The sky above Velgrath Academy was deceptively calm. A perfect blue. Not a single cloud dared to move across it.
Below, the front gates of the elite institution buzzed with activity. Cars lined the curb. Personal guards hauled luxury luggage. Students in high-collared uniforms moved in perfect formations, the sons and daughters of warlords, monarchs, ancient bloodlines—the future rulers of the world.
They were loud, proud, and polished.
Then one figure walked through the front gates.
Alone.
No luggage. No escort. No entourage or trumpets to announce his name. Just hands in his pockets and a steady pace, like he had done this a hundred times before. Or maybe like he had never done it at all—but didn't care.
He looked like a shadow stitched into a black uniform. Neat, unwrinkled, utterly forgettable at first glance—yet something about him made people stop talking.
He didn't belong.
And yet… he walked like he did.
His face was unreadable. Not expressionless—but empty. A clean slate that refused to offer anything. Not pride. Not fear. Not curiosity.
Just nothing.
But it was the way he walked that disturbed them. Not fast. Not slow. Every step was too even. Too balanced. As if the boy had calculated the distance between breaths.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he crossed the marble courtyard, drawing glances—then whispers.
"Who is that…?"
"He's not wearing any family crest…"
"Late arrivals need a direct recommendation from the Board…"
"But he's kind of… hot?"
"Yeah, but where's his escort? Wasn't there supposed to be a security detail for new bloodline transfers? "
The boy ignored all of it. His eyes didn't move from the main building. A massive structure of blackened glass and stone, shaped like a spearhead aimed at the sky. The entrance loomed like the jaws of something ancient.
He stepped through them anyway.
⸻
Main Registry Hall
Inside the towering central hall, everything felt colder. The temperature. The light. The stares.
Velgrath was designed to feel like a weapon. Every tile was obsidian. Every hallway, sterile. The air hummed with faint magical and technological surveillance—the kind that saw through illusions, heat signatures, and bloodline cloaks.
In the middle of the room sat a single man at a black desk, surrounded by towers of glowing files and digital records. He didn't look up as the boy approached.
"Name," the clerk said, fingers tapping a floating screen with disinterest.
"…Noven."
The typing slowed.
"Last name?"
"I don't use it."
Now the clerk looked up.
And paused.
The boy's skin was pale and clean, but it wasn't the kind of soft pale that suggested royalty. It was the kind that suggested isolation. His eyes were worse—gray, lifeless. Like glass marbles sitting in his skull. You could stare into them and never see yourself reflected back.
The clerk hesitated.
"You're late."
"I know."
"Did your escort delay you?"
"I came alone."
"…You what?"
Seirou slid his keycard across the desk. "The invitation said arrive by the 27th. It's the 27th."
"You weren't expected to walk here."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to. The clerk frowned and resumed typing, slowly.
"Your placement exam was already scheduled. Room Zero."
The typing stopped again.
"Good luck."
That wasn't something the clerk usually said.
Seirou took the card without replying.
⸻
The Elevator
On his way to Room Zero, students passed by and stared. Not just because he was unfamiliar—but because something about his presence stuck. Like the air around him had a weight.
"Who is he?"
"Never seen him before."
"No family crest… rogue admit, maybe?"
"Looks like Class F material to me."
A group of girls giggled nearby.
"…he's pretty though."
"Yeah, like he'd kill you and never explain why."
The elevator opened.
Seirou stepped in without acknowledging a single person.
⸻
Room Zero
There were many testing chambers at Velgrath Academy.
Room Zero was not one of them.
It hadn't been used in five years.
Because the last student who went in… came out wrong.
The room was pure white, seamless from floor to ceiling. A single desk. A single chair. The light buzzed faintly overhead, powered by arcane energy systems. Cameras blinked red behind mirrored glass walls.
As soon as Noven sat, the desk flickered to life. Questions began pouring across the screen.
Not just mathematics or logic. But high-level warfare theory. Espionage. Magical genetics. Bloodline compatibility optimization. Abstract philosophical dilemmas.
Each problem was designed to fracture the mind.
Noven didn't blink.
He answered the first twenty without pause.
He read faster than the questions could load. Not skimming—comprehending. Retaining.
Then, at question 34, he stopped.
He frowned.
And typed in the wrong answer.
Deliberately.
Again, at 51.
And 76.
Just enough to tank his average. Just enough to stay within passable margins.
"Guess I'm done," he muttered.
But the cameras were still watching.
Recording.
⸻
The Girl Outside
Outside Room Zero stood a girl leaning against the wall. Her uniform bore a red-and-black insignia: Class A.
Her hair was midnight black, silky, cascading down her back. Her golden eyes shimmered under thick lashes, and a single mole sat beneath her right eye like a perfect flaw.
She stood there calmly.
Waiting.
"Who is she waiting for?"
"Did she come to meet someone?"
"Is she taken?"
"I heard her family's in the Royal Command."
When the door hissed open, her eyes flicked up.
The boy walked out.
Their eyes met.
"Noven?" she asked, voice cool and sharp.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"You're the new one?"
He tilted his head. "No. Just a replacement."
He walked past her.
She followed.
"You don't talk much," she said, falling into step beside him.
"You talk too much."
She blinked. Then smiled faintly. "Cocky."
"No. Just busy."
"Busy being average?"
He stopped.
Turned toward her.
Then, for the first time since arriving, he actually looked at someone.
And said nothing.
He turned and kept walking.
Her smile faded.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Interesting."
⸻
Later That Day
The test results were posted on a holographic board in the center courtyard. Students clustered around to see where they'd landed.
Class A: Elites, nobles, war-scarred prodigies.
Class B: Military heirs.
Class C: Strategists, scholars.
Class D: The leftovers.
"Wait, what? He got D-rank?"
"No way. He looked smarter than that."
"I told you—he's just some nobody."
But Seirou didn't look at the board.
He sat by a window, back to the noise. Eyes turned to the sky.
He watched the clouds move.
And behind his stillness, behind that unreadable expression—somewhere beneath the surface—
He was smiling.
But not in a way anyone could see.