The modern world was built on a foundation of cosmic terror, but at 8:15 on a Tuesday morning, it just felt incredibly boring.
Zeke sat in the second-to-last row of the lecture hall, his chin propped lazily on his palm. His dark, messy hair fell slightly over his eyes—eyes that were a completely ordinary, unremarkable black. He twirled a cheap plastic pen between his fingers, watching the glowing holographic display hovering at the front of the classroom.
"Throughout our shared history, humanity has occupied a precarious position," Professor Lock's voice droned, cutting through the early morning fog of twenty-five tired seventeen-year-olds. Lock tapped the podium, and the hologram shifted, displaying a massive, glowing multi-tiered pyramid. "We are the youngest, and biologically, the weakest of the primordial lineages."
The hologram zoomed in on the apex of the pyramid, flashing names that made the room grow instinctively quiet.
"Above us stand the global hierarchies. The Celestial Order of the Angels, whose holy laws govern the upper expanses. The territorial Merfolk Sovereignties ruling the Seven Seas. The indomitable strength of the Giants, and..." Lock paused, the light of the hologram casting sharp shadows across his wrinkled face. "...the Abyss Empire of the Demons. Any one of these races possesses innate, biological dominance over us. A Vampire's Hemomancy or a Lycan's passive physical assimilation can tear through an average human squad in seconds."
Lock turned away from the screen, his sharp eyes sweeping across the rows of students.
"So, how does humanity survive in a world surrounded by apex predators? The answer is adaptability. We lack innate racial magic, but the Universe granted us the capacity for magic. Through Magic Power and the careful cultivation of Ability Scrolls, a human can elevate themselves from prey to a Vanguard."
He tapped the podium again. The pyramid vanished, replaced by a chart detailing average human MP capacity and the market values of basic F-Rank to C-Rank Ability Scrolls.
"The average human teenager awakens with an MP capacity of roughly 50 to 100 units. It is a humble foundation, but it is enough to ignite a scroll. It is enough to channel the energy and contribute." Lock's expression hardened, his gaze shifting directly toward the back of the room. The air in the classroom seemed to drop a few degrees. "Which brings us to the anomaly. The dead weight of our species."
Zeke didn't blink. He kept twirling his pen, though his jaw tightened just a fraction. He knew exactly what was coming.
"The Zeros," Lock said, his voice dripping with cold pragmatism. "Individuals born with an absolute magic power reading of zero. No MP pool. No capacity. No future. In the eyes of society, purchasing an Ability Scroll for a Zero is a waste of capital. They cannot ignite the text. They cannot channel the energy because they have no MP to fuel it. In a world where our very existence is threatened by the outer races, a Zero is not just weak—they are a liability. A deficit to the human collective."
Right on cue, a collective whisper rippled through the classroom. Heads subtly turned toward Zeke's desk.
"Hey, look at him. He's not even sweating," someone whispered two rows ahead. "Of course not. He's used to it. The school tests have confirmed it three times since freshman year. Pure zero MP." "Must be nice having no expectations. While we're busting our asses to qualify for the Academy entrance, he gets to just... sit there."
Sitting a few desks away, a bulky student named Keith let out a low, mocking chuckle, intentionally leaning back in his chair to glance at Zeke with blatant disdain. Keith's hands were thick and heavily calloused—the physical traits of someone whose MP had already begun adapting to his family's C-Rank Strengthening ability.
Zeke ignored them all. He kept his eyes locked on his desk, his expression a mask of perfect, stoic indifference.
But beneath the desk, out of sight, Zeke's left hand was clamped tightly around his own wrist. His pulse was racing, but it wasn't from fear or embarrassment. It was from a sensation he couldn't explain to anyone—a bizarre, deep-seated friction right in the center of his chest.
For as long as he could remember, every time the school forced him to touch a testing crystal, the crystal remained pitch black. The instructors saw a void. They saw an empty vessel with zero MP. But Zeke didn't feel empty. He felt packed to the brim, locked behind a massive, invisible wall that he couldn't crack open, no matter how hard he tried.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED... CORE SEAL: ACTIVE]
A phantom line of text flashed at the edge of his vision, so fast and faint that he almost thought it was a trick of the light. It was a glitch he had been seeing more and more lately, a digital whisper buried deep inside his own head.
"Therefore," Professor Lock concluded, snapping his fingers to extinguish the holograms as the morning bell rang, "make sure your thesis statements on the racial defensive pacts are submitted by Friday. Class dismissed. And remember—your MP is your currency in this world. Do not squander it."
The classroom erupted into the chaotic noise of shuffling papers, scraping chairs, and loud chatter. Zeke slowly packed his notebook into his backpack, throwing the cheap pen inside. He lingered for a moment, letting the crowd filter out first. He preferred the hallways when they were a little less crowded, but today, fate had other plans.
As Zeke stepped through the doorway and into the bustling corridor, the heavy scent of ozone and cheap body spray immediately hit his nose.
Standing right in the center of the hallway, flanked by a couple of sycophants, was Keith. And he was looking right at Zeke.