The sun hung low in the western sky as the bells tolled three times, casting golden light across the spires of Silverhawk Academy of the Arcane. Within the stone-clad walls of Class 3-A, silence fell like a velvet curtain as Lady Reyna, the homeroom instructor, stepped up to the lectern.
With great care, she placed a crystalline orb upon the desk before her. The sphere pulsed faintly with inner light, as though alive, humming softly with arcane energy.
"We shall now begin the semester's final assessment of magical aptitude," Reyna announced, her voice calm yet unmistakably authoritative. "It is also the last sanctioned test before your graduation, administered jointly by the Church and the Royal Arcane Council. Your results today will directly determine your future assignments and affiliations."
A murmur of anticipation rippled through the room.
"First," she continued, "Class Representative Elenna Silverwing will remind you of the tier system and the criteria for admission into the various vocational academies."
Polite applause followed as Elenna rose to her feet. Graceful and poised, she strode to the front with the ease of someone born to command. Her silver hair caught the sunlight like spun moonlight, and her eyes shone with a clarity that brooked no doubt.
"As you all know," she began, her tone confident, "since the Sundering of the Realms a millennium ago, the Arcane Academy system has replaced all noble and commoner distinctions with a single measure—innate magical aptitude."
"The classification ranges from the divine to the negligible," she explained, her words crisp. "At the pinnacle stands the Chosen of the Gods, followed by: Sanctified Radiance (SSS), Duskgold (SS), Crimsonflame (S), Steelblue (A), Verdantleaf (B), Stonegray (C), Blackiron (D), Rotwood (E), and lastly, Voidborn (F)."
"Those who manifest Crimsonflame or higher are eligible for immediate placement into the Sanctum of the Chosen, the crown jewel of the capital's arcane order, and the pride of the Holy See. Steelblue candidates are assigned to the Imperial Warcaster Academy, where they receive elite combat training and tactical indoctrination."
"Verdantleaf and Stonegray levels are typically dispatched to the frontier patrols or administrative magistrates in outer provinces. Though the roles differ, they serve as the backbone of the kingdom's stability."
Here, she paused.
All eyes, including her own, were drawn—unbidden—to the shadowed rear corner of the classroom, where Kael Thorne sat beside his ever-smiling, round-faced friend.
Even Lady Reyna's gaze lingered a moment longer than intended.
But Elenna swiftly collected herself, her voice steady once more. "As for those ranked Blackiron or below," she resumed, "they will be relegated to logistical divisions—handling transport, maintaining rudimentary arcanotech, and assisting in non-combat support roles."
A wave of hushed whispers and anxious glances swept across the classroom. Several students wore pale expressions—those who knew they hovered dangerously close to the cutoff. To be deemed unworthy in this final test was to be cast adrift from glory, from power... from hope.
"Ahem." Reyna's quiet cough cut through the murmur like a blade. The room fell still.
"Let this be clear," she said, eyes sharp as drawn steel, "the classification system is not meant to measure your worth, but to allocate the realm's resources wisely. Those with exceptional gifts are forged for the frontlines, where their sacrifice may turn the tide. Those without—deserve safety, a life far from the slaughterfields."
Her tone grew solemn.
"For we are all united under a single purpose—to drive the demonic scourge from our lands, and reclaim humanity's honor and dominion!"
"Glory to mankind! Light against the dark!" a voice cried out.
"Glory to mankind! Light against the dark!" the class echoed in thunderous unison, fists raised, eyes ablaze with youthful fervor.
Lady Reyna allowed herself a rare smile and rapped the table once. "The test begins. Elenna, you may go first."
With a nod, Elenna stepped forward and gently laid her fingers upon the crystal orb.
In an instant, searing crimson light burst forth from within, flooding the chamber in a radiant blaze like a dying sun setting fire to the heavens.
S-Rank Aptitude. Crimsonflame.
Even though Kael had seen it before, the sight struck a bitter chord in his chest. A familiar ache stirred—one made of envy, frustration... and the faintest whisper of defiance.
In the sacred codex of magical aptitude, each rank bore its own distinct hue.
The Chosen of the Gods blazed in pure white sanctity, a light unmarred by shadow. Below them, the Sanctified Radiance shimmered with black-gold brilliance, an ethereal glow said to reflect divine authority.
Beyond these celestial heights, the ranks descended in order of the chromatic spectrum—Crimsonflame, Steelblue, Verdantleaf—each an echo of the rainbow's power. Yet one color lay outside the spectrum entirely, spoken of in hushed tones and quiet pity.
Violet Mist.
The color of the Voidborn—those marked F-rank, those touched by nothingness.
And that, precisely, was Kael Thorne's burden.
On the dais, the test continued.
One by one, students stepped forward and pressed their palms to the glowing orb. The results shimmered through the air—fiery red for S-rank, azure pulses for A, vibrant green for B. The room was filled with pride and congratulations; for one class to boast even a single Crimsonflame was rare. To have several A and B-ranks? A miracle.
Yet as the final names dwindled, one remained.
Kael.
He sat motionless, shadowed by silence. All eyes fell upon him. There was no malice—only the kind of anticipation reserved for a well-worn joke, told too many times but still expected to amuse.
They waited for the familiar show: the soft rise of violet mist, the boy walking away, shoulders slumped, dignity trailing behind him like a torn banner.
But Kael stood.
And this time, he did not walk toward the testing crystal.
"Kael? You're going the wrong way, friend," someone called, the sarcasm in their voice barely masked.
He ignored them all.
Straight and sure, he walked down the center aisle—until he came to a halt directly in front of Elenna Silverwing.
Gasps fluttered through the class like startled birds.
Then he bowed.
Deeply.
"I apologize," he said, his voice firm, resonant.
Elenna blinked, stunned into stillness.
"I—what?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, louder this time. "For everything."
A second bow. Deeper, more theatrical. His voice rose a full octave.
"Truly—deeply—sorry!"
Elenna's expression twisted from confusion to alarm. This madman… was he seriously playing this as a scene?
With a reluctant sigh, she extended a hand—whether out of politeness or to end the farce was unclear.
But the moment their fingers touched—
Something changed.
A pulse, imperceptible to others, surged from Kael's hand into hers. Not magic as taught in books or cast from staves, but a strange, coiling force, like enchanted vines wrapping through her veins.
Elenna's breath caught.
Her limbs weakened, her mana abruptly stilled. A heat flushed through her cheeks, and the room spun slightly around her.
"You… what did you just—?"
Her knees gave out. She collapsed back into her seat, trembling, her eyes wide and unfocused. A flush stained her face, not of embarrassment alone, but of something more primal and inexplicable.
Only Kael stood unaffected—cool, collected, unreadable.
Fortunately for him, she sat in the front row. No one behind had seen. Had they witnessed her state, there might have been panic... or worse, a spellfire duel.
And Kael?
Kael would've been turned into a toad on the spot.
"System… she'll be all right, won't she?" Kael asked silently, his heart thudding.
"Rest assured, Host," the system replied with unsettling cheer, "a living sacrifice causes only minor fatigue. No lasting harm whatsoever."
Kael let out a long breath, steadied himself, and turned toward the testing crystal.
He approached slowly—deliberately—as if walking to the edge of destiny itself.
Then, without hesitation, he placed both hands upon the orb.
HUMMMMM——
A blinding light surged from within the sphere—radiant gold, sharp and pure, like sunlight forged into magic!
The entire classroom gasped.
"What in the Stars…? Yellow light?! That's—Verdantleaf?! A B-rank aptitude?!"
"Impossible! Wasn't he a Voidborn? A cursed F-rank?!"
Even Lady Reyna, ever composed, stood frozen. Her eyes flickered with disbelief, then widened with realization.
Whatever had just happened—Kael Thorne's fate had changed.
And in the center of the stunned room, Kael threw back his head and laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a smirk.
A madman's triumphant roar that echoed against stone walls.
"HAHAHA! Yellow! It's yellow!" His hands struck floor, his eyes misting with emotion. "I'm not trash! I'm not trash anymore! Waaaaahhhh!"