Morning at Best Academy arrived without ceremony.
No bells rang for the first-years. No announcements echoed through the stone
corridors. Instead, the academy revealed its will the way it always had for
centuries—quietly, decisively, and without explanation.
Atelion stood in the inner plaza before dawn, hands clasped behind his back,
eyes fixed on the massive crystal board hovering several meters above the
ground. Runes glowed faintly along its edges, dormant but waiting.
Around him, the gathered examinees were fewer than the day before.
Some had already left—those who failed to meet the minimum requirements,
those whose ambitions had cracked under pressure. The rest stood scattered,
tension threading through their silence.
This moment mattered.
Not because of rank alone, but because of trajectory.
Atelion understood that better than most.
The crystal board flared to life.
Light cascaded downward like falling glass, runes rearranging themselves
with mechanical precision. Names appeared—not all at once, but line by line, as
if the academy itself wished to savor the weight of judgment.
A hush fell.
"Third Class…"
Names scrolled.
Relief. Disappointment. Quiet resignation.
"Second Class…"
Fewer names now. Reactions sharper. Pride and bitterness shared space.
Atelion did not move.
He knew where he would not be.
Then the light shifted.
"First Class."
The board paused.
For a single breath, the courtyard seemed to hold its own air.
Then the first name appeared.
Atelion Abdryth Maetyr Aurelion
There it was.
No embellishment. No annotation. Just the name.
The reaction was immediate.
A ripple ran through the first-years—some stunned, some validating
suspicions they already held. A few faces hardened. Others turned openly to
look at him now, curiosity no longer restrained.
Atelion remained still.
He neither smiled nor reacted. The name on the board was confirmation, not
victory.
More names followed—talented swordsmen, accomplished mages, heirs of notable
houses—but the weight had already shifted. Being first was less important than how
first had been achieved.
When the final name settled into place, the board dimmed slightly.
Then new text formed beneath the First Class list.
A murmur spread again.
Pending.
That single word mattered.
"Candidates of First Class," a voice called.
Vice Headmaster Arkhavel stepped forward from the shadow of the central
tower, staff tapping once against the stone. The sound carried authority
without aggression.
"You will follow me."
No objections were raised.
Atelion moved with the group, noting positioning, spacing, posture. Even
now, hierarchy was forming—unspoken, instinctive.
The corridors they entered were not those shown to visitors.
Here, the stone was older. Runes etched deeper. Mana density subtly higher.
A place meant to pressure those who lacked control.
Several students stiffened unconsciously.
Atelion adjusted his circulation imperceptibly and felt nothing.
They were led into a circular chamber dominated by a long obsidian table.
High-backed chairs surrounded it—far too many for first-years.
Arkhavel took his place at the far end.
Moments later, another presence entered.
No announcement preceded him. No aura flared outward.
Yet the room changed.
The headmaster.
He was an older man, hair silvered not by age alone but by restraint. His
posture was relaxed, almost casual—but Atelion felt it instantly.
Nine stars.
Not displayed. Not imposed.
Contained.
Every swordsman in the room felt it too. Some swallowed. Others straightened
unconsciously, as if their bodies recognized a natural superior.
"This year," the headmaster said calmly, "is inconvenient."
No one laughed.
"You are First Class because you exceeded expectations," he continued. "That
does not mean you are equal. It means you will be tested harder."
His gaze moved across the group, then stopped.
On Atelion.
"Especially you."
No accusation lay in the words. Only certainty.
Atelion inclined his head. "Understood."
The headmaster's eyes narrowed fractionally—not in displeasure, but
interest.
"Good."
Formalities followed.
First Class expectations. Disciplinary thresholds. The unspoken reality that
failure here would be more visible—and more consequential.
Then Arkhavel spoke again.
"There is an anomaly this year."
Silence sharpened.
"A candidate who passed a special examination allowing dual study."
Whispers were cut short by the headmaster raising a finger.
"Atelion will not be granted exceptions," he said. "He will be granted burden."
Atelion met his gaze steadily.
"You will attend swordsmanship and magic studies," the headmaster continued.
"You will be evaluated by both faculties. You will meet both standards."
A pause.
"If you fail either, you will be removed from First Class."
Some students glanced at Atelion now—not with envy, but calculation. A
double-edged status. Privilege wrapped around risk.
"I accept," Atelion said simply.
The headmaster studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Good."
Class assignments followed swiftly.
Swordsmanship First Class would be instructed by a six-star knight known for
breaking prodigies before reforging them.
Magic First Class would fall under a six-circle magician infamous for
merciless theory examinations.
Neither path was forgiving.
Dual-path was worse.
Atelion noted the names. Filed them away. Prepared.
When the meeting concluded, the students were dismissed into the academy
proper.
This time, they were not led.
They were expected to navigate.
Atelion exited into sunlight spilling across stone walkways and open
courtyards. The academy revealed itself fully now—training fields layered by
elevation, spellcasting platforms floating above gardens, libraries whose
towers pierced the sky.
A city within walls.
And within it, currents already shifting.
"You're calm for someone under scrutiny."
The voice came from his side.
Atelion turned to see Caelum walking beside him, expression controlled but
eyes sharp.
"Scrutiny clarifies priorities," Atelion replied.
Caelum snorted quietly. "You make it sound simple."
"It is," Atelion said. "If you know what matters."
They walked in silence for several steps.
Then Caelum spoke again. "I'll surpass you."
Atelion did not look at him. "Then work for it."
The answer was not dismissive.
It was honest.
Caelum studied him for a long moment, then laughed softly. "Good. I'd hate
to chase someone hollow."
He veered away toward the magic wing.
Atelion continued forward.
From a distant tower, eyes watched him go.
The Student Council president leaned against the railing, aura suppressed
but awareness sharp.
"So he's First Class," the vice-president murmured.
"Yes," the president replied. "And more trouble than that."
"Do we intervene?"
"Not yet."
The president's gaze followed Atelion's retreating figure.
"Let's see what he breaks first."
Atelion crossed into the training district and stopped briefly.
He placed a hand against the stone wall, closed his eyes, and listened—not
with ears, but with perception.
Aura responded. Mana followed.
Separate.
Controlled.
Still incomplete.
First Class, he thought. Visibility increases.
That was acceptable.
He had ten years.
And the academy was only the beginning.