In the mortal world, power decided truth.
Not morality.
Not wisdom.
Not effort.
Power.
From the moment a child first felt mana stir within their body, the course of their life began to diverge. Some were born with abundance—mana flowing thick and responsive, bending easily to their will. Others felt only a faint warmth, barely enough to light a candle.
That difference defined everything.
Nations were built on it.
Noble bloodlines justified themselves through it.
Wars were fought over those who could wield it better than others.
At the top of mortal society stood the Royals, whose lineage traced back to heroes, conquerors, or beings rumored to have once stood close to gods. Beneath them were the Nobles, families who monopolized mana education, artifacts, and resources. Below them stood Knights—those who earned strength through service and battle.
Then came Adventurers, independent and expendable, celebrated only when useful.
And at the bottom—
Commoners.
The vast majority of the world.
They lived, worked, struggled, and died without ever touching the heights their world worshipped.
To maintain this hierarchy, the world built institutions.
Academies.
The first were Royal Academies, exclusive institutions reserved for nobles and royalty. Their halls were adorned with ancient artifacts, their instructors former heroes, their students trained not only in magic and combat—but in command.
The second were Commoner Academies.
Places of necessity rather than prestige.
They accepted anyone with even the faintest trace of mana. Their purpose was simple: filter the usable from the disposable. Those who survived became soldiers, adventurers, or laborers for the powerful. Those who failed were forgotten.
And finally—
Standing above both, unreachable to most, stood the Imperial Academy.
It did not accept children.
It accepted survivors.
Only those who graduated from either the Royal Academy or the Commoner Academy—and proved themselves exceptional—were invited. The Imperial Academy was where future generals, national heroes, and rulers were forged.
It was not a place of learning.
It was a crucible.
This was the world Drake stepped into.
The gates of the Commoner Academy loomed ahead, taller than they needed to be, built not to inspire—but to intimidate.
They were made of dark stone, reinforced with iron bands etched with runes meant to suppress mana surges. Guards stood at attention on either side, their armor worn but functional, their expressions bored.
A line of young men and women stretched down the dirt road leading to the entrance.
Drake stood among them.
He wore simple clothes—well-kept, but unmistakably common. A plain tunic, sturdy boots, a pack slung over one shoulder. His black hair was tied loosely behind his head, moving gently in the breeze.
He looked… ordinary.
Which was exactly what he intended.
Around him, mana flared unevenly.
Some applicants radiated confidence, their mana thick and aggressive, spilling outward without control. Others tried desperately to suppress their presence, fear flickering across their faces as they failed.
Drake felt it all.
Mana brushed against him like waves against a shore—then calmed, as if unsure whether it was allowed to continue.
He kept his seal firm.
"First time?" a nervous voice asked.
Drake turned to see a boy about his age, thin and pale, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"Yes," Drake replied.
The boy swallowed. "I heard… if you fail the entrance evaluation, they don't even send you home. They just… register you as unfit."
Drake nodded. "That sounds efficient."
The boy stared at him. "You're calm."
"There's no benefit to panic," Drake said.
The boy laughed weakly. "I wish I could think like that."
Ahead, a commotion broke out.
A girl stumbled as mana surged out of her uncontrollably, knocking another applicant to the ground. Instructors reacted instantly—one raising a hand, forming a suppression field, the other shouting orders.
"Control!" the instructor barked. "If you can't control it, you don't belong here!"
The girl trembled, eyes wide with fear.
Drake watched carefully.
He saw the problem immediately. Her mana wasn't wild—it was compressed too tightly, forced into obedience by fear rather than understanding.
A single adjustment would stabilize it.
Drake did nothing.
The suppression field slammed down.
The girl collapsed.
Two attendants dragged her away without ceremony.
The line moved forward.
Drake felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.
Not anger.
Disapproval.
The registration hall was vast and bare.
Stone walls. High ceiling. Long desks staffed by officials who barely looked up as names were recorded. Crystals hovered above each station, glowing faintly as they absorbed identifying information.
When Drake reached the desk, the official glanced at him briefly.
"Name."
"Drake."
"Origin?"
"Village near the western hills."
The crystal pulsed softly.
The official frowned.
"Mana affinity?"
Drake hesitated just long enough to appear uncertain. "None detected."
The crystal pulsed again—then dimmed.
The official snorted. "Figures."
He scribbled something on the parchment and waved Drake through without another glance.
Drake stepped aside, observing.
Efficiency over curiosity.
Assumption over verification.
Power shaped behavior.
The evaluation grounds lay beyond—a wide, open arena divided into sections. Some applicants were sent toward mana tests. Others toward physical assessments. A few toward dueling platforms.
An instructor raised his voice.
"Listen carefully. This academy does not exist to nurture you. It exists to determine your value. Those who fail will not be remembered. Those who pass will serve."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Drake listened—and memorized every word.
The mana crystal test came first.
Applicants stepped forward one by one, placing their hands against a floating crystal. It glowed brighter or dimmer depending on the mana output.
Gasps followed brilliance. Laughter followed faint light.
When Drake's turn came, the instructor barely looked at him.
"Place your hand. Release mana."
Drake obeyed.
He allowed just enough to surface.
The crystal flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then settled into a dull, unimpressive glow.
The instructor blinked.
The crystal pulsed again—slightly brighter—then dimmed once more.
For a brief moment, something like confusion crossed the instructor's face.
Then he scoffed. "Low output. Barely stable."
He marked the parchment.
Drake withdrew his hand.
Behind him, whispers began.
"Did you see that flicker?"
"Probably a defect."
"Or he cheated."
Drake walked away calmly.
But somewhere above, unseen—
Mana hesitated.
And the academy, ancient and cruel, recorded its first inconsistency.