Aric Ignovad had never thought much of his family name. Sure, "Ignovad" sounded like something carved into the annals of history — fierce, fire-forged, dripping with legend. But in reality?
His father was a tailor. His mother ran a tea shop. No grand battles, no ancient treasures, no whispers of destiny. The most dangerous thing in the Ignovad household was his mother's overly sweet mana-leaf pudding.
And yet, here he was.
Aric Ignovad was 15 years old, tall for his age, already standing above most boys in his village almost reaching height of 5'8, though his frame had yet to fill out with the weight and power of a man. He carried a lean build, wiry and restless, with the faint beginnings of muscle showing across his arms and shoulders from endless hours spent hauling water, chopping wood, and sparring with a wooden blade. It wasn't the hardened strength of a soldier, but the promise of one—the kind of foundation that made elders mutter that he'd "grow into something fierce" if the world didn't swallow him first.
His face carried that same in-between quality: no longer a child's, but not yet fully sharpened into a man's. His jaw was beginning to show definition, often set stubbornly when he was determined to win an argument he had no business winning. A thin scar marked his left cheek—barely noticeable to some, the one thing that set him apart even in a crowded room, were his eyes. They glowed a molten amber, bright and strange, like embers that refused to die out. People often looked twice when they met his gaze, unsettled by how unnatural they seemed, though Aric himself had long since stopped noticing.
His hair was a thick, unruly mess of raven-black strands, forever untamed no matter how often he raked his hands through it. When sunlight struck, faint threads of red glimmered in its depths, like sparks caught in coal. It only added to the impression that something smoldered inside him, waiting for air
The end exam at school was for good score to get admitted into better academy as good as possible, with healing skill like his heart was designed to enroll into support roll
The Academy's rules were simple:
1. Awaken your Mana Vein.
2. Master your first skill.
3. Don't die during first practical exam.
Aric had managed the first. Barely. His mana vein had flickered to life in the Awakening Hall like a star on its last breath. The skill he'd received? Lesser Restoration — a glorified band-aid spell.
His classmates had gone on about flashy Mana Blades, Stone Skin, Thunder Arcs. One guy had even awakened Flame Tiger's Roar.
Aric? He could patch paper cuts.
Still, in a top-tier academy. Survival mattered more than spectacle. Their Credit System was both the carrot and the stick. Earn credits through missions, exams, or service to the Academy, and you could trade them for better gear, training manuals, or even exemption from certain brutal field tests. Lose credits — by failing, skipping classes, or causing trouble — and you risked demotion to the "Remedial Track."
His school exam is suppose to grant him those points which will decide his enrollment in university as well as starting academic creadit the more he has the merrier
Aric wasn't about to join the remedials
So when the end-of-semester exam were announced, the teachers did what they always did for students with support skills
Assign them to "Safe Zones" — areas with no monsters, no danger, just simple resource collection.
Aric's assigned task?
Zone D-14: Low-risk herb collection.
Worth a measly twenty credits. Safe. Simple.
Boring.
Twenty credits wouldn't get him anywhere near to a good academy.
Which is why, when the mission sign-up board opened, Aric quietly crossed his name off D-14 and wrote it under Zone F-3 instead.
A known low-level monster zone. Weak creatures, F-rank threats — dangerous enough to keep most low-grade students out, but nothing an ambitious novice couldn't handle… in theory.
He grinned to himself as he walked away.
"Herbs are for healers. Today, I'm a hunter."