The end of the month slammed into the novices like a physical blow. The Grand Atrium, once a place of hopeful sorting, now thrummed with the jagged energy of judgment. A massive, shimmering leaderboard dominated the space, displaying the Monthly Provisional Rankings. This wasn't just about duels. It factored in class performance, practical drills, and contribution points. It decided everything.
Damian stood among the churning mass of Class B, his body still humming with the suppressed power of his secret breakthrough. His eyes scanned the glowing names.
At the very top, untouchable: Clarrisa Sylvanus (S-Class). Her score was a number so high it felt like a mockery.
He scrolled down through the elite of A-Class, past the other S-Class monsters, and into the upper ranks of B. His own name finally appeared, burning with a cold, blue light:
Rank 112. Damian Snow. Class: B.
A surge of bitter satisfaction warred with a sharper, hotter frustration. He'd clawed his way up from 187, but 112 was still mediocre. It was the middle of the fucking pack. The safe, forgettable zone. And safe was another word for weak.
Beside the rankings, the Resource Allotment tables lit up. This was the real prize, the lifeblood of cultivation.
S-Class: Received a High-Grade Mana Stone of their primary affinity, three Mid-Grade Spirit Herbs, and unrestricted access to the Sky-Suite cultivation chambers (500% mana density).
A-Class (Top 10): Mid-Grade Mana Stone, two Spirit Herbs, Sky-Suite access.
A-Class (Rest): Low-Grade Mana Stone, one Spirit Herb, premium dormitory chambers.
B-Class (Top 50): Two Low-Grade Mana Stones, standard dormitory.
B-Class (Rest): One Low-Grade Mana Stone. Fucking one.
Damian's allotment shimmered into view over his token: 1x Low-Grade Earth Mana Stone.
One. Pebble. For a whole month of grinding, of fighting, of hiding, of bleeding. The stone materialized in his hand, a small, muddy-brown crystal that pulsed with a feeble, earthy warmth. It was an insult. A goddamn insult.
The frustration boiled over, a hot, sharp thing in his throat. He'd just broken through to 2nd Order in Darkness, he'd pushed his Earth core to the cusp of advancement with stolen, dangerous power, and the Academy rewarded him with this… this trinket.
He saw Lucas from A-Class flash by, catching his eye. The cult affiliate held up his own allotment—a shimmering Mid-Grade Water Stone—and gave a slow, pitying smile before vanishing into the crowd of celebrating elites.
Bastard.
This system was designed to keep the strong fed and the weak scrambling. Well, fuck their system.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" a dry voice said beside him. Sylvia. She held her own allotment: a Low-Grade Universal Mana Stone and a scroll on intermediate runic theory. Her rank was 89, just inside the B-Class top 50. "The allocation algorithm is ruthlessly efficient at maintaining the status quo. To break it requires not just improvement, but a paradigm shift in perceived value."
She wasn't offering sympathy. She was stating a fact. And she was watching him, her sharp eyes missing nothing of the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his worthless stone.
"What do you want, Sylvia?" he snapped, the anger making his voice brittle.
"Nothing from you," she said, tilting her head. "Yet. I merely observe that rage is an inefficient energy source. Channel it. Or drown in it." She turned and walked away, her mind already on her new scroll.
The dismissal stung, but it was the cold splash of reality he needed. Rage was useless. Action was everything.
He needed to get into the top 50 of B-Class at the very least. That meant doubling his stone allotment. It meant more resources to fuel his public persona, to make his cover more believable while he fed his true power in the shadows.
He couldn't do it by hiding his Earth prowess anymore. Playing the weak D-Grade novice had gotten him this pathetic stone. It was time to show them a glimpse of the monster's shadow, even if it was just the one they expected to see.
The Academy refectory, the "Starlight Commons," was a cavernous hall with vaulted ceilings that showed illusory constellations. The air was thick with the smells of roasted mana-beast meat, hearty grains, and the sweet, cloying scent of mana-infused pastries. It was a zoo of social hierarchies. S and A-Class occupied the tiered seating near the enchanted windows. B and below were relegated to the long, crowded central tables.
Damian sat with Finn and Thrain, pushing tasteless nutrient-porridge around his bowl. Finn was chattering nervously about an upcoming wind-manipulation test. Thrain ate with a silent, methodical intensity that suggested he was imagining the bowl was an enemy's skull.
At the high table, Clarrisa sat with Ignatius and the other S-Class elites. She was listening to something the Myriad Demon-kin girl was saying, a slight, polite smile on her face. Then, as if feeling his gaze, her emerald eyes cut across the crowded hall and locked onto his. The smile didn't fade; it just turned thoughtful, assessing. She gave a barely perceptible nod before turning back to her conversation.
Damian looked down at his porridge, his pride burning.
His moment came in the afternoon's practical: Terrain Manipulation & Defense. Held in a vast, sandy arena that could be morphed by Earth and Water adepts, the exercise was simple: hold your assigned fortification against waves of simulated rock-elementals.
Damian was paired with two other Earth users from C-Class, both with E-Grades. Their fort was a simple, crumbling earthen wall. The instructor, Proctor Grond himself, watched from a raised platform with a critical eye.
"BEGIN!" Grond's voice boomed.
The arena floor shifted. From the sand, three hulking, slow-moving Sand Golems (Simulated - 1st Order, Rank 6) formed and began lumbering toward their wall.
His partners panicked. One tried to patch holes with shaky, thin layers of stone. The other just reinforced the base, leaving the top vulnerable.
"Fuck this," Damian muttered under his breath. The frustration of the morning, the condescending glances, the pathetic stone in his pocket—it all fused into a cold, clear focus.
He stopped pretending.
He planted his feet, tapped into his Earth core—the one truly at 1st Order, Rank 8, dense and powerful. He didn't just patch. He commanded.
He thrust his hands forward. The sand in front of their wall didn't just rise; it exploded upwards, forming a thick, rammed-earth barrier twice as high and three times as thick as the original. It was seamless, solid, the mana flow within it optimized not for show, but for brutal, unbreakable durability.
His C-Class partners gaped.
The lead Sand Golem reached the new wall and punched. Its fist sank in a few inches and stuck, the dense earth gripping it like stone quicksand. Damian clenched his fist. The earth around the Golem's arm constricted, cracking its simulated limb with a sound of grinding rock.
With his other hand, he gestured. Spikes of hardened earth shot from the wall's surface, impaling the second Golem. The third he simply buried, causing the sand beneath it to collapse into a pit that then sealed over.
Silence.
The simulated golems dissolved into motes of light. Their fortification stood pristine, intimidating.
Across the arena, other forts were taking damage, students yelling, walls crumbling. All eyes, including Proctor Grond's, were on Damian's flawless, overpowered defense.
Grond's bushy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. He peered at Damian. "Snow. Report your Earth affinity grade and rank."
"D-Grade, sir. Approximately 1st Order, Rank 5," Damian said, his voice flat, repeating the lie.
"Bullshit," Grond rumbled, but it was a pleased, surprised rumble. He jumped down from the platform, his heavy boots cratering the sand. He walked to the wall, placing a hand on it. He whistled. "Density is at the high end of Rank 7. Control is… damn precise for a D-Grade. You've been sandbagging, boy."
"I've been motivated, sir," Damian replied, meeting the Proctor's gaze. Let him think it was grit, not hidden power. Let him think the pathetic stone had lit a fire.
Grond stared at him for a long moment, then a rough grin split his beard. "Motivated. Alright, Snow. Let's see that motivation in the monthly trial. Dismissed."
As Damian walked off the sand, he felt the stares. The whispers. 'Did you see that wall?' 'I thought he was weak…' The two C-Class partners looked at him with a mix of awe and fear.
He didn't look at Clarrisa's section. He didn't need to. He could feel the shift in the air.
He had shown his Earth prowess. Not all of it, but enough to shatter expectations. Enough to get noticed by a Proctor. Enough, hopefully, to make the next resource allotment less of a fucking joke.
He walked back to the tower, the phantom feel of dense, obedient earth still thrumming in his palms. The game was changing. He was done hiding in the middle of the pack.