The instructor's voice didn't carry warmth. It carried rhythm. A metronome for sorting wheat from chaff.
"Next."
Eryx stayed near the back of the line. He kept his hands tucked into the too-long sleeves of his uniform, fingers resting lightly against his own ribs. He counted the breaths. In. Out. Steady. The courtyard stone radiated a dull, penetrating cold that seeped straight through his boots and into his ankles. He didn't shift his weight. He just watched the testing plate.
Polished rock. Veined with faint blue lines that seemed to pulse when the sunlight hit them. A flat metal ring sat flush in the center, worn smooth by hundreds of palms before it.
One by one, cadets stepped up. Placed a hand. Waited.
Some plates glowed faint yellow. F-Rank. Acceptable. The instructor marked a slate. Nodded. Moved on.
Some stayed completely dark. G-Rank. The instructor didn't even look up. Just dragged chalk across the wood. *Next.*
Then the crowd shifted. A heavy silence dropped like a curtain.
Draven Hal stepped into the ring.
He didn't look seventeen. He looked like a blade waiting to be drawn. Broad shoulders. Spine straight. Eyes locked on the plate like it owed him something. He didn't hesitate. Didn't adjust his stance. Just slapped his palm down.
The stone didn't just glow. It flared.
Blue light cracked outward, sharp and bright. A low hum vibrated through the courtyard, rattling against the stone floor. The instructor's pen stopped mid-scratch. Two cadets near the front took half a step back.
"E-Rank resonance," the man announced. Voice flat, but the tension in his jaw gave it away. "Above threshold. Draven Hal. D-Class track."
Draven pulled his hand back. Didn't smile. Didn't gloat. Just nodded once, turned, and walked to the designated elite section. The silence broke into murmurs. Respect. Envy. Fear. All wrapped in the same quiet word: *talent*.
Eryx exhaled through his nose. *Great. The guy next to me breathes like a storm. I'm over here wondering if my lungs forgot how to work.*
He shifted his weight. His shoulders ached. The cold was climbing his spine. He kept watching.
Near the front, a girl stood perfectly still. Lyra Vensha. Her name had been called earlier. She hadn't drawn a crowd like Draven. Her plate had burned steady, not explosive. Clean. Efficient. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, eyes tracking the instructor's movements, not the show. Her posture was rigid, almost unnatural. Every muscle held a quiet, coiled readiness.
*Discipline over noise,* Eryx noted. *Interesting. She's not here to impress. She's here to measure.*
"Ugh, my feet are frozen," a voice muttered beside him.
Eryx glanced left. A lanky guy with messy brown hair and a uniform that looked two sizes too small was shivering dramatically. Milo Tren. If the attendance roll meant anything, he'd been called right before Eryx.
"They make us stand in the cold to test our mana," Milo continued, voice pitched just loud enough for Eryx to hear. "Which is brilliant, honestly. Nothing wakes up latent magical potential like mild hypothermia. Next they'll ask us to meditate on a block of ice."
Eryx didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe they're filtering out the people who complain."
Milo blinked. Looked at him. Really looked at him. Then he grinned, sharp and quick. "Oh, you're funny. I'm Milo. Try not to die before lunch. The food's actually decent if you know which line to take. And avoid the gray stew. It fights back."
"Eryx," he said. "And noted."
Milo's eyes drifted back to the courtyard. But he wasn't just looking. He was counting. Tracking the instructor's pace. Noting which cadets got extra seconds on the plate. Watching the guards' positions. His lips kept moving in quiet complaints, but his gaze missed nothing. The rhythm of the test. The blind spots in the ring. The way the instructor's weight shifted when he wrote down a name.
*Talks a lot. Watches more,* Eryx filed it away. *Useful. Or at least, not useless.*
"Next. Eryx Vale."
The name felt foreign in the air. It didn't ring any bells. Didn't spark any memory. Just letters. A placeholder for a person who'd apparently lost the manual.
He stepped forward. The stone floor felt harder beneath his boots. He walked into the ring. The blue light from earlier was still fading in his peripheral vision. He ignored it.
He raised his hand. Placed it on the cold metal ring.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
Not a flicker. Not a hum. The stone stayed dark. The veins in the rock looked dull, lifeless. He pressed harder. Felt the metal bite into his palm. Still nothing. He closed his eyes for a half-second, willing something—anything—to spark. A glow. A pulse. A whisper.
Silence. Cold metal. Empty air.
The instructor didn't look up. He just dragged his chalk across the slate. The scrape echoed louder than it should have.
"Zero point zero resonance. G-Rank. Step aside."
Eryx pulled his hand back. His fingers felt numb. Not from the cold. From the absolute, heavy certainty that he was exactly what they thought he was. Nothing. A blank page. A dead circuit.
"Low priority," the instructor muttered, not bothering to hide it. He made a small mark beside the name. "High risk of dropout. Next."
Eryx walked to the G-Class section. He kept his face blank. Inside, a quiet, dry voice was already working the panic down into something manageable.
*Well. There goes the hero origin story. No hidden power. No secret bloodline. Just a guy who wakes up in a drafty room and gets told he's furniture.*
He found a spot near the back wall. Leaned against the stone. Let the rough texture ground him. He didn't cry. He didn't rage. He just breathed. Slow. Shallow. Counting the seconds between heartbeats.
*Survive the day. Figure out the rest later.*
The assessment dragged on. More names. More dark plates. More chalk scratches. The sun climbed higher. The cold didn't lift, but the crowd's energy shifted. The morning test was ending.
A heavy gate clanked open on the far side of the courtyard. Metal scaffolding rose beyond it. Ropes. Nets. Wooden beams slick with morning dew. A rigged climbing rig. Unstable. Deliberately unforgiving.
Eryx's eyes tracked it. His stomach tightened.
"Assessment phase two," the instructor announced, wiping chalk dust from his hands. "Physical conditioning. Strength. Grip. Endurance. You will climb. You will hold. You will not fall unless you want to fail before noon."
He paused. Let the words sink in.
"G-Class. You're up first."
A few groans rippled through the ranks. Eryx didn't make a sound. He just pushed off the wall. His legs felt heavier than before. His shoulders still ached. His grip strength was nonexistent. He knew it. The instructor knew it. Everyone knew it.
He walked toward the scaffolding with the others. The wood looked warped. The ropes looked frayed. The height looked unreasonable.
*Of course it does.*
He reached the base of the rig. Looked up. The top platform was easily four meters. Maybe five. The first rung was slick with condensation.
He reached out. Touched the wood. Cold. Rough. Real.
As he adjusted his grip, a polished steel shield leaned against the equipment cart caught his eye. His reflection stared back. Pale. Tired. Dark circles under his eyes. Unremarkable.
He blinked.
The reflection didn't.
For a fraction of a second—less than half a breath, maybe 0.3 seconds—his eyes in the glass stayed open while his own closed. Then they snapped shut. Synced. Gone.
Eryx froze. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at the metal. Just his own tired face staring back now. Normal. Still.
*Fatigue,* he told himself. *Lack of sleep. Stress. Brain playing tricks on a starving nervous system.*
He rubbed his temples. The dull ache behind his eyes throbbed in agreement. He turned away from the shield. Gripped the first rung. The wood bit into his palms.
He pulled.
His arms trembled immediately. The rope shifted under his weight. Above him, someone slipped. A gasp. A scrape of boots on wood. Someone else cursed.
Eryx didn't look up. He just focused on his next breath. His next grip. The next inch of height.
The wood felt slippery. His fingers were already burning.
He climbed anyway.
He didn't know how long he'd last. He didn't know what would happen if he fell.
But the ground was already fading beneath his boots.
And going up was the only option left.