The academy did not announce its judgments aloud.
There were no proclamations, no speeches, no ceremony.
Value was assigned quietly—written in ink, etched into records, sealed inside files that would follow a student for the rest of their life.
Drake discovered this when a thin slate was placed into his hands.
It was warm to the touch, faintly humming with residual mana. Names appeared across its surface in neat rows, organized by rank and classification.
He found his own near the bottom.
Name : Drake
Mana Output: Low
Stability: Inconsistent
Affinity: Undetermined
Placement: Reserve Tier
Reserve Tier.
Not failure—but barely better.
Around him, reactions erupted.
A boy laughed loudly upon seeing his name near the top. A girl stared at her slate in disbelief, her hands shaking as tears welled in her eyes. Somewhere to Drake's left, someone swore under their breath.
"This is wrong," a student muttered. "My output was higher than his."
"That crystal's broken," another scoffed. "I saw it flicker."
Drake did not react.
Reserve Tier meant freedom.
Low expectations.
Minimal oversight.
Time.
Exactly what he wanted.
But the academy was not finished.
The second test came without warning.
"Instructors," a sharp voice echoed across the grounds, amplified by magic, "begin stability verification."
Drake felt it before he saw it.
Mana pressure rolled across the field—controlled, precise, invasive. It wasn't meant to crush. It was meant to provoke.
Students stiffened.
Some instinctively pushed back, their mana flaring wildly. Others froze, unsure whether resistance was expected or punished.
Drake remained still.
The pressure reached him—and hesitated.
Not stopped.
Not deflected.
Hesitated.
The mana field adjusted, recalibrating itself as if uncertain how much force was required.
Drake allowed a fraction of his suppressed mana to surface—just enough to register as resistance, not enough to stand out.
The pressure passed.
An instructor standing nearby frowned.
"That one," he murmured. "Did you feel that?"
Another instructor glanced over. "Felt what?"
"It's nothing," the first said after a pause. "Probably interference."
Probably.
They were sent to the training yards next.
No magic. No spells.
Just bodies.
"Combat aptitude assessment," the instructor announced. "You will be paired randomly. No lethal force. Yield when necessary."
Drake stepped forward calmly.
He was paired with a broad-shouldered boy whose mana radiated aggressively, reinforcing his muscles until veins bulged beneath his skin.
The boy smirked. "Try not to break."
Drake inclined his head politely.
The signal was given.
The boy charged.
Fast. Strong. Predictable.
Drake stepped aside—not hurried, not dramatic. He redirected the momentum with a subtle shift of weight, letting the boy stumble past him.
The crowd murmured.
The boy recovered quickly, swinging again with greater force. Drake ducked under the blow, tapped the boy's elbow, and twisted.
The boy hit the ground hard.
Silence fell.
Drake stepped back immediately and raised a hand. "I yield."
The instructor blinked. "You… won."
Drake shook his head. "He's stronger. I only avoided injury."
That was true.
And incomplete.
The instructor hesitated—then marked the slate.
"Reserve Tier," he muttered again, confused.
Across the field, eyes lingered on Drake longer than before.
Later, in the administrative hall, the mana crystal pulsed again.
Not for Drake.
But because of him.
The crystal used to calibrate the day's tests flickered faintly, its internal runes rearranging themselves without instruction.
An attendant froze.
"Did you alter the parameters?" she asked sharply.
"No," another replied. "It shouldn't be doing that."
A senior examiner stepped closer, placing a hand near the crystal—but not touching it.
The flicker stopped.
"Log it," he said quietly. "And lock the data."
"Sir… whose test caused it?"
The examiner's gaze drifted toward the far side of the hall—toward a commoner with black hair, standing alone, reading his slate as if nothing had happened.
"…Uncertain," he replied.
But uncertainty, in institutions like this, was never ignored.
That night, Drake sat on the edge of his assigned bed in the commoner dormitory.
The room was cramped. Stone walls. Four beds. No privacy. Mana suppression runes carved into the ceiling to prevent accidents.
Perfectly adequate.
Across from him, his nervous acquaintance from the gate sat quietly, staring at his own slate.
"You… you fought well today," the boy said hesitantly.
Drake nodded. "You did too."
The boy laughed weakly. "I didn't even pass."
Drake looked at him. "You survived."
The boy blinked. "That's… not the same."
Drake considered correcting him.
He chose not to.
As the lights dimmed, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
No clouds.
Drake lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The academy had classified him.
But it had also noticed him.
The crystal did not lie, he thought calmly.
It simply didn't understand.
And neither, yet, did the world.