The Imperial Arcane Academy was a marvel to behold—towering marble spires reaching toward the sky, intricate arches, and sprawling courtyards lined with statues of great heroes and scholars. Every stone seemed soaked in centuries of tradition, discipline, and power.
As I walked beneath the grand entrance, a knot tightened in my chest. This was where futures were forged—where strength, skill, and wit were tested relentlessly.
---
This academy was no ordinary school.
It was the empire's premier institution, where magic, combat, and strategy were honed to perfection. Here, the finest minds and most formidable fighters gathered, regardless of bloodline. Noble titles meant nothing; only merit counted.
---
Most students had arrived ahead of me.
Many wielded elemental powers—fire, water, earth, or mind—at levels far beyond mine, somewhere between 12 and 19.
My own talents—Logic and Telekinesis—barely scratched the surface of Level 1. My tier was a modest Tier 1, Level 9.
I was a shadow among giants.
---
The academy was structured with precision:
First-years learned foundational theory and practical skills. The second, third, and fourth years progressed through increasingly advanced training.
The imperial prince was already a first-year—a living reminder that the path here demanded excellence.
---
But this place wasn't just about training.
Beyond these walls, the world was threatened by monsters—beasts born of dark forces and ancient curses.
They were ranked by strength and intelligence, ranging from F-class to SSS-tier.
The lower tiers were feral and dangerous, but the higher ranks—A, S, and above—were cunning and ruthless, capable of rallying others and bringing entire regions to ruin.
---
The gates ahead were massive—wrought iron etched with glowing sigils.
Protective wards shimmered faintly, designed to keep the worst monsters at bay.
Two guards in ceremonial armor stood watch, eyes sharp, hands resting close to their weapons.
Whispers floated among the crowd:
> "Valeon, the weak noble."
"Level 9 in his first year? He'll be lunch for the higher monsters."
"Even the imperial prince watches his back."
I didn't respond.
The whispers only fueled something inside me—a quiet fire of resolve.
---
Inside the courtyard, students drilled with relentless precision.
Fire bursts, ice shards, shadow strikes—every move was calculated and honed.
Assassins melted into stone pillars. Warriors formed perfect lines that could topple entire armies.
The threat of monsters outside made every lesson a matter of life and death.
---
Then, sharp as a dagger, a voice called out.
"Valeon."
A girl with fiery red hair approached, her eyes blazing.
"I'm Lyra Tressa," she said. "This place will break anyone not ready to fight."
---
A senior instructor stepped forward, his robes embroidered with silver threads.
"This academy measures worth by skill alone," he said. "Blood means nothing."
I nodded, heart pounding.
---
The gates clanged shut behind me.
The Imperial Arcane Academy was no longer a distant dream.
It was my new battlefield.
---
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the quiet kind—but the expectant kind.
The kind that lingered in ancient halls, 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 provided perfect lighting.
The Imperial Academy spared no expense.
Even the windows shimmered with enchanted glass.
---
Students filled the room—nearly forty of them.
Their uniforms were crisp, their badges polished.
Most had arrived in horse-drawn mana carriages.
Others wore the smugness of old bloodlines like accessories.
I glanced at the mana threads around them.
Some were at Level 15.
One or two were already approaching Tier 2.
"Every ten levels marked a Tier. The jump from Tier 1 to Tier 2 wasn't just power—it was survival."
I was still 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.
The air shifted.
She entered—tall, silver-haired, with a sharp coat over her black robes.
Her eyes scanned the room like she was evaluating spells, not students.
Everyone straightened immediately.
"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?"
---
Hands shot up.
"Illusion," said one student.
"Sound."
"Light."
Then the boy in the front with the gold-trimmed collar smirked.
"Logic, obviously. Can't even cast a decent fireball with that."
Laughter scattered across the room. A few others nodded.
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.
A beat of silence.
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 for a long moment. Then she snapped her fingers.
A glowing rune lit up on the classroom floor, and a mechanical hiss echoed as a small metal cage rose from a trapdoor.
Inside, something moved—fast, twitchy.
Then it lunged at the bars, snarling.
A Clawrat.
F-rank.
Small, gray-furred, jagged claws, glowing red eyes.
Roughly the size of a housecat, but faster than most weapons.
Mean enough to tear through flesh if it caught you.
Some students flinched.
> "Standard test subject," Elian said. "Fast. Erratic. Aggressive. Not deadly—unless you're foolish or slow."
She looked at me.
"Immobilize it. You pass. Fail, and the infirmary is to the left."
---
The cage opened.
The Clawrat shrieked—then shot at 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 back, gritting my teeth. Blood already dripped from the wound.
"Too slow," I muttered.
---
It circled. Snarled again. Twitching.
Every move was fast, but predictable—if you were watching.
"Three-second cycles."
"Left-paw heavy."
"Always hisses before the leap."
---
A broken desk leg lay near me.
I extended my hand.
The shard trembled—lifted.
Telekinesis locked on.
The Clawrat hissed again.
My signal.
It leapt.
I didn't dodge.
I lunged forward—and drove the wooden shard into its chest, using its own momentum against it.
The impact knocked me down, 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 stood slowly, breathing hard.
Elian's eyes followed me back to my seat.
"Next time," she said dryly, "warn me before you demonstrate the practical value of 'the weakest affinity.'"
---
I sat again.
Now every eye was 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.