The line stretched around the block.
King stood at the end of it, watching hundreds of young people shuffle forward with varying degrees of confidence. Some wore expensive robes embroidered with family crests. Others clutched worn travel bags like lifelines.
All of them radiated nervous energy.
Is this what anticipation feels like? King wondered, examining the sensation building in his chest. Or is this just what mortals call waiting in line?
"Move it!" someone shouted from ahead.
The line surged forward half a step, then stopped again.
King had been standing here for two hours. Apparently, this was normal. The boy next to him—couldn't have been more than sixteen—had explained that entrance exam day always drew massive crowds.
"Thousands apply," the boy had said, voice shaking slightly. "Only three hundred get accepted. And if you don't make it..."
He'd trailed off, but King had seen the fear in his eyes.
If you don't make it, you become Labor Class, King thought, recalling what he'd learned from wandering the city yesterday. Condemned to servitude. No way up, no way out.
The system was brutal. Efficient, perhaps, but brutal.
"Hey, white-hair."
King blinked and looked to his left. A girl about his age—or rather, his apparent age—was staring at him with sharp green eyes. She wore practical leather armor and had a sword strapped to her back.
"You've been standing there with that blank expression for ten minutes," she said. "You nervous or just stupid?"
"Neither," King said. "I was thinking."
"About?"
"Whether this line is always this slow, or if time actually moves differently when you're waiting for something."
The girl snorted. "Definitely stupid." But there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "First time taking the exam?"
"First time doing anything like this," King admitted.
"Great. Another rookie." She crossed her arms. "Let me guess—noble family sent you with a fat purse and zero experience?"
King looked down at his plain tunic and worn boots. "Do I look like a noble?"
"No. You look like someone who wandered in from a farm and doesn't know what he's gotten into." She paused. "I'm Yuki, by the way. Yuki Winters."
"King Von Deluxh."
"That's a weird name."
"I made it up yesterday."
Yuki stared at him. "You what?"
"I needed a name, so I created one," King explained. "Is that strange?"
"Yes! Who doesn't have a name?"
Someone who existed before the concept of names, King thought, but said, "I'm starting fresh. New place, new identity."
Yuki looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but before she could respond, the line moved forward again—this time more than half a step.
Progress.
---
Thirty minutes later, King reached the registration desk.
A tired-looking woman with ink-stained fingers didn't even glance up. "Name, age, region of origin, and deposit ten silver for exam fee."
"King Von Deluxh. Twenty-two. No region specifically." King placed ten silver coins on the desk—coins he'd materialized this morning from morning dew and ambient mana particles.
The woman's quill stopped moving. She looked up. "No region?"
"I'm a traveler."
"Travelers have regions of origin."
"Then put down Devas," King said. "I'm here now."
She muttered something under her breath but wrote it down. "Talent assessment will be first, followed by combat trial and strategy evaluation. Fail any one section, you're out. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Number 847. Move to the waiting area." She handed him a wooden token with numbers carved into it. "Next!"
King stepped aside, looking at the token. 847. That meant at least 846 people were ahead of him.
This is going to take a while.
---
The waiting area was a massive courtyard filled with anxious candidates. King found a spot near a fountain and sat down, content to observe.
People-watching was fascinating. That girl over there kept checking her sword—seventeen times in the last five minutes. The boy near the gate was practicing breathing exercises. Three nobles in the corner were laughing too loudly, overcompensating for nerves with bravado.
And then there was the commotion by the north entrance.
"I said get lost, Labor trash!"
King's attention shifted. A group of five candidates—all wearing expensive academy prep uniforms—had surrounded someone smaller. A boy with messy brown hair and a frame that looked like he'd never had enough to eat.
"I'm registered same as you," the smaller boy said, voice steady despite the odds. "I have a right to be here."
"Right?" The leader of the group laughed. "You failed last year's exam. Failed. Do you know what that makes you?"
"Someone who's trying again," the boy shot back.
"It makes you worthless!" The leader's hand began to glow with fire magic. "Labor Class pretending to be someone. You think they'll let you in? You're just going to embarrass yourself again."
Several people were watching now, but no one intervened. King noticed the guards stationed around the courtyard deliberately looking away.
They're not going to stop this, King realized. Because he's already labeled a failure.
The smaller boy clenched his fists but didn't back down. "I'm still going to try."
"Then let me save you the trouble."
The fire magic flared brighter. The boy flinched but held his ground.
King stood up.
He didn't think about it. Didn't plan his approach. Just walked forward until he was standing between the bully and his target.
"Excuse me," King said politely. "Could you not?"
The leader blinked, fire magic faltering slightly. "What?"
"The fire," King said, pointing at the flame in the bully's hand. "Could you not use that on him? It seems unnecessary."
"Who the hell are you?"
"King Von Deluxh. Number 847." King showed his token. "I'm also taking the exam. And I think if you burn him, they might not let either of you participate."
"So?" The leader's expression twisted. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing, really," King admitted. "But he said he wants to try, and you're preventing that. It seems unfair."
"Unfair?" The leader laughed, and his four companions joined in. "You hear that? This white-haired idiot thinks life is fair!"
"I'm learning it's not," King said. "But that doesn't mean people should make it worse."
The fire magic intensified. The leader stepped forward, flames dancing across his knuckles. "Last chance, pretty boy. Walk away or—"
King flicked his finger.
It was the smallest motion—barely a twitch. He'd been practicing control all morning, trying to find the absolute minimum force required to interact with the world.
This was still too much.
The leader flew backward like he'd been hit by a charging bull, crashed through two stone benches, and slammed into the courtyard wall fifteen feet away. The impact cracked the stone.
Silence.
Everyone stared.
The leader's four companions looked at their unconscious friend, then at King, then ran.
King frowned. "I'm still using too much force. That was supposed to be gentle."
The brown-haired boy was gaping at him. "What... how did you..."
"Flicked him," King said simply. He looked at the cracked wall. "Think they'll charge me for that?"
"You just—that guy is ranked C-level! His fire magic can melt steel! And you just—"
"Flicked him, yes." King turned to face the boy properly. "You okay?"
The boy nodded slowly, still processing. "Yeah. I'm... yeah." He extended a shaking hand. "Marcus. Marcus Iron."
King shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Marcus Iron."
"Just Marcus is fine." He glanced at the unconscious bully being carried away by academy staff. "You're going to be in so much trouble."
"Am I?" King looked around. Most people had gone back to their own business, though several were still staring. "It looked like self-defense to me."
"He didn't even touch you!"
"He was about to," King said. "Probably. The fire looked dangerous."
Marcus laughed—a slightly hysterical sound. "You're insane. That's what you are. Completely insane." But he was smiling. "Thank you, though. For... yeah. Thank you."
"You're welcome." King sat back down by the fountain. "You can wait with me if you want. The line seems long."
Marcus hesitated, then sat down beside him. "You really made up your name yesterday?"
"Yes."
"And you just arrived in Devas?"
"Yesterday evening."
"And you don't know what you've gotten into by defending Labor Class in front of everyone?"
King tilted his head. "Should I know?"
Marcus let out a long breath. "You really are insane." But he was still smiling. "Fine. Since you saved me, I'll explain how this works. Consider it payback for your good deed."
"I appreciate that," King said genuinely.
And so Marcus talked. About the academy's ranking system, the prejudice against those who'd failed before, the way power determined everything in Avalon. He spoke with the bitter knowledge of someone who'd lived through it.
King listened carefully, learning not just the words but the emotion behind them. The frustration, the determination, the fear of being trapped.
This is what they live with, King thought. This weight. Every day.
"—and that's why what you did was incredibly stupid," Marcus finished. "Now everyone knows you're associated with me. Your reputation is basically ruined before you even start."
"That's fine," King said.
"It's not fine! Do you understand—"
"Number 800 through 850, report to Assessment Hall One!" a voice boomed across the courtyard.
Marcus stood up quickly. "That's us. You ready?"
King stood, brushing off his pants. "I think so. What happens in the assessment?"
"They measure your talent level. It determines everything—your rank, your potential, your entire future." Marcus's hands clenched. "I failed this part last year. Crystal showed nothing. That's why I'm Labor Class now."
"And you're trying again?"
"Have to." Marcus's jaw set. "Because the alternative is giving up, and I'm not doing that."
King smiled slightly. "I like that answer."
They walked toward the assessment hall together, Marcus explaining the process in nervous rapid-fire sentences. King only half-listened. He was more interested in watching Marcus's expressions, the way hope and fear warred on his face.
He's going to fail again, King realized. Not because Marcus lacked potential, but because the system was designed to find specific types of power. And whatever Marcus had inside him, it wasn't something a crystal could measure.
But King didn't tell him that. Sometimes, people needed to discover things themselves.
---
The assessment hall was enormous—a cathedral-like space with crystalline formations growing from floor and ceiling. Hundreds of candidates were already inside, lined up in front of testing stations.
Each station had the same setup: a pedestal with a floating crystal sphere, and a robed examiner watching with bored efficiency.
"Welcome to your future," Marcus muttered. "Or the death of it."
King looked at the nearest testing station. A girl placed her hand on the crystal, and it flared bright blue. The examiner nodded, wrote something down. "B-Rank. Wind affinity. Next."
The girl walked away smiling.
The next candidate approached. The crystal barely flickered. "F-Rank. Labor classification. Next."
The boy's face crumbled. He stumbled away, and no one looked at him.
"That's what happened to me," Marcus whispered. "Exactly like that."
King watched the process repeat. Some crystals exploded with light. Others barely registered. Each result determining a life trajectory in seconds.
Efficient, King thought. And cruel.
"Number 847!" an examiner called.
King stepped forward to his assigned station. The examiner—a middle-aged man with impressive mustaches—looked him up and down with barely concealed disdain.
"Hand on the crystal," the man said. "Don't remove it until I say."
King placed his palm on the sphere.
It was warm. He could feel the magic inside, designed to resonate with a person's innate power and measure its—
The crystal exploded.
Not cracked. Not shattered. Exploded. Into dust. Into less than dust—into component particles that scattered across the floor like glitter.
The examiner jumped back. "What the—"
"Sorry," King said, looking at his hand. "Did I break it?"
"How—that crystal is rated to measure SS-Rank output! It shouldn't be possible to—" The examiner's face cycled through several shades of red. "Stay here. Don't move."
He hurried away, shouting for supervisors.
King stood there, hand still extended over where the crystal used to be.
I was trying to suppress my power, he thought. Maybe I suppressed it too much? Or not enough? This is confusing.
Marcus appeared at his side, eyes wide. "What did you do?"
"Touched the crystal."
"Obviously! But how did you—crystals don't just explode!"
"This one did," King observed. "Do you think I failed?"
"I think you broke reality," Marcus said. "That's what I think."
Three supervisors arrived, all looking flustered. They brought a new crystal—this one twice the size and glowing with containment runes.
"Try this one," the head supervisor said. "It's reinforced. Calibrated for anomalous readings. Place your hand gently."
King did.
This crystal lasted two seconds longer than the first before it also exploded.
The supervisors stared at the empty pedestal.
"Get the Mythril-core crystal," one of them said.
"But that's for—"
"Get it."
They brought out a crystal that looked like it cost more than a house. Surrounded it with protective barriers. Had six mages standing by with containment spells ready.
King touched it.
It exploded.
The containment spells barely kept the shrapnel from destroying the hall.
"This is impossible," the head supervisor said, staring at King like he was a natural disaster. "Your power signature is—it's not reading anything. Complete zero. But the crystals are reacting like they're trying to measure infinity."
"Is that bad?" King asked.
"It shouldn't be possible!" The supervisor pulled out several more instruments, waved them near King. Each one sparked, smoked, or simply stopped functioning. "What are you?"
Older than your measurement tools, King thought, but said, "Just someone taking an exam."
The supervisors huddled, arguing in whispers. King caught fragments: "...complete anomaly..." "...never seen readings like..." "...can't classify..."
Finally, they turned back to him.
"We're listing you as F-Rank," the head supervisor said. "Unknown variable. The equipment is clearly malfunctioning."
"F-Rank?" King repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It means the system can't measure you. Could be a measurement error. Could be you have zero talent. We can't tell." The supervisor made a note on his clipboard. "You'll still be allowed to continue the exam—we need to fill quotas. But don't expect much."
King nodded. "Thank you."
He walked away from the station, leaving three destroyed crystals and six confused mages behind him.
Marcus was waiting, expression complicated. "F-Rank. Just like me."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It means we're at the bottom," Marcus said. "The absolute bottom. But..." He grinned suddenly. "At least we're there together, right?"
King smiled back. "Right."
"Number 846!" the examiner called.
Marcus took a deep breath and stepped forward to his testing station.
King watched as Marcus placed his hand on the crystal. It flickered weakly, barely producing any light at all.
"F-Rank," the examiner said, not unkindly. "Same as last year. I'm sorry, son."
Marcus's shoulders slumped for just a moment. Then he straightened, turned, and walked back to King with his head high.
"Told you," Marcus said. "No talent. Story of my life."
"The crystal can't measure everything," King said.
"Nice of you to say." Marcus looked toward the exit where candidates were being directed to the next stage. "Combat trials are next. That's where people like us get eliminated."
"Then we'll just have to not get eliminated," King said simply.
Marcus laughed—genuine this time. "You know what? I like you, King Von Deluxh. You're completely insane, but I like you."
They walked toward the combat trial arena together, two F-Rank "failures" in a sea of talented candidates.
Behind them, the supervisors were still trying to figure out what had just happened to their equipment.
This is going to be more complicated than I thought, King mused. But also more interesting.
He looked at Marcus, who was clenching and unclenching his fists, preparing for whatever came next.
Yes, King thought. Much more interesting.