The Grand Ceremonial Hall stretched before Leon like a cathedral of broken dreams. Hundreds of eighteen-year-olds packed the marble benches, their nervous chatter bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. Golden light from enchanted crystals bathed everything warmly, but Leon felt cold.
His hands trembled as he gripped the worn fabric of his pants—the same pants his mother had patched three times this month. Around him, students wore silk robes embroidered with family crests, and their conversations were peppered with the names of prestigious guilds and legendary hunters.
"My uncle says Ironfang Guild is already scouting for A-Ranks," whispered a girl behind him. Her voice carried the confidence of someone who'd never worried about rent money.
Leon's stomach twisted. He'd dreamed of this day for years, but sitting here among Armathor's elite, he felt like a fraud. His father's funeral flashed through his mind—the closed casket because dimensional creatures don't leave much behind—and the Hero's Pension that barely covered medicine for his mother's failing lungs.
"Hey." Damian nudged his shoulder. "Stop looking like someone died."
Leon managed a weak smile. His best friend radiated the easy confidence of someone born to wealth. Damian's father commanded an entire district's guard force. His mother owned three restaurants in the upper quarter. Even his clothes screamed money—midnight blue silk that probably cost more than Leon's family earned in a month.
"Just nervous," Leon said.
"About what? We've been planning this forever." Damian grinned. "You get your class, I get mine, and then we join the same guild. Easy."
Easy for him. Damian had the build of a natural warrior—broad shoulders, quick reflexes, and the kind of presence that made people step aside. Leon was tall but lean, better suited for books than battles. His only advantage was a sharp mind, but intelligence didn't guarantee a good awakening.
The crowd fell silent as Grand Assessor Vaelin took the stage. His silver robes marked him as one of the Association's highest officials—the man who would determine their futures with a single magical evaluation.
"Today, you leave childhood behind," Vaelin announced. His voice carried without amplification, reaching every corner of the massive hall. "The Awakening Orb will reveal your true nature. Your class. Your rank. Your place in the world."
Leon knew the rankings by heart. Everyone did.
S-Rank: The legends. One in ten thousand. Guild leaders and continental heroes.
A-Rank: The elite. Comfortable lives, respect, power.
B and C-Rank: Professionals. Good money, decent prospects.
D and E-Rank: Workers. Honest lives but limited advancement.
F-Rank: The forgotten. The System's mistakes.
"Marcus Thorne," Vaelin called.
A massive boy with coal-black hair approached the stage. The Awakening Orb—a sphere of crystallized mana the size of a person—pulsed with inner light. Marcus placed both hands on its surface.
Golden fire erupted around him. The orb blazed like a miniature sun.
"A-Rank Flame Berserker!"
The hall exploded in cheers. Marcus pumped his fist as guild representatives scrambled from their reserved seating. Leon watched three recruiters nearly trample each other to reach the stage first.
One after another, students approached the orb. Most received D or E-Ranks, which are still respectable. A few earned C-Ranks to moderate applause. Another A-Rank sparked a bidding war between guilds.
Leon's palms grew slick with sweat. Each announcement felt like a countdown to his judgment.
"Damian Falken."
His friend squeezed Leon's shoulder. "See you on the other side."
Damian walked to the orb with the swagger of someone who'd never doubted himself. His hand touched the crystal surface, and silver light erupted in sharp, blade-like patterns. The energy felt dangerous even from Leon's seat.
"A-Rank Warblade!"
The Ironfang Guild representative was already moving before Vaelin finished speaking. Leon felt a stab of pride mixed with growing dread. Of course, Damian got an A-rank. Of course, he'd join Ironfang—Arcadia's most prestigious combat guild.
The gap between them had just become a chasm.
More names. More celebrations for others. Leon barely heard them. His mind replayed every childhood moment with Damian. Racing through Armathor's streets. Sparring with wooden swords. Planning their future as legendary hunting partners.
All of it felt like someone else's memories now.
"Leon Graves."
The words hit him like cold water. As he stood, his legs felt disconnected from his body. The walk to the stage stretched forever. Each step echoed in the sudden silence.
The Awakening Orb loomed before him, larger than he'd imagined. Its surface swirled with captured starlight. Leon had read about the orb's history—crafted by ancient mages to identify magical potential. Thousands of kings, heroes, and legends have touched it over the centuries.
And now him.
Leon pressed his palms against the crystal. It felt warm, almost alive. Energy flowed through him, probing deep into his soul. The sensation was invasive, like someone rifling through his most private thoughts.
The orb's light shifted. Golden warmth faded to silver, then blue, then a sickly gray that reminded Leon of winter fog.
No. Not gray. It's worse than gray.
The color of ash. Of death. Of Failure.
"F-Rank Necromancer."
Vaelin's voice might as well have announced Leon's execution. The words echoed in the sudden silence, each syllable driving nails into his coffin.
F-Rank. The bottom. The mistake. The one classification that guaranteed a life of poverty and disgust.
Necromancer. Death magic. The class parents used to scare children into behaving.
The laughter started as a giggle from somewhere in the crowd. It spread like an infection, growing louder and crueler. Leon stood frozen at the orb, unable to move or think. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be the Failure everyone pitied.
Guild representatives who'd been watching every awakening suddenly found their shoes fascinating. The few who bothered to look at him wore expressions of disgust as if his classification might be contagious.
Leon's gaze found Damian in the crowd. His best friend's face cycled through emotions—shock, confusion, and something that stopped Leon's heart.
Disgust.
The same look everyone else wore, the look that said Leon had become something shameful, something better left forgotten.
Damian's mouth moved, but Leon couldn't hear the ringing in his ears. His friend—former friend—took a deliberate step backward. Away from Leon. Away from the F-Rank, nobody who would drag down his bright future.
The Grand Assessor was speaking, probably offering the standard condolences, but Leon heard nothing. His legs carried him off the stage without conscious thought. Students shifted away as he passed, creating space around the newly classified necromancer.
He kept walking until he reached the hall's exit. Behind him, the ceremony continued—more names, celebrations, and futures written in golden light.
Leon stepped into Armathor's afternoon sun and finally understood what his father had tried to tell him before that final mission. The world wasn't fair. Heroes weren't born from nothing. And sometimes, no matter how hard you dreamed, the System decided you were worth nothing.
The worst part wasn't the classification itself. It was the look on Damian's face as he stepped away.
That look said everything Leon needed to know about his future.