A boy leapt from the second floor, landing with a thud on the extra roof jutting from the first. He slid down its slope and dropped lightly to the ground below. In his hand was a stolen prize, half a loaf of bread, which he immediately bit into with a grin.
"Child! How many times must I tell you?" came the sharp voice of a woman from inside the house. "The door… The door is where one should leave a home!"
"Yes, yes, next time, Grandma!" the boy called back through a mouthful of bread.
"Don't forget your bag and your tools from Grandpa's store. And your tiffin too!"
"I know, I know!" By now, he was already halfway down the street.
"Best of luck on your Awakening Test," her voice softened, warm with pride.
The boy slowed, turned, and looked back at the old woman framed in the doorway. He waved. "Thank you, Grandma!" Then he sprinted off again.
Passing the neighbor's house, he called out with a mischievous laugh, "Ha! Lady Kelly, you look gorgeous today. Is Brother Clouse finally returning after a week away?"
The woman felt heat rise to her cheeks at the boy's cheeky call. "You… day by day you're becoming more daring," she murmured, half scolding, half amused. Then, after a breath, she asked softly, "Do I really look good?"
"Just change your earrings to the green ones, and you'd resemble the harvest goddess herself!" the boy shouted without breaking stride.
Soon, the boy reached a shop with a signboard shaped like a pair of scissors, painted with women's faces on either side.
"Ha ha, Aunt Libia, how's the work going?" he called out as he stepped inside.
"All's well, all's well! Thank your grandpa again for the clever idea," Aunty Libia replied with a smile.
"Tell your grandma to send a few more combs and scissors for the shop!" another woman added, busy trimming a customer's hair.
The walls inside were lined with mirrors—small, slightly warped glass panes fitted into wooden frames, reflecting light from the open windows. Drawings of hairstyles were pinned between them, and shelves held jars of homemade powders, oils, and bundles of herbs. Wooden chairs filled the room, each occupied by women laughing and gossiping while their hair was snipped, combed, or braided. The steady rhythm of scissors mixed with chatter created a lively, almost musical atmosphere.
It was a simple place, born of crude tools and practical hands, yet unique. The boy doubted that another shop like it existed anywhere else in the world.
He smirked. Back home, they would've called this a beauty parlor. Here, it was Driftmoor's little wonder.
Soon, he found himself standing before one of the wall mirrors, running his fingers through his hair. He leaned closer, studying his reflection.
"Hmm… I look like a villain," he muttered to himself, then smirked. But all the cool characters in anime and fantasy do have scars… Still, maybe I overdid it. He thought.
Looks like he's influenced me more than I realized.
A single dark cut ran from just above his left brow, slashing past his eye and tracing along his cheek. Other marks crossed his face in uneven lines, as if etched by old battles. Taken together, they gave him the air of a rogue: half bandit, half pirate.
"Okay… you really do look handsome. Now go on; today's an important day. I hope you succeed." A slender, beautiful woman stepped out from the next room and smiled warmly at him.
Milo grinned, never one to miss a chance. "Will you go out for dinner with me if I awaken, Silia?" he asked shamelessly.
"Get lost, stinking Milo! Maybe when you grow some hair. And before you go, take this list and tell one of your… what's it called again… delivery boys to bring the goods from the alchemy shop." She pressed a slip of paper into his hand.
"Ohh, I should tell your grandma you're into older women now," another woman teased from across the room.
"You… All of you… You can't bully me just because I'm alone!" Milo shouted, clutching the list before bolting out of the store. Behind him, laughter rippled from the group of women, echoing down the street.
Even with the scars that marked his face, Milo had become a fixture of the town. What should have made him look menacing instead earned him a strange fondness from the people here. Part of it was his silver tongue and shameless jokes, but another part was the small innovations he had introduced into Driftmoor Port Town.
The shop behind him was one such example: a place where women gathered to trim, braid, and fuss over their looks. A year ago, no one in Driftmoor had even imagined such a thing. It had started with Milo's casual suggestion that women should have a space of their own, with combs, scissors, rosewater, and mirrors on every wall. What sounded like nonsense at first had become a source of endless chatter and joy. Words like bleaching, de-tanning, scrubbing, and even waxing had entered everyday chatter.
Another of his experiments ran right past him now: three kids carrying a crate toward a merchant's house, one of them clutching a hand-painted sign that read, in crooked letters, Amazon Express Delivery. People had laughed at the name when Milo first proposed paying children to deliver goods. But once they grew used to rations and potions arriving straight to their door, the laughter gave way to coin—and the service became indispensable.
Of course, he never gave advice directly; he passed everything through his Grandma and Grandpa, and in time they became respected figures.
Even though this world hasn't developed machines like the ones I knew, alchemy and blacksmithing have advanced so much thanks to spirit energy, Milo thought.
He stepped inside. Heat pressed against him at once. Men worked in rhythm; some fed the forges, others hammered glowing metal into shape.
When the smiths inside noticed Milo, they smiled warmly.
"Grandpa Moris, where's my grandpa?" Milo asked.
"Ohh, isn't it little Milo… Your grandpa went to the port to bring some supplies," Moris chuckled. "Your tiffin and other things are in the back, in your little room. Go on."
Milo slipped into the smaller room behind the workshop.
"Ahh, it's good to have my own little forge. I should take Ebony and Ivory today, just in case."
He crouched down, found the familiar box, and lifted the lid. The smell of old oil and hot metal wafted up like a memory. What looked like a box of junk to anyone else arranged itself like a little machine zoo under his hands: a short metal tube, a flat piece of steel with tiny ridges, a coiled spring, and a hollow box with a crooked lip. A small round piece sat there too, punched through with holes like a toy drum. Beside it lay a neat row of brass shells, each tipped with dull gray.
To others, it was scrap. To Milo, it was something waiting to be made whole.
Hope I don't need to use it, he thought.
Milo stepped out of his small forge-room, heading toward the door.
Moris wiped the sweat from his brow with a sooty rag. "One more thing… your grandpa said not to stress. Even if you can't awaken, with your current skill and ideas in blacksmithing, you're already good enough to take over the shop."
Milo spun on his heel, a sly grin on his face. "Thanks… but are you planning to dump the duty on me while you party with the aunties from Pulse and Pleasure? Maybe I should tell all the grandmas."
The rag slipped from Moris's hand. "Shut up, Milo, you brat!"
Milo ducked behind the doorframe, laughing.
A burly smith at the anvil barked out a laugh. "Stinky kid… that was just one time!"
Another man swung his hammer down with a clang. "Hmph, what do you know about being a man? Shut your mouth!"
From the corner, a younger apprentice lifted a pair of tongs of glowing iron and smirked. "Fine! I curse you to succeed in awakening!"
By then, Milo was already outside, the sound of their curses chasing him down the street. A smile spread across his face as he walked on.
At the crossroads, he paused. A signboard pointed right, painted with bold letters: Driftmoor Academy. Milo glanced at it, then turned left instead. He climbed the slope ahead, more a hill than a mountain, until he reached the crest and looked out over the town below.
From the rise, Driftmoor opened beneath him like a painted canvas. The morning sun lifted from the sea, spilling molten light across the harbor and setting the waves aglow. Ships swayed gently at anchor, their carved prows catching the light, each one a guardian of wood and rune.
The town spread out from the docks in winding lanes. Stone cottages leaned shoulder to shoulder with timbered houses, roofs sharp and slanted to fight the salt winds. Smoke curled from chimneys, catching in the air with the scent of coal and baked bread. Though most of Driftmoor wore the look of an older age—heavy shutters, stout beams, narrow streets—there were touches of something newer. Brass lanterns hung like watchful eyes above doorframes, glass panes gleamed on upper floors, and the neat black lines of iron railings traced a few balconies. It was a town balanced between two worlds, both medieval and something more.
Voices carried up from the docks: fishermen calling to one another, traders bargaining over crates of fish and grain. The sharp bite of tar from the shipyards mingled with the sweetness of bakery smoke. All around were noise and life, yet from where Milo stood, it felt distant, softened, almost unreal.
He let the view sink in. Driftmoor wasn't grand, yet it carried a weight all its own, as if the sea and sky had chosen this place to hold them together. His throat tightened. It's already been four years since I arrived, but no matter how many times I come here, it always feels new. I'm living in a town of fantasy, the kind that would only ever appear in movies. The sunrise wavered as his eyes burned. Back on Earth, there were marvels enough, but nothing like this. Nothing could make his chest ache the way this silence did…
A sudden gust swept up the hill, carrying a swirl of dry leaves in its wake. They rushed toward him in a tumbling wave, rattling and spinning in the light.
Milo's lips curled into a smile. He shifted his weight to one side, then the other, letting the first leaf slip past his shoulder. Another fluttered toward his face. He ducked just enough to watch it drift by. One after another, he stepped aside, weaving through the little storm as if the leaves had planned an ambush and he refused to be caught.
By the time the wind died, the surrounding ground was littered with bronze and gold, yet not a single leaf had brushed his skin. Milo straightened, the grin still tugging at his mouth, and continued down the path.
***
Soon, he passed the earlier sign and stopped before a large building marked with bold letters: "Driftmoor Academy."
Milo hurried up the steps, scuffed shoes beating a quick rhythm. The hall yawned open ahead, room enough for two hundred students, most already gathered in the center, talking in low, excited clusters.
"Milo… come here. You're already late," a tall, well-built boy called, waving him over.
Milo slid into the group. "Coming, Marco. Why are you so nervous?"
Marco shoved a hand through his hair and chewed his lip. "Shouldn't I be? This time, the test paper was sent to the main academy in Brinewall. Even though my father is the Steward of Driftmoor, his reach stops here."
A laugh came from behind Marco. "Didn't Milo teach you a dozen tricks, Marco? You even practiced all of them." Lily stepped forward, her smile smug but warm.
Marco turned sharply toward her. "Easy for you to say, Lily. You're a genius, who works part-time at the alchemy shop. You'll ace the alchemy section, and probably everything else, too."
Before she could reply, a voice chimed in. "Ha! Ha… chill, Marco. It's just a test."
Milo's grin widened. "Padro, Kim, you made it."
Padro clapped a hand on his shoulder. Kim gave a quick nod, wiping his palms on his trousers.
"It doesn't matter to you or Kim. You have your father's carpentry shop, and Kim has the Meat House. But if I fail, my father loses face. If that happens… I'll be skinned alive," he said, voice shaking as he spoke, half a joke and half-truth. Milo gave him a steady look and offered a small, reassuring smile.
"Silence…" A sharp command followed, and the entire hall went quiet.
A dozen figures strode onto the stage at the front, each one carrying an aura that pressed down on the hall. The chatter of two hundred students died at once under that quiet, invisible weight. Strength rolled from the group like heat from a forge.
An old man stepped forward. His voice carried easily across the hall. "Today, we have the honor of welcoming Miss Layla, Elder of the Alchemy Hall in Brinewall. Sir Carrian, elder of Brinewall Academy. And finally, Sir Rodrick Hamilton of the famous Hamilton household, also an Elder of the Red Citadel branch in Brinewall."
Milo's gaze fixed on the three. Their presence made his skin prickle, sharper and heavier than anything he had ever felt from the staff of Driftmoor Academy. Their strength… It's on a whole different level than the Academy head.
"They seem super strong," Marco muttered at his side, his voice low, almost swallowed by the silence of the hall.
"Of course they are, otherwise, the Academy head wouldn't be addressing us personally," Lily added from the side.
The Academy head continued, "This year, the rules are a bit different. I'll let Elder Hamilton explain." He turned toward the stage with a slight bow. "Please."
A man in his early thirties walked to the center, drawing every eye in the hall. Whispers rose at once. An Elder? At that age?
Hamilton only smiled. "When you reach the divine…" His voice trailed as a golden radiance swept out from him. A halo shimmered at his shoulders, and for an instant, he looked less man and more celestial apparition. "Age is just a number," he finished, lips curling in satisfaction.
The students gasped, awe spilling through the crowd.
Milo felt the back of his neck prickle. Flashy!And what even is this so-called 'divine'? That old Reborn bastard never explained a damn thing. Probably enjoying watching me flounder from heaven. He clenched his jaw, hiding the irritation. Around him, the hall buzzed with excitement.
Hamilton let the moment hang before continuing.
Hamilton stepped forward, letting his voice roll through the hall.
"Do you want to cultivate?"
"Yes!" the students answered in unison, their roar echoing off the stone walls.
"Do you want to enter the Manav Realm?"
"Yes!" The hall shook again with their response.
Milo glanced around. Even the timid ones were shouting. Hamilton really did know how to stir a crowd. The man radiated charisma, the kind that dragged emotions upward whether you liked it or not.
Then Hamilton's expression changed.
The smile faded. The glow dimmed. A grave stillness settled over his features, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a different weight entirely.
"Three realms to rule the mortal.
Three to challenge the divine.
Three more to cheat death.
Then one to escape time."
A hush fell over the hall. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Hamilton continued, tone steady and solemn. "The Manav Realm is the first of the three realms. It is also the most important. To step onto the path of cultivation, you must form your Origin Core. That requires resources… more than most families can imagine."
Milo felt the tension ripple through the students. Faces that had been flushed with excitement only moments before now hardened with dread.
Hamilton let the truth land. "Humanity is not wealthy enough to support every aspiring cultivator. Only those with talent will be allowed to continue. Only those who can bring benefit to the realm will be nurtured."
A cold silence spread across the hall.
The message was unmistakable.
Not everyone would be allowed to enter the Manav Realm.
Hamilton continued, "Cultivation is not free. It must be earned. This year, Driftmoor Academy is not the only one competing. Four other academies will join. Normally, a hundred students receive preliminary tokens from Driftmore Academy. This year… only fifty."
The words struck the hall like a hammer. Students burst into murmurs.
Marco went pale. "It's over. I'll never pass," he whispered, almost choking.
Milo felt unease stir in his chest. Damn it… I thought ranking between fifty and sixty would be enough to pass while avoiding unwanted attention. Looks like I screwed up.
Hamilton raised a hand. "Do not despair. It's not over for those ranked fifty-one to one hundred. They still have a chance. They may challenge anyone between thirty-one and fifty in a fight. If you win, the spot is yours."
The room shifted again—murmurs turning sharp with new hope.
Marco laughed, arms crossed. "Ha! As long as I'm under a hundred, I'll be fine. I'll just fight my way up."
Milo exhaled slowly. So I'll have to show some of my skills after all. I didn't want to bully children… but maybe I won't have a choice.
From the back, a boy shouted, "Why are the top twenty exempt?"
Hamilton's answer came smoothly. "No matter what anybody says, in the end, we cultivate the ability to fight, to survive. So those who excel in such are exempted."
"Ten places are reserved for the highest alchemy scores. The other ten are for those strong in both theory and combat, chosen by your teachers."
Lily straightened, confidence flashing in her smile. "Then I should be safe."
Hamilton clapped twice. A glowing list appeared in the air, names from fifty-one to one hundred flickering like fire on glass.
Marco lunged toward the glowing list. "Fifty-five! Ha! I'm saved. I'll crush anyone in the forties. Number fifty doesn't stand a chance." Relief poured across his face, his earlier panic forgotten.
Students shouted around them. Joy, anger, disappointment, hope. All coloring the hall like a storm.
Lily searched the list, then turned to Milo. "You're not on it. Maybe you're in the top fifty."
Kim gave him an easy smile. "Or there's always next time."
Padro elbowed Milo. "I am seventy-two. Not bad, I've got a chance."
Milo's stomach twisted. Damn it. I studied the whole class, played it safe, even held back so I'd land in the fifties. Now, if I'm anywhere near rank fifty, I'll be a target. A hot potato is passed around until someone peels it. He bit back a curse.
Hamilton clapped again. The list shimmered and changed—ranks one to fifty lit the air.
"Rank eleven!" Lily cried, beaming.
Kim grinned at her. "Alchemy list number one, I'll bet."
But Marco's eyes weren't on Lily. They fixed on Milo. Milo met the look, and silence passed between them like a challenge.
"Forget it," Marco muttered at last. "Worst case, I'll challenge forty-nine instead of fifty."
Padro and Kim both gave him strange looks.
Then, a harsh voice cut through the chatter. "Heh, Milo—hand that rank over to me! I, Caspian, will be taking it!"
Another voice followed, deeper and meaner. "Hmph! Milo's mine."
The crowd stirred, murmurs snapping sharp.
Milo rubbed his temple, irritation blooming. Rank fifty… of all places to land. If I don't reveal more than I want to, this will drag out forever. He let out a breath, forcing calm back onto his face. Looks like I'll have to bleed a little after all.
The crowd shifted, parting just enough to leave Milo's group standing on their own. Eyes turned toward him from every direction; sharp, hungry, like wolves catching the scent of prey.
Milo felt the stares like needles pricking his skin. He rubbed at his temple as if to brush them away, but the weight of their eyes only pressed harder.
The deputy head's voice cut through the tension. "In two hours, the finalization process for the top fifty will begin in the field. All those who are eligible—give it your all."