The house was already awake before the sun fully rose.
Not because of alarms, or urgency, or destiny—
but because Klaus's mother had been awake for nearly an hour, standing in front of the mirror in the hallway and fixing the same collar for the fourth time.
"Klaus," she said gently, "turn a little."
Klaus turned.
She adjusted the collar again.
"It's already straight," he said, amused, his voice calm and warm. "You fixed it five minutes ago."
"I know," she replied immediately. "But you're leaving the house."
He smiled. "I leave the house every day."
"This is different."
Behind them, the kitchen hummed softly. A kettle clicked off. The smell of toasted bread and something sweet—honeyed grain cakes—floated through the narrow hall.
Klaus's father leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene with a quiet smile that refused to leave his face.
"You're going to wrinkle him before he even steps outside," he said.
Klaus's mother shot him a look. "I raised him. I'm allowed."
She stepped back finally and looked at her son properly.
Klaus Viren stood a little taller than most boys his age, posture relaxed, shoulders easy. His academy uniform—dark slate with silver threading—fit him perfectly, as if tailored with patience rather than measurement. His black hair was neat without looking forced, his expression calm in a way that made people feel at ease without knowing why.
Handsome, yes—but not loudly so.
There was no sharp arrogance in his face. No dramatic intensity. Just a quiet balance that made the eye linger.
His mother exhaled softly.
"They're really taking you," she said, as if the thought still hadn't settled. "Astra Nexus Academy."
Klaus reached down and took her hand. "It's just a school."
His father laughed under his breath. "That's what they call it."
Breakfast was quiet but full.
Not the awkward kind of quiet—
the kind built from familiarity.
They sat together at the small table, sunlight creeping in through the window, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.
His mother kept putting food on his plate even after he was done.
His father asked practical questions he already knew the answers to.
"You've got your documents?"
"Yes."
"Transit route memorized?"
"Yes."
"Emergency contact rune active?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"You don't have to go," his mother said suddenly.
The room stilled—not with tension, but with sincerity.
Klaus looked up at her.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't panicking.
She was just… being a mother.
"I know," Klaus said softly. "But I want to."
His father studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"That's enough," he said. "That's the only reason that matters."
When Klaus finally stood at the door, bag slung easily over one shoulder, his mother hugged him tightly—longer than necessary, harder than she meant to.
"Eat properly," she murmured. "Sleep properly. Don't let anyone rush you."
Klaus chuckled. "I've never rushed in my life."
She pulled back and cupped his face, smiling proudly.
"They're going to stare," she said. "You know that, right?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm going to Astra Nexus?"
"No," she replied. "Because you look like that."
He laughed, embarrassed despite himself.
His father placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Whatever they try to measure you by," he said quietly, "remember this—
you don't owe anyone an explanation for who you are."
Klaus nodded.
And then he stepped outside.
The city was alive.
Transit rails hummed above the streets. Holographic banners drifted lazily between buildings, announcing recruitment cycles, public notices, and daily weather harmonics.
People moved with purpose.
Magic wasn't rare here—it was integrated. Streetlights adjusted brightness based on ambient mana. Transport gates shimmered faintly with stabilizing sigils. Children practiced minor control exercises under the watchful eyes of instructors in public courtyards.
And today, among the flow of daily life, were teenagers heading in the same direction.
Astra Nexus Academy.
Klaus felt it before he saw it.
The subtle shift in atmosphere.
The density of ambient energy.
The way the air felt… observed.
The academy rose at the edge of the city like a convergence point—stone, steel, and arcane geometry fused into something that didn't dominate the skyline, but anchored it.
Students gathered near the entrance gates.
Some were loud.
Some were nervous.
Some were already showing off—small bursts of controlled magic, synchronized tech modules flickering to life, confident laughter carrying across the plaza.
Klaus stepped into the crowd quietly.
And almost immediately—
Eyes turned.
It wasn't dramatic.
No sudden hush.
No audible gasp.
Just subtle glances that lingered a second too long.
A girl nearby nudged her friend, whispered something. Both looked again.
"He looks calm," someone murmured.
"Is he even nervous?"
"He's… kinda—"
Klaus pretended not to notice. He always did.
Not because he was unaware.
Because reacting would make it matter.
A boy with a heavy combat pack brushed past him roughly, muttering something under his breath about "pretty faces" and "real power."
Klaus shifted smoothly, avoiding contact without effort.
Poor center of balance, he noted absently. Overloaded stabilizers.
The gates opened.
Light spilled forward—not blinding, but layered, like overlapping realities briefly agreeing to coexist.
As students passed through, transparent panels scanned Aether signatures, synced identity records, logged potential.
Most results flashed quickly.
Standard ranges.
Expected deviations.
Clean data.
When Klaus stepped forward, the panel hesitated.
Just a fraction of a second.
Then it moved on.
No alert.
No warning.
No reaction.
Klaus didn't notice.
Inside, the academy grounds stretched wide—training fields, modular halls, suspended walkways, observation towers rising in elegant arcs.
Groups were guided toward orientation chambers.
Klaus followed the general flow until a softly glowing indicator redirected him—along with a handful of others—toward a side corridor.
"Placement processing," the sign read.
A boy beside him scoffed. "Guess they couldn't tell what to do with us."
A girl laughed nervously. "As long as it's not Omega, right?"
Klaus tilted his head slightly.
"Omega?" he asked.
They both looked at him.
"You don't know?" the boy said. "It's… you know. The weird one."
"The misfit group," the girl added quickly. "Not bad. Just… unstable."
"Oh," Klaus said. "That sounds inconvenient."
They laughed, assuming it was a joke.
The room they were led into was wide and clean, with a large central display. Names began to appear, one by one, assigned to divisions, pathways, training tracks.
Applause erupted occasionally.
Cheers.
Muted disappointment.
Then Klaus saw it.
KLAUS VIREN
ASSIGNMENT: OMEGA
The room didn't explode into laughter.
It didn't fall silent either.
Instead—
confusion rippled outward.
"That can't be right."
"Is that a mistake?"
"Omega?"
Several eyes turned to Klaus.
He stood there calmly, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
A girl near the back frowned. "He doesn't look unstable."
Klaus smiled faintly, more to himself than anyone else.
Looks can be misleading, he thought.
An attendant cleared their throat. "Assignments are final. Please proceed to your designated areas."
Omega students were guided separately.
Down a quieter path.
Away from the main flow.