.
"Mana-Beasts possess a dual-origin existence, combining human cognitive frameworks with beast-derived physiological and instinctual systems. Despite demonstrating superior physical parameters and heightened mana sensitivity at lower tiers, statistical data shows a sharp decline in Mana-Beast representation beyond the upper-mid ranks."
Her eyes swept the room.
"Analyze this phenomenon by examining the incompatibilities between instinct-driven evolutionary pathways and conscious mana refinement. In your answer, address structural limitations of dual-core resonance, psychological feedback loops, and the long-term effects of forced lineage convergence on high-tier advancement."
Then, more simply—
"Now," she said, "can anyone tell me why humans manage to retain their sanity while animals can't?"
This time, hands shot up across the classroom.
Since it was common knowledge—and wanting to blend in—I raised my hand as well, without thinking much of it.
"You," Aria said, pointing. "On the right."
"…."
She's looking at me, isn't she?
Just to be sure, I glanced behind me to see if anyone else still had their hand raised. I didn't want to end up in one of those painfully awkward situations where someone waves back at you—only to realize they were greeting the person behind you.
"No, don't look behind you," Aria snapped. "I'm talking to you, dimwit!"
"…Me?"
"Jesus Christ," she muttered. "Yes. You."
This—This is how you talk to your own creator?!
Amitabha. This poor monk shall remain benevolent—for now.
Pretending to fall into deep thought, I hesitated before answering. I made sure to appear nervous, uncertain.
If I spoke too confidently, she'd assume I knew what I was talking about.
And that would lead to more questions.
Which I absolutely did not want.
The classroom fell completely silent.
No shouting.No gasps.
Just… stillness.
Then—
Tap.
A single, sharp sound echoed through the room.
Aria had placed her pointer against the desk.
Slowly, she turned her head toward me.
Her expression hadn't changed.
That was the problem.
"Class," she said calmly, "hold your questions."
Professor Rombhouse opened his mouth—then stopped when she raised a hand without even looking at him.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
Not anger.Not disbelief.
Assessment.
"…Repeat what you just said," Aria ordered.
Her voice was steady, but the air around her subtly warped. I felt it immediately—mana pressure, perfectly controlled, pressing down just enough to make breathing uncomfortable.
"I—I only explained mana poisoning," I said carefully, "and a possible solution—"
"Repeat," she cut in. "The solution."
My throat tightened.
"By externally stimulating mana circulation through forced neurological resonance," I said slowly, choosing my words with surgical care, "you can prevent mana accumulation in non-sapient neural clusters—"
Aria's eyes widened.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then the pressure changed.
The mana didn't become violent.
It became precise.
Several students shifted uneasily. Someone swallowed loudly. Even Professor Rombhouse looked unsettled now.
"…That terminology," Aria said quietly, "does not exist."
My blood ran cold.
She stepped closer.
"Not in current medical theory.""Not in military doctrine.""Not even in speculative research."
Each sentence struck like a hammer.
Interrupting her I said '' It is Just my research which I am currently working on and it is is only completed sixty present so I still need to research on it.
The classroom felt suffocating.
Lilith—the top-ranked student—was staring at me like she was looking at something inhuman.
Aria stopped directly in front of my desk.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Breaking it, she asked—
"What's your name?"
"My name…?"
"Yes. Yours."
"…Kael Arion."
"Kael Arion," she repeated.
"Correct."
She picked up the register, flipping through it.
"Kael… Kael… Ah. Found it."
She scanned the entry.
Then frowned.
"…What?"
She checked again. Rubbed her eyes.
Her gaze snapped up.
"Special admission," she muttered. "Unindexed Research Scholar?"
Then, louder—
"You are an Unindexed Research Scholar?!"
Why did she have to shout it… Kael thought bleakly.
The classroom erupted.
"Did she say research scholar?""Unindexed?""Is that even real?"
Murmurs filled the lecture hall.
A research scholar was someone who received direct academic recognition—often through a professor's recommendation—to assist in specialized research. They were granted several privileges: flexible attendance, extended academic leave, and leniency regarding missed lessons.
But in return—
They were expected to deliver something extraordinary.
Aria closed the register slowly.
The room fell silent once more.