I am the architect of reality itself, and I'm about to fail my Academy entrance exam.
The irony would be hilarious if my family's survival didn't depend on me somehow pulling off the impossible for the next four years. Standing in the Imperial Academy's crystal-domed testing chamber, surrounded by the children of Great Families who could level city blocks before breakfast, I feel every bit the F-Rank fraud the System classified me as.
The air itself is wrong here. Too thick, too charged with the raw Authority radiating from my future classmates. Each breath tastes metallic, and my lungs—these pathetic F-Rank lungs—struggle to process atmosphere so dense with power it might as well be liquid. Sweat beads on my palms despite the chamber's perfect climate control. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape before someone notices what I really am.
"Morrison, Kael," the testing administrator calls out, her voice echoing through the chamber with mechanical precision. "Report to Station Seven for the System Sieve examination."
I force my legs to move, boots clicking against polished marble as I walk past the living weapons masquerading as teenagers. Seraphina Ignis doesn't just glance at me—she studies me with calculating pity, like I'm a chess piece she's already decided how to sacrifice. Her flames dance beneath her skin in patterns that suggest she's mentally cataloging exactly how useless I'll be in whatever game she's playing.
Varen Ferros adjusts his sword—a blade that can cut through dimensional barriers—and the dismissal in his posture is absolute. Not contempt. Contempt would imply I register as worth having an opinion about. This is the casual disregard of a mountain for an ant.
They're not wrong to ignore me. According to every official measurement, I shouldn't exist in their rarified atmosphere.
F-Rank: Authority Level 0.003
Synchronization Rate: 0.00001%
Classification: Awakened (Minimal)
Threat Assessment: Negligible
The numbers branded into my Academy identification crystal, marking me as barely functional. What the System doesn't know is that those numbers represent the most elaborate lie in human history.
I reach Station Seven, where a testing construct waits with mechanical patience. When it speaks, harmonics in its voice make my bones vibrate with wrongness.
"Kael Morrison. F-Rank Awakened. Please place your hand on the resonance crystal for System Sieve analysis."
The Reality Anchor fragment embedded in the testing platform pulses with contained starlight. I know what it is—a piece of the seven keystones holding our dimensional framework together. Under normal circumstances, it would analyze my Authority patterns with perfect accuracy.
But nothing about me has ever been normal.
I place my palm against its surface and immediately feel the invasion beginning. Cold. Sharp. Like a spike of crystallized interrogation driving straight into the core of my being, threatening to shatter the mental barriers I've spent three years constructing. The crystal should be cataloging whatever minimal abilities I possess.
Instead, I can sense its confusion—a computer trying to run a program that keeps returning impossible results. The wrongness spreads up my arm like ice water in my veins, and for one terrifying moment, I feel the careful construct of my false identity starting to crack.
'Here we go again.'
The construct tilts its head. "Anomalous reading detected. Initiating secondary scan protocols."
The probe intensifies, and I have to fight every instinct screaming at me to tear my hand away and run. Instead, I do what I've learned to do over three years of hiding in plain sight. I don't fight the invasion—I guide it. Gently. Carefully. Like conducting a symphony written in the language of quantum mathematics.
'Nothing interesting here. Move along. Just another F-Rank nobody.'
The spike of wrongness retreats, the crystal's aggressive light settling back to routine glow. My hand trembles as I lift it away, but the construct nods with satisfaction.
"Scan complete. Classification confirmed: F-Rank Awakened. Authority Level: 0.003. No significant changes from previous measurements. Report to Classroom Block C for orientation."
"Thank you," I manage, voice steadier than I have any right to expect.
Another successful test. Another day of maintaining the lie that keeps me breathing.
Because the truth I can never let anyone discover is that I didn't Awaken three years ago. I created the System that governs our world thirty-one years ago, then died and was reborn to guide humanity through the transition I designed.
And if anyone figures that out, they'll either worship me, control me, or kill me. Probably all three.
---
The Imperial Academy defies architectural principles the way gravity defies politeness.
Walking through corridors that extend beyond the building's external dimensions, past staircases spiraling into impossible spaces, I'm reminded that our world gave up on making sense three decades ago. When reality's operating system broke, we rebuilt it with more flexible parameters.
"Kael!"
The shout echoes with dangerous enthusiasm. I turn to see Zane Blackwell jogging toward me, grinning like he's either discovered treasure or stolen something valuable. Possibly both.
Zane is F-Rank like me, but where I'm weak by necessity, he's weak because he invested his Authority into abilities the Academy doesn't recognize as combat-relevant. Information gathering, social manipulation, probability adjustment—powers that make him the most dangerous F-Rank in Academy history.
"You look like someone who just talked their way past a firing squad," he says, falling into step beside me.
"System Sieve without triggering total diagnostic failure," I reply. "Small victories."
"Right. Because that's completely normal." The knowing look means we're about to have another conversation about my suspicious ability to exist without breaking measurement equipment. "Most F-Ranks don't require special testing protocols."
I've never told Zane what I really am, but he's not stupid. He's noticed that Authority devices malfunction around me, that instructors pause mid-sentence when analyzing my technique, that certain professors look at me like I'm an equation they can't solve.
He's also my best friend and the only person who treats me like a human being instead of a classification error. Which means I trust him with my life but not with secrets that could get him killed.
"Maybe I'm just special," I say.
"Special." He pulls out a data crystal glowing amber. "Speaking of special, you need to see what I found in the Academy's public records."
We duck into an empty classroom, and Zane activates the crystal. Holographic displays bloom between us—financial records, correspondence, genealogy charts that make my blood freeze.
"Your family's Guild is drowning," he says without preamble. "The Compass and Quill Guild owes forty thousand Authority crystals to House Petra. Payment due in six months."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Not the economics—the image that crashes through my mind of my mother's face when she realizes they're going to lose everything. My sister Lyra being forced to abandon her studies. My father's hands shaking as he signs away three generations of family legacy.
Cold, metallic dread settles in my stomach like I've swallowed broken glass.
"How did you find this?" My voice sounds far away.
"House Petra's database security is remarkably poor," Zane says casually. "Also, Baroness Lysandra has been making inquiries about Academy students from financially vulnerable families. Your name appears on her list of 'potential leverage opportunities.'"
'Potential leverage opportunities.' The phrase coils in my mind like a venomous snake.
She'll use my Academy attendance as a weapon against my parents. Either I find forty thousand crystals, or she destroys my family to make an example.
"What am I supposed to do?" I ask, more to myself than to Zane.
The honest answer is that I could solve this with a thought. One tiny adjustment to financial databases, a minor recalibration of debt calculations. I have administrative access to reality itself.
But using my abilities would be like firing a signal flare labeled "hidden god operating in plain sight." Every major power in our world monitors for unauthorized reality manipulation.
"When you figure it out," Zane says, "remember that F-Rank information brokers are surprisingly good at making problems disappear."
Before I can respond, the Academy's announcement system activates with harmonic chimes.
"All first-year students report to Orientation Hall immediately. Class assignments and dormitory allocations will be distributed. Failure to attend will result in immediate academic probation."
As we navigate corridors that rearrange themselves between footsteps, I think about the contradiction I represent.
I am Kael Morrison—F-Rank student, son of failing Guild owners, completely unremarkable.
I am also the architect of the System itself, the hidden god who sacrificed his original existence to prevent universal collapse.
The Academy trains humanity's elite to inherit the world I designed. What they don't realize is they're teaching the person who wrote the source code for their reality.
My family's survival now depends on succeeding at an Academy designed for people with powers I'm pretending not to have.
I need to prove that the god who created the System can survive being processed by it.
Even if that means failing every test while somehow passing every class.
The contradiction should be impossible.
But then again, I specialize in impossibilities.