Ryn withdrew his hand, the light fading instantly, and walked back up the stairs before the announcement was even fully finished.
He collapsed into his seat beside Asher and crossed his arms.
"All good?" Asher asked quietly.
"Mmm," Ryn murmured, already sliding down in his chair. "Wake me up when the fighting starts."
Asher frowned and nudged him with his elbow. "Don't get too comfortable. The Combat Showcase is next. You need to be mentally prepared."
"Mmm... five minutes..." Ryn mumbled. His reply slurred as he drifted straight into a doze.
Asher stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.
"You're hopeless," he muttered.
He left his eccentric companion to his nap and turned his attention back to the arena floor. He had no interest in watching the remaining applicants show off their talent.
He was searching for something else entirely.
His eyes darted from face to face.
He scanned the hundreds of students waiting for their turn in the final batches.
He needed to find him... the hero.
The fragmented nightmares plaguing Asher's sleep always revolved around the burning capital and the end of the world. In every vision, a single figure stood at the center of the chaos. That person possessed the potential to change fate itself.
He was the first main character, the tragic protagonist of this twisted story.
"Where are you..." Asher whispered. His golden eyes narrowed as he swept his gaze across the grid.
Finally, he stopped.
He locked his eyes onto a boy in the far corner of the waiting area for Batch Twenty Seven.
The boy had messy jet-black hair and wore a simple, worn-out tunic. He looked painfully frail. His frame was thin and sickly, as if a strong gust of wind could knock him over. He stood with a nervous hunch and clutched his wrist terminal like a lifeline while trying to shrink away from the intimidating gaze of the nobles around him.
He looked completely unremarkable to the rest of the world.
But Asher knew the truth.
"Found you," Asher breathed. His grip tightened on the armrest until his knuckles turned white. "...Sero."
'...'
Actually, he didn't bear a genuine grudge against the guy. How could he? Sero was destined to fight for their world, to bleed and suffer for the sake of humanity's survival after all.
Well... almost no grudge.
Asher closed his eyes for a second, letting the fragmented memories wash over him.
He recalled the scenes vividly.
In some of the nightmares, he had been a caricature of arrogance: a third-rate villain who existed solely to make the protagonist's life miserable. He saw himself mocking Sero's commoner clothes, sabotaging his equipment, beating him with his lackeys, and sneering at his lack of talent.
But in the other scenes...
He winced, instinctively rubbing his ribs.
He remembered the retribution. He remembered the moment the "trash" finally snapped. He remembered the humiliation of being beaten into the dirt by the very person he had tormented, watching his own rank plummet while Sero rose to glory.
Sure, he had gotten exactly what he deserved, but that didn't change the fact that he could still feel the phantom ache of those beatings all over his body. It was a ghost pain, echoing from a future that hadn't happened yet.
'I'm not doing that again,' Asher thought grimly, smoothing out his uniform.
He wasn't going to walk down that suicidal path.
The role of the "arrogant young master" was a dead end.
His plan for this life was different. It was pragmatic. He would approach Sero, offer a helping hand, and secure a position as a trusted ally. Why fight the Hero when you could befriend him and share in the plot armor? It was the most logical way to ensure his own survival.
'But...'
Asher watched Sero stumble slightly as the line moved forward, his face pale with nausea.
'Let's just hope he actually passes the exam first.'
A seed of worry sprouted in Asher's chest. He remembered the info from his dreams clearly. Before Sero awakened his true potential, before he became the savior... he was garbage.
He was the weakest student in the academy's history.
The last place.
If not for his...
'Sigh, what am I thinking?' Asher mentally chided himself.
He shook his head, physically dispelling the gloomy thoughts of a ruined future. Dwelling on the nightmares wouldn't help him now. He had a plan, he had the knowledge, and unlike the "Asher" in his dreams, he wasn't going to let his pride dig his grave.
He mirrored Ryn's posture, finally letting his rigid shoulders drop as he leaned back into the seat, though his golden eyes remained sharp and alert.
'I just gotta do what I gotta do.'
_____ ____ _
Meanwhile, high above the dust and noise of the arena, the atmosphere in the VIP balcony was one of refined excitement.
Crystal goblets chimed softly as servers moved between the rows of velvet seats, attending to the high-ranking Academy staff and guests.
"This year..." a portly man with a thick beard murmured, watching the holographic replays of the first batch. "It is truly exceptional. Perhaps the best we have seen in recent decades."
"Indeed," a woman beside him nodded, her eyes fixed on the footage of the silver-haired girl. "The 'Golden Generation,' they are calling it. Mirana Dume is a monster in human skin. An Expert Rank at admission? With three Veins? She can probably graduate the next year if she wants to."
"And don't forget the Blackwood heir," another scout chimed in. "Or the Vance girl. The Great Families have really outdone themselves."
The conversation flowed around the obvious stars, the prodigies who shone so brightly that they blinded everyone to the rest of the field.
However, in the back of the box, separated from the chatter of these people, a small group of three stood in silence near the railing.
Their attention was not on the prodigies below. They weren't even looking at Mirana Dume. Because it was obvious those children were stars, while everyone could see the sun.
These three... they were looking for the gems hidden in the dirt.
"Did you see it?"
The speaker was Instructor Vane. She stood with her arms crossed, her fiery red hair still tied back in a strict ponytail, her sharp eyes fixed on the sleeping figure in the candidate stands.
"I did," replied the woman standing next to her.
It was the silver-haired woman who had been observing from the hovering disc during the 'train incident'. She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, her eyes narrowing as she looked down at Ryn.
"Mm... It seems our guess was correct, he really has the Space Affinity," the silver-haired woman murmured, her voice low. "However, his Core really turned out to be Green as well. Usually, that would be a death sentence, as spatial arcana is chaotic and heavy. Without a High-Grade foundation to stabilize the sheer weight of the element, trying to manifest even a small warp should tear a novice apart."
"And yet, he handled it as if it were breathing," Vane grunted, tapping her fingers rhythmically against her arm. "We saw everything. He executed a multi-person teleport into a blind spot under extreme psychic pressure. And later, after I cleared them in the infirmary, he pulled another stunt, jumping straight out of the eighth-floor window and landing without a scratch."
"It comes down to control," the silver-haired woman mused, watching Ryn doze off in the distance. "He lacks raw power, so he must have compensated with extreme precision. He likely awakened his ability much earlier than the official awakening age. Maybe when he was eight or nine, during his captivity."
"Years of practice just to survive..." Vane nodded slowly in agreement, her heart clenching slightly. "...That explains the proficiency."
The silver-haired woman's gaze shifted slightly to the boy sitting next to Ryn.
"And then there is Asher Leonhart. Rank 6 in the written assessment. Given his perfect tactical responses in the scenarios, the placement was inevitable. Besides, he was the one who organized the survivors, wasn't he?"
"Correct," Vane nodded. "He has the mind of a commander. He doesn't freeze under pressure or against monsters. But... a Green Core? For a Leonhart? That is... unfortunate. He will hit his ceiling long before his peers."
"Perhaps," the Silver-haired woman said. "But the secret trial proved they both have something the Aptitude Crystals cannot measure: survival instinct."
"And then there is the third one," a third figure spoke up from the shadows behind them, a man wrapped in bandages, his presence almost nonexistent.
He pointed a gloved finger toward the waiting grid, specifically at the trembling, frail boy in Batch Twenty Seven.
"Sero," the bandaged man rasped. "Zero arcana density. Zero combat training records. Malnourished. Weak."
"Why is he interesting?" Vane asked, frowning. "He looks like he'll die in the first round. Why are we even looking at him?"
"Because," the silver-haired woman replied, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous curiosity. "His admission was flagged by the Headmaster himself. As a 'Special Recommendation.'"
She took a sip of her drink, her gaze lingering on the three boys: the Sleeper, the trash Noble, and the lucky Wretch.
"The crowd is watching the suns," she whispered. "But we should be watching the shadows."