"What exceptional combat intuition. Definitely a prodigy capable of reaching high grade."
Xavier Everfold, Principal of Reale Academy, spoke with a rare note of admiration as he sat before a wall of screens, each displaying a different student's combat assessment. His gaze, however, was fixed on one screen in particular. It showed a teenage girl in a plain white shirt, black pants, and a pair of worn sneakers. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her face—smooth, beautiful, unscarred—could have belonged to a nobleman's daughter untouched by hardship.
But Xavier knew better.
The way she moved told a completely different story. Her footwork was efficient, her movements razor-sharp and minimal, her strikes timed with inhuman precision. She didn't waste a single motion. She didn't hesitate. It was the kind of fighting style that came from necessity, not training alone.
Her every dodge looked premeditated. Her responses, rehearsed through countless repetitions of trial and error. Xavier had seen veterans less precise than this. In fact, she was handling the instructor better than most third-year students would.
If not for the clear physical disparity between them—strength, speed, raw stats—she might have already won the bout. And that was without using her innate ability. Abilities were unpredictable wildcards. Even a low-grade student with the right power could kill someone far beyond their level.
After three more minutes of pressure, she slipped past a feint and tapped the instructor's shoulder with the edge of her palm. A clean, undeniable hit.
The match was over.
Xavier watched as the instructor stepped back, nodded, and handed her a card. "Combat grade: A-minus."
"Emily," Xavier said without turning, "tell me about that girl."
His secretary—a petite woman in a black suit, tablet in one hand and joystick in the other—tilted her head slightly and tapped the screen a few times.
"Hayley Servas," she said after a moment. "Enrolled with her twin brother, Hale Servas. Their family runs a mid-sized restaurant chain in New Aldros. Father passed away eight years ago. Mother runs the business."
"Middle class?" Xavier frowned.
"Yes, sir."
"And the brother?"
"He's in the intelligence assessment room. Preliminary result for combat grade: B double plus."
Xavier raised an eyebrow. "B++?"
That wasn't just unusual. It was unheard of.
Aside from the children of executive families and legacies from dominant lineages, most first-years scored somewhere between F++ and D-minus. An A-minus or B+ was practically a miracle. The last time anyone had scored that high in their first year was over three hundred years ago, when the old Hero of the Eastern Nations had entered Reale with a B- and later became one of the Eight Pillars of Woshalden.
Even a C grade at this stage was enough to turn heads and attract sponsorships.
Xavier's eyes narrowed slightly. "Those two… are different."
"Yes, sir. Though their backgrounds show no unusual affiliations, no hidden lineages, no modified records."
A long silence followed.
Eventually, Xavier sighed and leaned back. "If they can't secure long-term backing, this academy may be the last place they ever shine. Without resources, time becomes their enemy."
Emily said nothing. She didn't need to. They had both seen too many prodigies vanish over the decades, crushed under the slow grind of poverty and systemic limitations. To rise beyond the lesser grades, a student needed more than just talent—they needed cultivation chambers, rare nutrients, instructors, support systems. They needed decades. And decades didn't come cheap.
"Their only shot now," Xavier murmured, "is to win the inter-academy competition. Maybe even take the provincial tournament."
Meanwhile, in the intelligence testing hall…
Silence hung heavy across the vast chamber, despite the eight thousand students inside. Rows upon rows of desks stretched through the hall, each occupied by a student scribbling on white paper. Every five minutes, another batch arrived, and another row filled up.
The test itself was a standardized IQ assessment.
So this is it? The famous Reale intelligence test?
What a joke.
Even Mika could ace this thing. My baby sister once solved a military tactics puzzle designed for third-year cadets. And this? This was just basic logic, number patterns, and word association. It felt insulting, honestly.
After sixty minutes, the sheet in front of me faded into thin air—vanished as if it had never existed. That was the cue. A staff member signaled, and I was escorted to a side hall—the waiting area where all the other test takers had gathered.
The place was massive. At least 700 by 500, easily. And yet, despite the thousands of students already inside, it didn't feel crowded.
Most students had grouped into circles, cliques. Predictable. Many of them were surrounded by peers and lackeys, either due to family name, wealth, or sheer charisma. These were the children of corporations, of political powerhouses, of hidden sects and secret clans.
I didn't recognize a single one.
Didn't care to, either. I'd spent most of my life training—not studying gossip boards or memorizing bloodlines.
A few loners lingered around the edges, but most of them looked like they were just waiting to get absorbed by a bigger circle.
I found a quiet corner and sat.
Barely five minutes later, a nerdy kid with oversized glasses shuffled toward me.
"Uh, excuse me... do you mind if I sit here?"
He had that anxious look—like he'd already been rejected a dozen times and was bracing for the next one.
I tilted my head slightly.
"There's space everywhere. Why here?"
He hesitated. Didn't get the chance to answer before someone else did.
"Hurry the hell up, Derrick," a voice barked from behind him. "You were supposed to grab one weakling, not give a damn TED talk."
The kid—Derrick—froze and began trembling. His entire posture collapsed into something pitiful.
"I… I'm… s-sorry," he stammered.
I looked past him.
Eight boys. Flashy clothes. Loud accessories. You could smell their arrogance from across the room. The one in the center had so much gold on him it was a miracle he wasn't blinded by his own reflection. He stared at Derrick like he was a cockroach.
"Arnold," Gold-boy barked. "This dumbass can't even follow instructions. Teach him a lesson, then drag that other one over here. The quiet one in the corner."
Derrick dropped to his knees in panic. "Please, I'm sorry, I just—please, don't—"
What the hell?
I wasn't sure what was going on, but something stank. This wasn't about bullying for sport. It was about targeting. They were choosing people who looked vulnerable. Quiet. Isolated. Like they didn't have backup. Probably just to show off to the rest.
Arnold—a tall kid with a buzzcut—stepped forward and raised a fist toward Derrick.
I was on my feet before I knew it.
My fist met Arnold's face before his met Derrick's.
He flew backward, crashed at the gold-boy's feet, unconscious before he hit the floor.
"I don't know what game you're playing," I said evenly, "but if you're gonna bully people, at least wait till I'm not around."
The gold-drenched one curled his lip in disgust.
"Which family are you from? Do you even know who I am?"
"No," I said.
"I'm Joshua Parker. Son of Eden Parker, CEO of CLAWS."
CLAWS was a company that developed high tech weapons and artifacts.
I squinted. "Cool."
"Your family doesn't even deserve to breathe the same air as mine," he snapped. "Come here, get on your knees, and apologize before I make you disappear."
I blinked at him. "What are you even talking about?"
"You piece of—"
Two of his goons charged at me, their fists already cocked.
"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO JOSHUA LIKE THAT—"
"YOU'RE DEAD—"
I braced to drop both of them, but just as they entered my range—
—reality shifted.
Everything blurred for half a heartbeat, then snapped into stillness. All the students were suddenly standing in straight lines, perfectly spaced apart like soldiers on parade.
I turned my head. My sister, Hayley, stood nearby, her eyes fixed ahead like everyone else's.
"What just happened?" I asked.
No response.
I followed her gaze toward the raised platform at the far end of the hall.
A woman stood there, radiant and poised.
Her golden hair shimmered like woven sunlight, and though I couldn't explain why, the warmth she radiated made the air feel gentler—like a quiet afternoon in childhood, resting against mom's shoulder after a long day.
Was that… space manipulation? No—wait, it could've been time… or both? What even was that?
"Hello, everyone," she said, her voice calm but resonant.
"I am Celia Von Woshalden."