In the mortal world, equality was a myth told to keep the weak from rebelling.
From the moment a child was born, the world measured them—not by their will, not by their character, but by what flowed invisibly through their veins.
Mana.
It was the foundation of civilization, the currency of power, and the excuse behind every hierarchy that followed.
Those with more mana lived differently. They were fed better, trained earlier, protected longer. Their mistakes were forgiven. Their failures were explained away as "temporary."
Those with less were given choices only in name.
They could work.
They could serve.
They could die quietly.
And so the mortal hierarchy formed—not by decree, but by inevitability.
At the bottom stood the Commoners.
Farmers. Craftsmen. Laborers. Healers without resources. People whose mana pools were small, inconsistent, and often insufficient for anything beyond daily survival. Most commoners never learned magic beyond the most basic reinforcement spells—if they learned any at all.
Above them were the Adventurers.
Commoners who risked death for opportunity. They ventured into dungeons, hunted monsters, escorted caravans, and bled so that nations could remain comfortable. When successful, they were celebrated. When they failed, they were forgotten.
Next came the Knights.
Not born powerful—but shaped. Knights were trained soldiers who had proven both loyalty and strength. Their mana was refined through discipline, not lineage. They served nobles and royals directly, enforcing law, waging war, and dying in the name of order.
Above them stood the Nobles.
Families whose bloodlines carried inherited mana advantages. Some traced their ancestry to ancient heroes. Others to mages who once stood close to gods. Nobles monopolized education, artifacts, and knowledge, ensuring that even mediocre heirs stood above exceptional commoners.
And at the pinnacle—
The Royals.
Their mana was not merely strong—it was symbolic. Royal bloodlines were steeped in history, myth, and propaganda. Their power legitimized their rule, and their rule justified their power.
This hierarchy was not written into law.
It was written into reality.
But mana did not exist alone.
It manifested through elements—expressions of how an individual's power interacted with the world.
The most common were the basic elements.
Fire, destructive and volatile, favored in combat and warfare.
Water, adaptive and flowing, essential for healing, control, and support.
Earth, stable and resilient, used in defense, construction, and fortification.
Wind, swift and elusive, granting speed, evasion, and mobility.
Beyond them were the advanced natural elements.
Ice, a refined balance of control and destruction.
Thunder, violent and decisive, rare among humans but devastating when mastered.
Forest, tied to life, growth, and endurance.
Then came the conceptual elements—rarer, more dangerous.
Light, associated with purification, order, and authority.
Dark, linked to entropy, secrecy, and domination.
Metal, precision and reinforcement.
Blood, forbidden and feared, capable of manipulation beyond flesh.
Spirit, unstable and unpredictable, touching mind and soul.
And finally, there were specialized elements.
War, amplifying combat instincts and killing intent.
Craftsman, the foundation of creation magic, shaping weapons, tools, and artifacts.
Healer, focused not on destruction, but preservation.
Most humans were born with one affinity—sometimes two if their ancestry allowed it. Their mana capacity determined how far they could take it.
But the world was not inhabited by humans alone.
The other mortal races entered the world with unfair advantages.
Elves were born with naturally high mana pools and strong affinities for forest, wind, or light. Their bodies aged slowly, their senses sharp, their control refined from childhood. What took humans decades to master, elves learned in years.
Dwarves possessed dense, heavy mana suited for earth and craftsman elements. Their magic was not explosive, but enduring. They created weapons that outlasted kingdoms, tools that remembered their makers.
Beastkin were physically superior, their mana reinforcing bodies rather than spells. Speed, strength, and instinct defined them.
Dragonkin—or dragonites—were anomalies. Their mana was vast from birth, their elements fixed and overwhelming. Even an untrained dragonkin could rival seasoned human mages.
Fairies, lizardmen, and other races each carried their own advantages—higher mana density, innate abilities, or natural resistance.
Humans had none of these.
What they had instead was potential.
Their mana limits were lower—but not absolute. Humans alone could break their ceilings through obsession, training, trauma, or sheer will.
That possibility terrified the powerful.
Drake walked across the academy grounds, listening.
Students talked loudly, comparing test results, boasting about affinities, lamenting low outputs.
A boy shouted excitedly about his fire affinity.
A girl cried quietly after discovering she had none.
An instructor lectured about discipline and obedience.
Drake heard everything.
He understood the system instantly—not because he was intelligent, but because he had designed worse ones.
This world did not reward kindness.
It rewarded compatibility with power.
And academies existed to enforce that compatibility.
The Commoner Academy was not meant to uplift.
It was meant to filter.
Those with barely usable mana would be discarded early. Those with moderate potential would be trained into tools. Those rare few who showed exceptional growth would be observed closely—and possibly claimed.
The Royal Academy refined what already existed.
And the Imperial Academy—
That was where nations decided who would shape the future.
Only graduates of the Royal or Commoner Academies could enter it. And even then, only those deemed "worthy."
Drake found the logic efficient.
Cruel.
Predictable.
He paused near the edge of the training field, watching a group of students attempt basic mana reinforcement drills.
Most failed.
A few succeeded.
One pushed too far and collapsed.
The instructor shook his head. "Know your limits."
Drake looked at the boy on the ground.
Limits were not natural.
They were enforced.
Drake clenched his hand slightly.
Mana stirred—then obeyed his restraint.
This world worships power, he thought.
And fears those who redefine it.
He exhaled slowly and continued walking.
For now, he would play his role.
A commoner.
Low mana.
Unremarkable.
But the system had already noticed him.
And systems did not like inconsistencies.