The academy smelled like ambition and old paper—a scent I was still getting used to. It was a potent mix of ink-stained parchment, polished ancient wood, and the faint, sharp ozone of latent magic crackling in the air, a constant reminder that this was no ordinary school. As a first-year student poured into the grand amphitheater, the social hierarchies of this new world were on full display. Nobles with their precisely clipped collars and air of inherent superiority, commoners with wary, calculating eyes, and a few obvious show-offs adorned with gaudy, probably enchanted, rings. It was a microcosm of the kingdom I'd been unceremoniously dumped into.
I, Yukiharu Akio—though I still thought of myself by my old name from my old life—slid into a bench near the back without fanfare. The wooden seat was cool and solid beneath me.
My roommate, Samir, was already there, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed and into the most interesting place in the world. He grinned, a flash of white teeth in his tanned face, as I sat. The intricate tattoo of a stylized wolf on his forearm peered out from under his rolled-up sleeve as he stretched. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd been given explicit permission to misbehave.
"Morning," Samir's voice was a study in carelessness. He nudged me with an elbow. "Ready to get roasted by the teachers today? Literally, maybe."
I shrugged, the motion feeling familiar and alien all at once. This body, though now mine, was still a suit I hadn't fully broken in. "Ready to not die. That's the baseline goal."
Samir barked a laugh, and without so much as a whisper of a chant, he pinched his thumb and forefinger in the air. A soft, precise current of wind drifted past our bench, neatly flattening a disordered pile of course flyers on a nearby table into a perfect stack. No flourish, no dramatic gesture—just wind as a simple, efficient brushstroke. His magic was unpretentious and powerful, and it fit him like a second skin. It was these little displays that reminded me how out of my depth I truly was. Back on Earth, my biggest concern was a project deadline. Here, it was not accidentally incinerating my classmates.
A sudden, palpable hush fell over the amphitheater as Instructor Haruki Hino entered. She moved with a predatory grace that screamed authority. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was perfectly straight, framing a face with cold, assessing blue eyes. The rumors about her were already legendary among the student body: demon-blooded, ruthless, a teacher who wouldn't hesitate to burn arrogance out of a student if it meant teaching a lesson. She didn't smile. She simply placed a series of faintly humming crystals in a wide circle on the floor, chalked swift, complex sigils between them, and fixed us all with a gaze that made even the noblest-born students sit straighter.
"Today," her voice was flint striking steel, ready to spark a fire, "is a practical evaluation. Conjuration. Control. Suppression. I have no interest in theatrical displays of raw power. I want to see disciplined, real-world application. Show me discipline, or you will earn a correction you will remember."
A ripple of anxiety went through the room. This wasn't a talent show; it was a gauntlet. Haruki was weeding out the weak, seeing who could keep their head when the metaphorical—and probably literal—flames got too high.
Names were called one by one. Students stepped into the sigil-marked circle and faced the judging crystals. It was a parade of this world's inherent advantages.
Amabie Ningyo sashayed forward, her posture regal, an aura of frost-blue mist already curling around her fingers. With a graceful motion, she conjured a shimmering ribbon of ice that hung in the air, glittering with geometric precision, as mathematically perfect as a ledger entry.
Estelle Abott followed, snapping her fingers over a pre-drawn summoning circle at her feet. With a puff of shadow and a faint sulfurous smell, a tiny, sharp-toothed imp bowed before her. It was a display of immense mental discipline and summoner's grace.
Liliana Woodburn was next. A soft, green mote of light bloomed in her palm, tender and warm. It was the kind of magic that could heal a wilted flower petal, not blast a man to cinders. A pure heart, or a carefully cultivated image of one.
Galen Ombretta moved with a shadowed, languid charm. He didn't conjure anything overt, but a thin veil of darkness wrapped around his wrist like living smoke, drinking the light around it.
Shion Moreno cracked a spark between his fingers that flared with a heat that smelled of alchemical reagents and forge-fire. Each student displayed the single elemental affinity they had registered with, playing by Haruki's strict, unyielding rules.
Then my name was called. "Yukiharu."
The conjuration ring flared to life at my feet, the crystals humming at a higher pitch. I'd been given a very specific, quietly vehement order before arriving—from the family that had "sponsored" my entry, delivered with a sharp, paternal tone that brooked no argument. 'Claim only fire for now. Nothing else. Draw no unnecessary attention.' In a world of vultures and political players, saying less was a survival strategy. Better to be perceived as a contained, predictable threat than an open invitation to every power-hungry faction in the academy.
I took a slow, centering breath, pushing down the instinct to reach for the strange, game-like interface only I could see.
Task one: conjuration. Haruki's voice cut through my thoughts. "Form a blade—a solid, stable form. Hold it for thirty seconds. Begin."
Around me, students began to chant, calling on the names of ancestral spirits, elemental gods, or arcane formulae. Bloodlines flexed; you could see the difference between a conjured item born of sheer will and one that came pre-baked with generations of lineage heft.
My hands stayed empty at my sides. I didn't chant. I didn't speak a single word. I simply reached into the core of myself, to the place where the heat of this new body pooled, and I breathed it into my right palm. The flame answered not like a summoned servant, but like a part of my own limb that had been waiting for the cue to wake. It was an instinct I still didn't fully understand, a holdover from whatever… or whoever… this body used to be.
A blade of pure fire coalesced in my grip—slim, utilitarian, burning a steady orange at its heart and cooling to a pale yellow at its edges. Nothing theatrical. Nothing beautiful. It was a tool, and I held it for exactly thirty seconds, my arm unwavering. When I let it dissipate, the blade collapsed into a mere warmth that the enchanted floor absorbed without a trace.
Haruki's cold blue eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than they had on the others. No praise. No public note. But the air shifted. The unspoken verdict was competent.
Task two: control. Haruki triggered a small, clockwork training construct—a jittering thing of metal joints and erratic, unpredictable movement. "Immobilize it. Pin it without turning it to slag or destroying the surrounding area. Thirty seconds."
Students rushed to comply. Amabie's frost instantly flash-froze its gears solid. Shion's precise flame cauterized a crucial joint, welding it in place. Estelle's imp zipped around, biting at delicate neural-node wires with surgical precision. Samir, with another effortless gesture, used a gust of wind to alter the construct's balance, making it wobble and stumble exactly where he wanted it to.
I moved in, the ghost of my fire blade curling around my fist again. But I didn't strike to destroy. I focused the heat into a needle-thin point, applying it with microscopic precision to the metal joints. I heated them just enough to force a minuscule expansion, jamming the gears against each other with a series of soft clicks. The construct stuttered, shuddered, and went perfectly still. Immobilized. Unharmed. Rendered utterly harmless.
Haruki's lips twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it might have been the ghost of approval.
Task three: suppression. This was the real test. Haruki raised a central crystal, and from it, she drew a roaring, man-sized simulacrum of pure flame—a hungry, lashing beast of heat and light, designed to test our ability to control a disaster in the making. "Stop it," she commanded, her voice rising over the roar. "Choke it. Suppress it completely without letting so much as a single ember touch the stands."
The fire-beast lunged. Panic erupted. A few students attacked it directly, only feeding its energy. Others mistimed their suppression chants and got their sleeves singed for their trouble.
I didn't rush. I walked into the center of its heat, my steps even. The warmth in my chest responded, not with alarm, but with recognition. This wasn't a foe; it was a unruly child of the same element I held within me. I didn't blast it. I didn't fight it. I braided my will into the air around it, creating an invisible, constricting press—a suffocating blanket of pure control. I pushed that pressure into the simulacrum's core, into its very breathing. The roaring thing gasped, its form thinning, its lashing tongues of fire clenching inward as if being strangled. With one final exhale, I sealed the last of the flame out of existence. The amphitheater was silent, save for the rapid breathing of the other students.
Haruki didn't clap. But the way her gaze sharpened on me, filing me away in some mental catalog of notable assets and potential problems, told me everything I needed to know.
The moment class was dismissed, the amphitheater exploded into a buzzing hive of conversation. Samir whooped, a low and excited sound, and clapped me on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered my old body. "Nice and tidy, Yuki! No show. All results. That'll get you farther than all their fancy chanting."
Before I could reply, a cool, precise presence approached our bench. Amabie Ningyo regarded me with an expression that was more appraisal than greeting.
"Yuki-san," she said, her voice as balanced and measured as her ice magic. "You kept your thermal output remarkably neat. Efficient. If you ever wish to learn aquatic lattice theory for further refinement of your core temperature, I can arrange an introductory meeting with a suitable tutor." She offered a thin, calculated smile. It was an offer, but one layered with implicit expectations—a debt to be incurred, an alliance to be considered. I listened, filed the information away under 'Potentially Useful, Definitely Dangerous,' and gave a non-committal nod of thanks. Alliances here were a currency, and I wasn't sure what I had to spend yet.
The rest of the day cut by like a sharp blade. Alchemy lectures that felt like advanced chemistry, weapons handling drills that left my muscles screaming in protest, and warrior practicums that peeled back another layer of the academy's brutal, competitive nature. With every hour, the landscape of allies and antagonists became clearer. Amabie watched and weighed everyone, a noble constantly calculating advantage. Liliana moved through it all with quiet grace, offering genuine smiles and healing minor practicum injuries with a touch. Galen Ombretta seemed to prefer the edges of the room, slouching in shadows and observing everything with a patient, predatory stillness, as if waiting for the perfect moment to step onto the board. Shion was already sketching flame patterns in a notebook, his hunger not for power, but for the underlying knowledge, analytical and intense.
By dusk, the main courtyard was humming with the day's gossip. Samir looped a friendly arm around my shoulders, bumping against me as we walked. "You weren't lying back in the room," he said, his tone easy. "You've got control. Serious control."
"I'm not trying to impress you," I muttered, the words coming out more gruffly than I intended. It was the truth. My goal was far simpler: survive.
He just grinned wider. "You did anyway. Good thing we're roommates. This is going to be fun."
Back in the dorm room, my eyes flicked to the empty third bed. Its occupant was late, or perhaps had never been assigned. Another variable. Another unknown face I'd have to measure and assess. The room itself was opulent, a clear sign it was reserved for the well-connected or the exceptionally talented—carved oak lockers, thick embroidered curtains, the feel of old money disguised as simple comfort. I didn't belong here by right of birth or name. I was here by arrangement, by the protection and intricate plans of the people who had shipped me off to this academy, a piece in a game I didn't yet understand.
When the magelights dimmed and Samir's breathing deepened into the rhythmic snore of someone who'd spent the day wrestling the wind itself, I did what I always did in these private, silent moments. I closed my eyes, pushed a quiet mental command into the void, and felt it respond.
A familiar, semi-translucent blue screen, unseen by anyone else in this world, bloomed against the darkness of my eyelids. My tether to the absurd reality of my situation. My status window.
─────────────────────────────────────
Name:Yukiharu Akio
Level:1 EXP: 120 / 1000 Title: Scion (Sealed)
Bloodline:Asura Clan — Sealed (Legacy: Unknown)
─────────────────────────────────────
HP:1040 MP: 0 (Sealed)
STR:149 AGI: 121
DEX:123 VIT: 130
INT:?? (Sealed) DEF: 112
LUK:46 CHA: 61
Skill Slots:0 / 3
Ability Points (AP):1
Hidden Trait:Accursed Soul (Dormant)
─────────────────────────────────────
Status:Awake — Fatigue 45 / 100
Notes:"Practical exercises completed. Minor AP reward granted for disciplined application and successful suppression. Continued obfuscation of full capabilities is advised."
─────────────────────────────────────
A single, gleaming Ability Point now blinked in the corner of the screen. A small, almost pathetic reward by most gaming standards, but here, in this deadly real-world game, it felt monumental. It was the system's quiet acknowledgment that moving, fighting, and learning here counted. That I was progressing. Yet, the truly terrifying things—the sealed stats, the unknown bloodline, the dormant trait—still hummed beneath layers of grey text, untouched and patient, like sleeping dragons.
I let the window collapse back into silence and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. The day had teeth, and I knew the nights would eventually bare their own. I'd shown them a sliver, a controlled flame, exactly as ordered. The first threads of alliances had been spun: a wind-boy with a disarming grin, a noble girl with scales and ledgered offers, a shadowy summoner, a gentle healer. This academy was a market, and it traded in two currencies: opportunity and grudges.
I curled my hand into a fist over my chest, where the embers of today's fire still slumbered. For now, this was enough. I'd learn the rest—unlock the seals, understand the bloodline, discover what an "Accursed Soul" truly meant—when the time was right. When I had dug the rabbit hole deep enough to hide the truth I carried.
Tomorrow would bring new drills, new teachers, new tests. The school had begun its work of forging us. And I had begun my own work: keep the secret sealed, practice the show, survive, and build my strength in the shadows.
And as the city's eternal night finally swallowed the spires of the academy, I slept with a small, resolved ember glowing under my ribs—nothing flashy, nothing they could see. Just a silent promise to the self I had been and the self I was becoming: Get stronger. Keep the rest hidden. Let them only see what you want them to see.