The world rejected him.
Azreal felt it the moment he crossed the threshold.
The spatial gate collapsed behind his back with a dull, final thud, and the pressure of the mortal realm crashed into him like cold water. His wings spasmed, membranes tightening painfully as the air thickened. Mana here was thin, uneven—laced with impurities. Death-aspected energy existed, but it was weak, scattered, buried under layers of mundane life and fear.
He staggered one step.
Then steadied himself.
So this is what suppression feels like, he thought.
The Black Sepulcher Academy — Mortal Branch loomed ahead.
It was not a single building, but a city carved into a desolate mountainside. Towers of black stone jutted outward like broken ribs, connected by bone-white bridges and iron chains etched with funerary runes. Vast skeletal remains—too large to belong to any known creature—were embedded into the cliffs, half-fossilized, half-active, faintly glowing with residual spiritual light.
A dead god's corpse.
Repurposed.
Azreal rolled his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar heaviness in his limbs. His usually responsive bones felt… muted. The faint white glow beneath his scales flickered weakly before dimming almost entirely.
A message surfaced in his mind.
[Environmental Suppression Detected]
[Chaos Energy Output: Restricted]
[Spiritual Authority: Sealed]
Azreal exhaled slowly.
"Figures."
He looked down at himself.
At five-foot-nine, he didn't stand out physically here—many of the academy entrants were older, taller, broader. His lean build looked almost unimpressive among hulking warriors and robed cultivators. His black-grey scales along his arms and legs marked him as draconic, but not impressively so. No radiant bloodline aura. No oppressive presence.
Just another student.
His locs were tied back loosely, his wings folded tight beneath a suppression cloak provided at the gate—mandatory for all non-humanoid races. Even his horns, smooth and backward-curving, were dulled by a binding seal that muted draconic pressure.
Good.
He didn't come here to be recognized.
A massive stone archway marked the entrance plaza. Hundreds of students gathered there, divided loosely by race and background—humans, beastkin, spirits bound to flesh, even a few lesser dragons. Tension hung thick in the air.
And fear.
A towering obelisk dominated the center of the plaza, carved with names that flickered in and out of existence.
The Grave Register.
A voice boomed across the plaza.
"ALL NEW ENTRANTS—STEP FORWARD FOR REGISTRATION."
An elder floated above the ground near the obelisk, his body partially spectral, robes stitched from funeral shrouds. His eyes swept the crowd with open disdain.
"Black Sepulcher does not nurture talent," the elder continued. "It filters it."
One by one, students stepped forward.
Names etched themselves onto the obelisk in pale light.
Some glowed brightly.
Some barely appeared.
A few names… cracked and vanished.
Screams followed those.
Azreal watched calmly.
So failure isn't symbolic here.
A tall youth stepped up before him—a horned beastkin with crimson fur and bulging muscles.
"Rask," the beastkin declared proudly.
The obelisk flared red.
[Class: Blood Berserker]
Cheers erupted from nearby students.
Rask sneered as he stepped away, eyes sweeping the crowd—then locking onto Azreal.
He laughed.
"What's wrong, scales?" Rask said loudly. "Too scared to register?"
Azreal met his gaze without expression.
"No," he replied evenly. "Just observing."
Rask snorted. "You look fragile. What are you—bone cleaner?"
Laughter followed.
Azreal didn't react.
When his turn came, he stepped forward.
The moment his claw touched the obelisk—
The Grave Register flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The elder frowned.
"…Name?"
"Azreal."
The obelisk hesitated.
Then pale, almost colorless light etched his name.
[Class: Bone Mage]
Silence.
Then laughter.
"Bone Mage?" someone scoffed. "That's barely necromancy."
"Support class."
"Graveyard janitor."
Azreal stepped back calmly, ignoring them.
Inside, he felt something twist—not anger.
Amusement.
They have no idea.
Another message surfaced.
[Trait: Organic Synthesis — Restricted]
[Integration Limit: Mortal Grade]
So even his trait was bound.
Good.
That meant growth would be real.
The elder stared at him longer than necessary.
"…You'll be placed in the Ossuary Ward," he said at last. "Lowest division."
Rask laughed again. "Figures."
Azreal inclined his head politely.
As he turned away, he felt it.
A gaze.
Not mocking.
Not dismissive.
Calculating.
He glanced sideways.
Across the plaza stood a silver-eyed boy in dark robes, human in appearance—but wrong in subtle ways. His aura was tightly wound, disciplined, unnaturally clean.
Not mortal-born.
Not ordinary.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the air between them tightened.
Then the boy smiled faintly and turned away.
A new message surfaced in Azreal's mind.
[Anomalous Heir Detected]
[Identity Concealed]
Azreal's lips curved slightly.
So I'm not the only one.
High above the Black Sepulcher, beyond mortal sight—
Cosmic thrones watched.
And far deeper still—
Existence leaned closer.
The game had begun.