A jarring, dorm bell—shattered the quiet gloom of Block Delta. Oliver jolted awake, the previous day's fatigues no where to fund. But as the bronze class shuffled into the dim morning light for muster, the feeling was different.
The staff overseeing them were new. A woman with kind eyes checked their names. A man directed them toward the mess hall. Their demeanors weren't warm, but they were professional, their eyes assessing not with judgment, but quite focus. No one glanced with disdain at their brown armbands or asked for their card tier. It was as if, inside the academy walls, the hierarchy of the outside world had been temporarily suspended.
When students enter mess hall. The smell that hit them was astonishing: rich, savory, and humming with latent magic.
Before them was a spread that made even the most resigned recruit stop and stare. Platters sizzled with seared cuts of Frost-Boar meat, its fat glittering with slow-releasing energy. Steam rose from bowls of Starlight Rice, each grain glowing faintly with absorbed mana. There were roasted Sun-Kissed Tubers and salads of Mage-Leaf Greens that seemed to crunch with vitality. This wasn't just food; it was high-grade fuel, the kind Oliver had only read about in Guild provisioning guides meant for elite recovery teams.
A murmur of shocked excitement rippled through the brown cohort. "Is this a mistake?" someone whispered. "This is not 0 tier ration that given to us by our parent…" said another, wide-eyed.
Most looked baffled but ecstatic, piling their plates high. Oliver, however, moved absently, his mind still caught in the whirl of yesterday's Captain Rourke's cryptic words. He took a modest portion and found an empty spot at a long table, mechanically beginning to eat. The meat melted on his tongue, a burst of warmth and strength spreading through him, but he barely registered it.
A soft chuckle broke through his reverie. Oliver looked up, blinking.
Across from him sat a boy with carefully styled auburn hair and an easy confidence that seemed out of place in Block Delta. He'd been watching Oliver's thousand-yard stare. He had a Fire-Kin's slight tan and a gleam in his eye that spoke of humor.
"First time eating mana-rations, Grey-Weaver?" the boy asked, his tone not mocking, but genuinely amused. "You're chewing like it's exam parchment."
Oliver flushed, offering an awkward smile. "Just… a lot to process."
"Tell me about it," the boy said, eating a piece of Frost-Boar with gusto. "Name's Leo. Leo Ashbourne. Fire Affinity, Grade C. Pretty basic, I know." He said it without a hint of shame.
"Oliver Rill." "I heard," Leo said, nodding. "The talk of the bronze line. The enigma. The stone that didn't ripple." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Don't let the fancy food fool you. It's not a mistake. The academy invests. Even in us. Especially in us, in a way. My father's on the Guild's Merchant Council. He says the Academy Head, Magister Krane, has a… philosophy. 'A dull tool is a dangerous tool, but any tool can be sharpened to a purpose.' They feed us like this to see what we can become with proper fuel, not to coddle us."
Oliver absorbed this. A wealthy background explained Leo's lack of insecurity. "So, this is an experiment?"
"It's an investment," Leo corrected. he said with a pointed look at Oliver, "that are the real question. Can they forge something useful from the softer ore? That's what our year here is about."
It made a brutal sense. The lavish food wasn't kindness . They were being given the resources to grow, to see if any of them would unexpectedly rise.
The bell chimed again, signaling the end of the meal period. As they stood to dispose of their trays, Leo fell into step beside Oliver. "Come on, partner. Time for the Mud-Flat Run. Let's see what this 1-star breakfast can really do."
They joined the stream of brown-clad recruits funneling out of the academy's side gates toward the training fields. The "Mud-Flats" were exactly that: a vast, soggy tract of land crisscrossed with obstacle courses and roiling with faint, residual earth and water mana.
As they lined up at the starting edge, the morning mist clinging to the sodden ground, Oliver glanced at Leo, who was stretching with a casual grace, and then at the other determined, nervous faces of their class. The hierarchy of the city was gone. Here, they all are students. They all had the same food in their bellies. They all had the same muddy track ahead.
The proctor—a grim-faced woman with the solidity of a mountain—raised a horn. "The run measures endurance, resilience, and how well you utilize your mana to sustain your body! No elemental use allowed! Begin!"
The horn blared. The cohort surged forward, feet immediately sinking into the cold, sucking mire. As Oliver pushed his body forward, the magic-infused meal from breakfast began to pulse within him, a steady furnace against the draining chill of the mud. Beside him, Leo ran with a steady, heated exhalation, the air around him slightly warmer, his Fire affinity subtly fighting the damp.
Oliver simply ran, his Grey-Weaver affinity offering no such elemental resistance. But for the first time, he didn't feel a lack. He felt a quiet, observant neutrality. He was not fighting the mud, nor was he one with it. He was moving through it, a separate, stable entity. His mind, usually racing, fell into the rhythm of his steps.
This was the sharpening. This was the forge. And as he ran, Oliver Rill, the Grey-Weaver from the bookshop attic, began to wonder not what he lacked, but what this unique, un-aspected stability might truly be worth.
End of chapter