Ren Morris opened his eyes and thought for a moment he was still in hell.
Above him was a mottled wooden ceiling, beams riddled with wormholes. The air smelled of mildew and old, dry paper. He lay on a narrow, hard bed, the pillow as solid as a brick.
He sat up abruptly.
Wrong.
His body was too light. None of the old battle scars—no deep knife wound on his right shoulder, no calluses on his knuckles. He looked down at his hands. Slender fingers, smooth skin, no hardened ridges from years of gripping a staff.
This was his sixteen-year-old body.
Memories crashed back like a broken dam. He remembered being an orphan recruit at the Royal Inkwell Academy, taken in by Vice Headmaster Vayne Ashworth as a personal disciple. Fifteen years of brutal training, finally standing at the threshold of Archmage. And then, at the advancement ceremony, Vayne had plunged a black dagger into his chest and ripped out his mana core while he was still alive.
"Your talent is remarkable," Vayne had said, smiling. "But my son needs your core more than you do."
Then darkness.
Ren closed his eyes and breathed three times. The rage and terror of his past life churned like magma in his chest, but he forced it down. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was cold and sharp.
He was alive. No—he had gone back.
On the nightstand stood a brass calendar. The date was the day before the entrance exam. He was sixteen, freshly recommended from the orphanage to the Royal Inkwell Academy. He hadn't chosen a school yet. He hadn't become Vayne's disciple. No one had noticed him.
Everything could be rewritten.
A sudden burning sensation flared on the back of his left hand. He looked down.
A strange symbol was glowing on his skin, faint blue light tracing intricate geometric lines. It looked like a miniature architectural blueprint, or some ancient script. The light pulsed three times, then seared itself into his flesh, leaving a pale blue mark.
A cold, mechanical voice spoke inside his head:
[Mana Construction System bound.]
[Host status detected: Rebirth. Timeline reversion complete.]
[Initial quest issued: Pass the Royal Inkwell Academy entrance exam. Reward: Land Contract Fragment ×1.]
Ren blinked.
A system? He had never heard of such a thing in his previous life. Mana Construction—that was a lost art from the ancient Constructors, said to let a mage build structures, craft items, even create life directly from mana.
He tried asking in his mind: Who are you?
Silence.
What do you want?
Nothing. Only a translucent panel hovered in the lower right corner of his vision: [Entrance Exam Countdown: 23h 58m].
Ren decided to accept it for now. Whatever the system was, it gave him a clear goal—pass the exam. And he had already taken that exam once. He knew every test, every trick, every trap.
He swung his legs off the bed and walked to the copper washbasin in the corner. The cold water shocked his skin. He looked up at the cracked mirror.
A young face stared back. Messy black hair, pale gray-blue eyes, sharper and clearer than they would become after fifteen years of hardship. He spoke to his reflection, voice low but each word hammered into the air:
"This time, no one takes anything from me."
The blue mark on his left hand grew warm, as if in answer.
The next morning, the plaza before the Royal Inkwell Academy was packed.
Over three hundred boys and girls from across the kingdom jostled for position. Some wore silk robes of noble houses, others rough linen tunics of commoners. A few from the far frontier still wore fur cloaks.
Three examination platforms stood in the center of the plaza.
Ren remembered them. First test: Mana Sensitivity. Second: Basic Spellcasting. Third: Combat Simulation. In his past life, he had scored first overall and was immediately snapped up by Vayne as a disciple.
This time, he would do the exact opposite.
Hide his strength.
Vayne Ashworth stood on the main viewing platform. Dark blue vice-headmaster robes, gray-white hair combed back neatly, a warm smile on his face. Ren saw that face and his fingers curled involuntarily.
He had seen that smile for fifteen years, thinking it was a father's affection. Only when the dagger went in did he see what lay beneath.
He looked away and walked toward the first test.
Mana Sensitivity was simple: place your hand on a black sensing stone. The stone glowed according to your mana reserves. White for normal people, light blue for Apprentice, deep blue for Mage, purple for Archmage.
Ren placed his palm on the stone and suppressed his output.
The stone glowed a dull light blue. Apprentice level two. Middle of the pack.
The examiner recorded without expression: "Ren Morris, Mana Rating C+."
A noble boy in silk robes sneered nearby: "Orphanage trash. No surprise."
Ren didn't react.
He stepped back into the crowd and waited. The second test—Basic Spellcasting—would begin after all participants finished the first.
Nearly an hour later, his name was called.
The rule was simple: choose one of three basic spells—Fireball, Ice Spike, or Wind Blade. The examiner scored speed, accuracy, and mana efficiency.
Most chose Fireball. It was the easiest. Ren also chose Fireball.
He raised his right hand and gathered mana in his palm. His past-life experience gave him a deeper understanding of fire than anyone his age should have, but he deliberately delayed the ignition. The flame flickered into existence late, wavered into an irregular shape, then wobbled toward the target and struck its edge.
The examiner frowned. "Slow cast, poor accuracy, unstable mana flow. Score D+."
Again, mediocre.
Ren lowered his head and walked away from the testing area, inwardly relieved. He glanced toward the main platform. Vayne's gaze swept over the crowd but did not linger on him. The Vice Headmaster was watching the high performers—a noble girl who had shaped her Ice Spike into a perfect hexagram, a mixed-blood boy who released Fireball and Wind Blade simultaneously.
Good. The more invisible, the safer.
Just as Ren turned to leave, he sensed someone behind him.
He spun around.
A girl with silver-white hair stood there, head tilted. She wore a simple dress, and her amber eyes gleamed like gemstones in the morning light.
"Your Fireball," she said, her voice clear but quiet. "Your left index finger paused half a second before release. That wasn't a mistake. It was intentional."
Ren's chest tightened.
"You're hiding your real skill," she stated calmly.
Ren said nothing.
The silver-haired girl was about his age. Fine features, serious expression—even a bit stern. Her amber eyes held a sharpness that made him uncomfortable.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Elis Moonglow." She tilted her head the other way. "And you?"
"Ren Morris."
"Ren." She repeated his name, then said, "I don't know why you're hiding, but you should be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"The Vice Headmaster." Her gaze flicked toward the main platform. "When you cast, he looked at you. Only for a moment. But his expression… wasn't right."
Ren's heart skipped.
Vayne had noticed him? Impossible. He had suppressed himself to below average. Three hundred candidates—how could Vayne possibly single him out?
Unless—
"You're imagining things," Ren said flatly. "I'm just not very good."
Elis stared at him for two full seconds. Then she smiled—just a small smile, but it softened her whole face.
"Fine. You're 'not very good.'" She turned to leave, then looked back. "Third test, Combat Simulation. Don't hide too obviously. Some examiners specialize in spotting fakes."
Her silver hair traced an arc in the sunlight as she disappeared into the crowd.
Ren stood rooted, watching where she had gone.
The blue mark on his left hand pulsed, and a system panel blinked into view:
[Key character 'Elis Moonglow' encountered. Affection +5.]
[Hidden quest triggered: Secret of the Moonglow.]
He exhaled and dismissed the panel.
The third test—Combat Simulation—began in the afternoon.
This was the true challenge. Each candidate entered a magically constructed arena to fight a mana golem. The golem adjusted its strength to match the candidate's level, and the examiners scored based on real combat ability.
By the time Ren's name was called, it was nearly four o'clock.
He stepped into the arena. Opposite him, a gray iron golem materialized—two meters tall, arms shaped like blades. It emitted a low hum and charged.
In his past life, Ren would have blown it apart with a single large Fireball. But this time, he decided on a different approach: flashy enough to show potential, but not so flashy that he drew too much attention.
The golem's blade arm sliced down.
Ren sidestepped—clean, but not elegant. He retreated two paces, hands weaving a quick pattern. Instead of gathering a large mass of flame, he split a small spark into three hair-thin Flame Blades.
A technique he had created himself. In his past life, it took him ten years to master. Now his body was young, but his memory carried every nuance.
The three Flame Blades shot out silently, slipping into the golem's joints. The first cut the mana circuit in its left arm. The second shattered the balance rune in its right leg. The third pierced straight through its core.
The golem crashed to the ground. Five seconds, maybe less.
Silence in the arena.
The examiners murmured among themselves. A young teaching assistant whispered, "The precision of those Flame Blades… an Apprentice shouldn't be able to do that."
The chief examiner was silent for two seconds, then wrote on the score sheet: "Excellent technique, but mana output deliberately suppressed. Combat Score B+."
Ren walked out of the arena.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the main platform.
Vayne was looking at him.
The Vice Headmaster's eyes were half-closed, a faint, thoughtful smile on his lips. The smile was as warm as a spring breeze, but Ren's back broke out in cold sweat.
He lowered his head and walked away quickly.