In the year 2136, the world ended — not with war or fire, but with light.
When the first Rift split open above the Pacific, monsters poured through, born from twisted mana.
Some humans changed instead of dying. They awakened — their bodies adapting to the new energy that flooded the world.
Those Awakened became heroes, and from them rose a new age.
A century later, Earth thrives again beneath neon skies and mana-charged air.
Cities glitter, towers hum, and humanity survives behind the strength of its heroes.
Power defines worth. Rank decides destiny.
And for one boy born into a family of light, that power never came.
The Awakening Hall smelled of incense and pride.
Rows of crystals pulsed with golden mana, scattering warm light across the marble floor.
Every Ardyn in the room was smiling.
They had reason to.
For generations, the Ardyns had produced brilliance — heroes who burned away corruption and monsters with their light mana.
Today was the youngest son's turn.
Ren Ardyn knelt in the center of the sigil circle, golden script glowing under his hands.
Ren Ardyn had the look of every Ardyn before him — blonde, wavy hair that caught light like silk, and eyes the color of honey turning to amber. Yet where the others seemed to glow, his presence felt muted, like the world had dimmed its light just a little when it reached him.
Hundreds of eyes followed him.
Behind him stood his father, Magnus Ardyn, the perfect hero — posture straight, aura steady, eyes calm.
"Relax, Ren," Magnus murmured. "The mana knows its bloodline."
The priest began the chant. Air trembled as mana swirled above him, forming a soft, luminous storm.
Ren reached out with his will the way he'd been taught — open yourself, invite the light, become part of it.
For a heartbeat it worked.
Then something inside him pushed back. Hard.
The warmth twisted into pressure.
The light touched his skin—then shattered.
Boom.
Every crystal in the hall burst into dust. The sigil cracked apart.
White ash filled the room, muffling the gasps.
Ren blinked through the smoke. His hands were unburned.
"He… he rejected the mana," a priest whispered.
Magnus's voice cut through the noise, quiet and sharp.
"No," he said. "The mana rejected him."
And that was the end of it.
The ceremony stopped. Guests left.
Ren Ardyn — heir of the brightest family in the world — became its shadow.
Seven years later.
The gates of Aurelius Hero Academy gleamed beneath a digital sun.
Drones floated overhead, projecting live feeds to the millions watching from home.
First-years streamed through the plaza — heirs of famous guilds, corporate prodigies, the occasional scholarship student staring in awe at the shining towers.
Ren Ardyn walked past all of them with his hood up and his hands in his pockets.
His ID wristband buzzed as he crossed the scanner.
[Error — Mana Output Not Detected.]
[Manual Verification Required.]
The guard glanced up, confused. "Your tag malfunctioning?"
Ren's tone was flat. "Guess so."
"Name?"
"Ren Ardyn."
Recognition hit. The guard's eyes widened, then softened with that familiar mix of pity and discomfort.
"Ah… right. You can go in, Mr. Ardyn."
Ren nodded once and kept walking.
The evaluation field stretched across the academy courtyard, ringed with holographic screens displaying live data.
Each new student stepped into a pod, channeled mana, and watched their scores appear overhead:
[Mana Output: 428 — Rank A]
[Control Stability: 95%]
[Admitted to Combat Division, Class A!]
Every burst of light drew cheers from the crowd.
When his name was called, silence followed.
Ren stepped into the pod, ignoring the murmurs. The machine's scanners hummed, blue lines running along the walls.
He lifted his hand and focused — not that it mattered.
The screen flickered.
[Mana Output: 0.0]
[Control Stability: N/A]
[Classification: Unrated]
The instructor frowned. "Zero? Try again."
Ren didn't move. "That's normal."
A pause. Then the instructor sighed and scribbled on the clipboard.
"Combat Division, Class F."
The lowest tier.
A polite way of saying you don't belong here.
He stepped out of the pod. No applause. Just the sound of someone whispering his family name like it was a curse.
Class F assembled that afternoon in the lowest training hall — cracked floors, old mana dummies, outdated simulators that barely worked.
The instructor, a tired-looking man in a wrinkled uniform, waved them toward the racks of practice weapons.
"Grab whatever you can handle. We'll start with basic sparring."
Ren picked up a standard longsword. It was scratched, unbalanced, probably used by a hundred students before him.
He gave it a light swing, testing the weight. It felt wrong in his hand — too alive, like it was waiting for mana that wasn't there.
Across the room, the others compared weapons — glowing blades, reinforced spears, mana-infused staves. Someone noticed him.
"That guy doesn't have a signature weapon?"
"Why would he? He can't even use mana."
"You think he's that Ardyn?"
He ignored them.
The instructor paired them off for practice. Ren didn't get a partner. There were an odd number of students, and no one volunteered to spar with him.
So he practiced alone. Slow, steady movements. Nothing fancy. The sound of steel cutting air.
By the end of the session, sweat darkened his collar, but his swings had found a quiet rhythm — clean, efficient, almost meditative.
The instructor passed by once, watching in silence before muttering, "Good form. Shame about the mana."
Ren sheathed the training blade and sat down on the edge of the floor, catching his breath.
Outside the window, the academy skyline glowed — a city built on mana, shining in colors he couldn't touch.
He watched it for a long time.
Everyone's chasing light, he thought. Maybe someone has to stand in the dark.
He didn't say it aloud. The thought alone was enough.
When the lights in the hall dimmed for evening curfew, he was still sitting there, the last student left, his sword across his knees — ordinary steel for an extraordinary failure.