The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the quiet kind, but the kind that felt expectant — the kind that lingered in prestigious halls, in ancient places where names meant everything. Where power decided status, and magic defined your future.
I sat at the back of the classroom.
White marble floors, carved arches with faint glowing runes, and crystal orbs hovering silently overhead to provide perfect lighting. The Imperial Academy didn't hold back.
Even the windows shimmered with enchanted glass.
Students filled the room, nearly forty of them. Their uniforms were crisp, their badges polished. Most of them had arrived in horse-drawn mana carriages. Others wore the smugness of old bloodlines on their faces like accessories.
I glanced at the mana threads around them. Some were at Level 15. One or two were already touching Tier 2.
I was Level 9.
Still Tier 1.
But I didn't feel small. I'd lived a life before this — one I couldn't fully remember yet, but felt in every bone.
And more importantly, I had Logic.
They just didn't understand it yet.
The front doors creaked open, and the air shifted.
She entered — tall, silver-haired, with a sharp coat over her black robes. Her eyes scanned the room like they were evaluating spells, not people. Students immediately straightened.
"Professor Elian," someone whispered behind me. "One of the Empire's top Mind-affinity mages."
No pressure, then.
She walked calmly to the podium, set a silver-bound tome down, and stared us all down.
"Let's begin," she said, voice clear and cold. "A simple question. What's the weakest known affinity?"
A few hands went up instantly.
"Illusion," said one student.
"Sound."
"Light."
Then the boy in the front with the gold-trim collar spoke, smirking.
"Logic, obviously. Can't even cast a decent fireball with that."
Laughter scattered across the room. A few others nodded in agreement.
I stayed quiet.
"Interesting," Elian said, folding her hands. "So we agree that Logic is the weakest?"
She waited. No one disagreed.
"Does anyone here possess it?"
I raised my hand.
The room fell into stillness for a heartbeat. Then came a snort from the gold-collared noble.
> "You? What's next? Commoner farming spells?"
"Second affinity?" Elian asked, ignoring him.
"Telekinesis," I said.
That turned a few heads.
Even the noble blinked.
Elian studied me with sharp interest. Then she snapped her fingers.
A glowing rune lit up in the center of the classroom floor, and a mechanical hiss echoed as a small metal cage rose from a trapdoor in the ground.
Inside, something moved — fast, twitchy.
Then the creature lunged against the bars, snarling.
A F-Rank Clawrat — small, gray-furred, with jagged claws and glowing red eyes. The size of a housecat, but faster than most weapons and mean enough to tear through flesh if it caught you.
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
"Standard test subject," Elian said. "Fast. Erratic. Aggressive. Not deadly unless you're foolish or slow."
She turned to me.
"Immobilize it. You pass. Fail, and the infirmary is to the left."
The cage opened.
The Clawrat shrieked — and shot toward me like a thrown dagger.
I moved — but not fast enough.
Pain ripped across my forearm as its claw tore through my sleeve and cut deep.
I stumbled backward, gritting my teeth, blood already dripping from the wound.
"Too slow," I muttered.
It circled. Snarled again. Twitched.
Every move was fast, but predictable — if you were watching.
"Three-second cycles."
"Left-paw heavy."
"Always hisses before the leap."
A broken leg from a desk lay near me.
I extended my hand.
The shard trembled — lifted.
My Telekinesis grabbed hold.
The Clawrat hissed again. That was my signal.
It jumped.
I didn't dodge this time.
I lunged forward — and drove the wooden shard straight into its chest, using its own momentum against it.
The impact knocked me flat, but the Clawrat twitched once… and stopped.
Dead silence filled the room.
My sleeve was soaked. The gash on my arm still stung, hot and deep.
But I'd won.
And everyone saw it.
I got up slowly, breathing heavy.
Elian's eyes followed me all the way back to my seat.
"Next time," she said dryly, "warn me before you demonstrate the practical value of 'the weakest affinity'."
I sat down again, every eye now locked on me. But they weren't mocking anymore.
They weren't amused.
They were… uncertain.
And that was good.
Let them stay uncertain.
Let them guess.
The truth about me would come out — eventually.
And by then… it would already be too late.