The entrance hall looked like a cathedral.
The stained glass windows spilled streams of multicolored light onto the white tiles, each ray breaking into red, blue, and green fragments that made the runes carved into the columns glitter.
The imperial crest, carved in relief above the doors, towered over everything: an eagle with outstretched wings, holding a sword and a scepter. Everything breathed power, solemnity, the promise of a future that would not tolerate the weak.
Hundreds of students were already crowding in.
The nobles paraded in brand-new uniforms, embroidered with gold or silver thread, their family crests sewn prominently onto their chests. Some spoke loudly, laughing among themselves, while others scanned the crowd with a haughty gaze, as if already choosing their future prey.
Beside them, the commoners huddled together, pale-faced, sweaty hands clutching simple jackets. They devoured one another with their eyes, half envious, half fearful, some clutching notebooks like pitiful talismans.
I observed them, motionless in the middle of the tumult, my hands clasped behind my back. The mask of dignity glued to my face did the rest: Aristocratic Charm pulsed in my veins, clothing each of my gestures with natural confidence. Eyes already slid toward me, whispers, flushed cheeks. All of it without me opening my mouth once. A gilded prison, but useful.
And then I saw him.
In the distance, near the monumental staircase, a young man stood straight, without a luxurious uniform, without a crest. His gray tunic, plain, clashed against the ocean of silk and brocade that surrounded him. But he did not lower his eyes. His broad shoulders, his calm, almost stern gaze, made him seem taller than he was. Not a noble. Not an heir. Just… a commoner.
— "That's him…" people were already whispering around me. "The boy recommended by Professor Kaelis."
Kaelis. The most respected combat master at the Academy. A steel beast who had never taken more than a single disciple at a time. And this commoner had received his personal recommendation.
A stifled laugh burst out behind me.
— "A commoner in Class A? He won't last a week."
— "You'll see, he'll end up on his knees."
The murmurs swelled, a tide of mockery and jealousy crashing over him. But he remained impassive, chin lifted, as if he couldn't hear them. As if he didn't have the right to doubt.
I felt my throat tighten.
Him, Daren, he was the canonical hero. A commoner full of talent, forged in sweat, promised to rise.
And me? A noble without ability. Bad with a sword, incapable of casting a spell without trembling. I had always been mediocre in both theory and practice.
The only reason I was here today, in Class A, was that damned paternal favoritism. My father's connections. Backroom intrigues. Signatures in the right places, favors traded behind closed doors.
The naked truth struck me like a slap: I was his exact opposite.
A fallen heir, a noble with nothing but his name, an extra who never should have crossed the threshold of Class A.
I clenched my jaw, keeping the mask intact. No one could see the crack.
The hubbub swelled like a stormy sea, each group of students throwing their own bursts of noise into the tumult: nervous laughter, whispered insults, muffled applause. Hundreds of young nobles and commoners drowned in barely-hidden rivalries, their ambitions stinking like acrid sweat.
Then, a sharp clap tore the air.
The magic was immediate. The wind rose without warning, sweeping through the hall in a glacial gust. Torch flames flickered, tapestries whipped, hair plastered against faces.
In an instant, silence fell. Not a word, not even a breath. As if the very air had been stolen away by that single command.
She was there.
The Headmistress.
A straight silhouette, frozen in the certainty of her power. Her eyes, a blue so pale they looked like silver, seemed to reflect every student in the hall. Her black coat embroidered with white runes floated behind her, as if obeying an invisible breeze. The severity of her features was not inhuman, on the contrary: it was an icy beauty, too perfect, forbidding all familiarity.
When she spoke, it was not just her voice that was heard. It was a presence. The wind carried her words, sliding them into every ear, pressing them directly into the flesh.
— "Welcome… to Astérion Magic Academy."
A shiver ran through the crowd. The name alone rang like both promise and threat.
— "You who are gathered here… you are the future of this empire. Your blood, your sweat, and your sacrifices will feed the glory of the crown. Those who fail will be cast aside, for Astérion only keeps what shines."
Her voice cracked like a whip, merciless. Some students paled, others straightened with pride, as if galvanized.
— "Here, birth will not protect you. Here, only talent will speak. Discipline will be your only guide. Weakness, your condemnation."
A leaden silence weighed. Every word rang like a sentence.
She raised a hand, and the air split. Giant runes erupted, drawing lines of light above our heads. They arranged themselves, forming columns of white brilliance, names appearing one by one, suspended like stars carved into the stone of the hall.
— "Here is the distribution of classes."
Class A. Class B. Class C. Down to F. Each name inscribed with a sharp flash, like a blade stabbing into wood. Students held their breath, searching for their letters, praying inwardly. Then the screams broke out: shouts of joy for those who reached the higher classes, muffled groans for those thrown into the lower ones. Some fell to their knees, others lifted their arms to the sky, hysterical.
The hierarchy had just been carved into light.
Me, I didn't even raise my head.
What for? I already knew. My name shone up there, written in immaculate letters in the Class A column. Not by merit. Not by strength. Just… by favoritism.
I stood perfectly straight, arms crossed behind my back, as if the matter was too trivial to deserve my attention. The whispers around me slid off, some intrigued by my calm, others irritated. And then I felt her gaze.
The Headmistress.
Her icy eyes had caught my indifference. She clicked her tongue subtly, a barely audible sound that echoed in my skull like a slap. It was no mistake: she wanted me to understand. She disapproved. She despised the favoritism that had placed me where I didn't belong.
Inside, I shrugged.
So what? Favoritism is just another skill. Life is about making use of what you have. Connections, influence, money: all of that is part of the game. Refusing to use such an advantage? That would be pure stupidity. Those who refuse out of "honor" end up crushed, forgotten. Me, I have no intention of dying for a principle.
Her lips, however, curved into a smile. A cold smile, that sent a shiver down more than one student's spine.
— "Now that you have taken note of your classes…" Her voice, once again carried by the wind, slid into every ear, clear and merciless. "Know that there has been a change of program this year."
A shocked uproar broke out immediately. Protests, questions, a chaotic roar that swelled at once.
She raised a hand, and silence returned as if by magic.
— "Today, a practical evaluation will decide your provisional ranking in the Academy."
A breath swept through the crowd. Some widened their eyes in terror, others straightened, excitement burning in their gaze.
The Headmistress finished, every word like a sentence:
— "How you will be treated at the Academy will depend on this trial."
A weight crushed my chest. My blood froze. I saw again, like a gaping wound, the letters of the quest engraved in my memory: Class A or death. It started with this ranking, crucial at the end of the term.
A wave of dizziness seized me, but my body remained motionless. Straight. Cold. Outwardly, I was nothing but dignity and charm. No trembling, no weakness.
But inside, a single thought spun around my throat like a blade:
Fuck… they want to kill me on the very first day.
The Headmistress's icy gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on us like a blade over our necks.
— "The test will take place in two parts," she announced, her voice carried by magic. "And the first begins… now."
The very next moment, the air exploded.
Her aura crashed down on us like an invisible mountain. A crushing, cold, murderous pressure seeped into every pore of my skin. The walls of the hall shook, the stained glass windows moaned, the runes carved into the stone glowed with a sickly light. The ground trembled beneath our feet, as if the entire building wanted to flee this woman's presence.
My heart leapt against my chest, my lungs contracted, and a burning pain climbed along my skull. Every breath became torture. My bones cracked under a force I couldn't fight.
Fuck…
I wanted to bend my knees, to let myself slide down, to collapse onto the cold tiles… but my willpower, my highest stat after Charm, nailed me upright like a pillar. Willpower: 38. I felt the number itself blazing in my blood. My body screamed, my guts twisted, my mouth filled with a metallic taste—blood was already flowing from my throat.
But my mask didn't crack.
From the outside, I was nothing but a noble standing tall, impassive, wrapped in his luxurious costume. Cold eyes, chin high. The aura crushed me, shredded me, but my skill—this damn Aristocratic Charm—refused to let me falter. This body had been trained to embody dignity and charm. Even in agony, it played its role.
Around me, students collapsed. Some vomited, others screamed, noses bursting under the pressure. Dozens fell, trembling, eyes rolling back. Their cries died at once, swallowed by forced silence.
Hold on. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes.
Every second stretched into eternity. My temples throbbed as if they would burst. My fingers trembled, clenched on themselves. My lips split, a thin line of blood dripping, but I remained upright.
When at last the aura dissipated, suddenly, as if an invisible veil had been torn away, I felt my legs falter. Barely half the students were still standing. The others lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious or bowed in shame.
My body, on its own, moved. I slowly pulled a silk handkerchief from the inner pocket of my vest. With a calm, almost ceremonial gesture, I wiped the blood staining my lips. Then I folded the cloth with precision and tucked it away again. As if nothing had happened.
Around me, some stared at me in fear. Others with jealousy.
But my eyes, they fixed on him.
Daren.
The commoner.
That monster didn't have a single drop of sweat on his forehead. Not a tremor. Not a crack in his mask. As if the aura had been nothing but a summer breeze.
A bitter rictus crossed my mind.
Me, I had only stayed standing because I was forced to. Him, he hadn't even wavered.
And deep inside, a chilling certainty took hold: I must never become his enemy.