The 8:00 AM Disaster
The alarm had been screaming for twenty minutes, a digital death knell that John had successfully silenced ten times. When his eyes finally snapped open and hit the clock, the reality of the situation crashed down on him.
"Fuck," he hissed, throwing the covers aside.
He moved with the frantic efficiency of a man who knew he was already defeated. He splashed cold water on his face, threw on his crisp Aethercore uniform, and wrestled his hair into a quick tie. Habit led him to the kitchen, but one look into the empty, glowing void of the fridge killed his hopes for breakfast.
"Great. I forgot the fridge doesn't stock itself," he muttered. "Cafeteria it is."
He marched over to Michael's room. The door was cracked, and the sound of heavy, rhythmic snoring drifted out. John didn't even bother with a "good morning." He scanned the nearby shelf, grabbed a thick, hardcover copy of The Fundamentals of Aetheric Flow, and launched it at the lump under the blankets.
THUD.
"What the—!" Michael bolted upright, the book sliding off his chest. He looked around wildly, his eyes bleary and murderous. "What the fuck, John?"
"Wake up, you bastard," John said, already turning back to the living room. "We have the introduction class. We're already late."
Michael stared at him, his brain slowly rebooting as he processed the uniform. "Oh... oh fuck. Right. I'm in the academy." He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolted for the bathroom. "Don't leave me, John! Wait!"
John stood in the living room, checking his phone for the first time in hours. He ignored the flood of notifications and rumors about the "Blackwood Incident" from the night before. A few minutes later, Michael burst out of his room, his tie lopsided and his jacket half-buttoned. He made a desperate run for the fridge, only to be met with the same empty shelves.
"Seriously? Not even a piece of bread?" Michael looked at John with genuine betrayal. "I'm starting to regret every life choice that led me here."
"Yeah," John said, grabbing his bag and heading for the door. "I did the same thing about ten minutes ago. Let's move."
The First Lecture
They hit the hallway at a run. The residence wing was eerily quiet; the "productive" students—like Serena or the "try-hards" Diana and Reina—had likely been gone for an hour.
By the time they reached the auditorium, the heavy doors were closed. The muffled sound of a rhythmic, authoritative voice echoed from inside. Michael didn't hesitate; he shoved the doors open, the hinges letting out a sharp, metallic groan.
Two hundred heads turned in perfect unison. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Standing at the podium was the professor. She was striking, her presence filling the room with a cold, sharp energy. She had long, ink-black hair that cascaded past her waist, and her eyes—a piercing, molten gold—tracked their every movement like a hawk. She wore a tailored navy vest and tie, looking every bit the high-ranking academic she was.
She stopped mid-sentence, her chalk hovering over a complex mana-diagram on the board. She didn't look angry; she looked amused, which was far more dangerous.
She stepped away from the podium, her heels clicking slowly against the stage as she approached the edge. Her gaze locked onto John, a thin, sarcastic smile playing on her lips.
"Well," she purred, her voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. "If it isn't the brightest students of the continent. So kind of you to grace us with your presence. Did you find the walk too long, or did you just assume the lecture wouldn't start until the 'Heroes' arrived?"
John sighs "Hey Miss Thorne long time no see."
She frowns "how many times have I told you to call me Lena. Do I look that old to you?"
John knew this was a trick question "Not a day over twenty"
Lena then smiles "Alright go take a seat both of you"
Michael found a spot near the front, while John headed toward the back. He slid into an empty seat next to Luke Valerius, who was sitting with Anna, Leah, and Maya. Maya immediately stiffened, fixing her gaze on her desk, while Luke gave a small, weary nod.
"Been a long time, John," Luke muttered.
"Yeah," John replied quietly. "Good to see you too."
The Academy's Law
Lena tapped the obsidian board, bringing up a map of the island. The playfulness in her eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, professional edge.
"Rules are simple, so don't make me repeat them," she began. "Aethercore is a closed ecosystem. You are on an island with no outside contact for your first year. If you survive until your second, you can earn the right to leave on sanctioned missions."
She gestured to a list of symbols on the board. "Second: your family's money is useless here. We run on a Point System. You want food that isn't basic rations? You want equipment that actually works? You earn points. There are Mission Boards at the entrance—take a job, complete it, get paid. If you're broke, you'll be fed, but don't expect a feast."
She leaned against the podium, her golden eyes scanning the room. "Your points are tied to your Ranking, which updates every month based on your performance, exams, and overall growth. The Top 40 live in Class A dorms. The next 40 in Class B. You can be promoted or demoted at any time. If you don't like your living conditions, get better."
"The first month's rankings were set by the Headmistress herself," she added, checking her watch. "They are live on your phones now. Check them and see where you stand."
The Ranking
The room filled with the soft glow of screens as students pulled out their phones. John checked his own, scrolling past the top names.
MONTH 1: PRELIMINARY RANKINGS
1. Rowan Lightwood
2. Serena de Clare
3. Arthur Pendragon
4. Leah Thorne
5. Anna Sterling
6. Luke Valerius
7. Maya Braveheart
8. Michael de Clare
9. Diana Valerius
10. Reina Black
11. Caspian Lockwell
12. Veren Lockewell
13. John Wintlock
John stared at the number '13' and let out a short, dry chuckle.
The silence in the auditorium didn't last. Hushed, frantic whispers broke out as students began pointing at the list.
"Thirteenth?" someone muttered a few rows down. "John Wintlock is thirteenth"
"Maybe the seal finally caught up to him," another whispered, glancing back at John with a mix of curiosity and hidden relief. "In School days he was the strongest of our generation."
John didn't look bothered. He leaned back, his eyes catching Lena's on the stage. She was watching him carefully, her expression unreadable, as the rest of the class continued to debate whether the "scary reputation" of the Wintlock heir was finally a thing of the past.
As Lena stepped off the stage and exited the auditorium, the silence she had commanded vanished instantly. The room erupted into a low roar of overlapping voices. While the debate over John's ranking continued, the majority of the room turned their gaze toward the front row.
Rowan Lightwood sat there, the golden-haired prodigy who seemed to glow under the auditorium lights. Nobody was truly surprised to see him at the top. He was the "Chosen One," the man prophesied to wield Dawnlight—one of the most legendary blades in existence. Rowan didn't offer a celebratory smile or a glance back; he simply gathered his things and walked out with a quiet, practiced dignity that made the other students part like a sea of worshipers.
Eventually, the hall emptied, leaving the air heavy with the scent of old paper and fading mana. John remained in the back, leaning against the cold stone wall, watching the last few stragglers vanish.
"Thirteenth. Unbelievable," a voice growled.
Michael walked up the steps, his face a mask of pure irritation. He kicked a stray chair out of his way as he reached John. "In what world am I weaker than seven of those idiots? And you? Putting you at thirteen is a joke. The Lockwell twins are ranked above you, John. We used to give those two wedgies in middle school for fun. Now they're supposedly better than you?"
John let out a short, dry laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hall. "Why do you care so much, Michael? Relax. The Headmistress probably pulled these numbers out of a hat just to stir the pot. I'm not losing sleep over a list."
Michael leaned against the row of seats, his jaw still tight. "It's the principle of the thing. We know why it looks like this. Rowan and Arthur are the new poster boys. The 'Prophecy' sells better than the truth." He paused, his voice dropping slightly. "Did your old man really just hand over Dawnlight to Rowan?"
John's expression didn't change, but his eyes grew a fraction colder. "He did. The High King made a formal request. Apparently, a sword that powerful shouldn't be 'wasted' on someone who doesn't want to play the part."
"Your dad wanted you to try for it, though," Michael noted. "He told you—"
"He told me I had the potential to be a hero," John interrupted, his voice flat. "And I told him I'm allergic to the word 'hero.' Too much responsibility for a piece of sharpened metal. Let Rowan carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. I just want to finish my degree."
Michael watched him for a moment, then a slow, crooked smirk broke across his face. "Spoken like a true degenerate. Fine. If you're not going to be a hero, you can at least be a decent roommate."
He clapped John on the shoulder, the tension finally breaking. "Come on. If we don't get to the cafeteria soon, the 'Top 10' are going to eat all the good protein, and I'm not in the mood for basic rations."
John pushed himself off the wall, his scary, untouchable aura replaced by the simple hunger of a student who had skipped breakfast. "Alright, let's go. But if you mention the Lockwell twins again, I'm locking you out of the suite."
"Fair enough," Michael laughed as they headed for the exit.