The main hall had been cleared .
No banners. No ceremony ribbons. Only space.
Recruits stood in ordered rows across the polished stone floor, boots aligned, shoulders squared. The ceiling arched high overhead, pale light filtering through narrow windows that cut the morning into long, disciplined beams.
At the center of the hall stood the artefact.
A triangular platform of dark alloy, edges precise, surface matte and seamless. In its center rose a crystalline core—clear, glass-like, faceted with unnatural symmetry. It was not large, but it felt heavier than the hall itself. The air around it seemed denser, as if sound moved differently within its radius.
The four commanders stood at equal distance around the platform.
Behind them, senior veterans formed a half circle—silent, observant.
Above, from the second-floor balcony, Captain Aelyss watched.
She did not lean on the railing. She did not shift her weight. Hands clasped behind her back, posture exact, expression unreadable.
To her left and right stood members of the Research & Intelligence division—long coats, thin lenses over one eye, tablets of inscribed glass in hand. Their attention was not on the recruits. It was on the artefact.
No one spoke.
Professor Ivean stepped forward.
"The Artefact measures Universal Threat Classification," he announced. His voice carried without force. "It scans body and soul. You will step onto the platform and release your Kosmo. Do not resist the resonance."
He paused.
"The symbol that appears will correspond to your rank. Your level and dragon classification will be announced."
A subtle shift moved through the recruits. Not fear. Anticipation.
"This measurement is not negotiable," the veteran continued. "It is not influenced by opinion."
He stepped aside.
"First recruit. Forward."
A young man from the third row swallowed once and walked toward the triangle. His boots echoed too loudly in the silence.
He stepped onto the platform.
For a breath, nothing happened.
Then the crystalline core ignited with a deep blue glow.
Light climbed upward around him—thin at first, then widening, spiraling in a smooth column that enveloped his entire body. The resonance moved like a current, passing through him, not over him.
His jaw tightened. He released his Kosmo.
The light intensified—brighter at the chest, pulsing once at the head.
Then it dissipated.
He stepped down.
Where he had stood, a symbol burned faintly into the platform's surface.
Professor Iveran stepped forward, glanced at it, and announced:
"Level 6 — Wyrm."
A murmur rolled through the hall before it resolved into controlled applause.
Wyrm.
For a new recruit, Level 6 was impressive. Low threat classification on the global scale—but within the Academy, it marked clear potential.
The recruit exhaled slowly, bowed once, and returned to formation. His shoulders sat higher now.
The second recruit followed.
Blue light. Resonance scan.
"Level 7 — Vermis."
Polite applause. Relief.
Another.
"Level 6 — Wyrm."
A flicker of competitiveness began threading through the rows. Eyes shifted sideways. Calculations formed.
Level 7 was common. Minor threat. Expected.
Level 6 drew attention.
The scans continued.
Light rising.
Symbols appearing.
Announcements echoing against stone.
Some recruits bowed with quiet satisfaction. Others returned to line with tight expressions, disappointed but composed. No one protested. No one spoke out of turn.
On the balcony, Aelyss did not react.
After nearly half the formation had been measured, a veteran called:
"Recruit Lior Von Morgenstern."
Lior stepped forward without hesitation.
He walked as he always did—calm, measured, unhurried.
He mounted the platform and released his Kosmo cleanly, efficiently. The blue resonance responded immediately, smooth and stable.
The scan passed upward in a precise column. No fluctuations. No irregularities.
It concluded quickly.
He stepped down.
The symbol formed.
"Level 6 — Wyrm."
Applause followed—stronger this time. Lior inclined his head once, neither smiling nor hiding his satisfaction. It was controlled pride. Earned, not displayed.
He returned to formation beside Midarion without comment.
Midarion gave him a small nod.
Lior's eyes flicked briefly toward him, unreadable.
The veteran's voice carried again.
"Recruit Reikika Ashborn."
A subtle ripple passed through the hall.
Youngest recruit in Academy history.
Reikika stepped forward.
She did not rush.
Her dark hair was tied cleanly behind her neck, posture upright, breathing steady. She mounted the platform as if stepping into familiar ground.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the crystal ignited.
The blue light rose—but slower than before.
It climbed around her in layered spirals, thinner strands weaving through thicker bands. The resonance lingered at her chest longer than it had with any other recruit.
Whispers began along the edges of the hall.
The scan continued.
10 seconds.
twenty.
Longer than usual.
Even some veterans shifted slightly.
From the balcony, Aelyss's eyes narrowed by a fraction.
Finally, the light intensified sharply—then vanished.
Reikika stepped down.
The symbol etched itself into the platform with brighter clarity than the others.
The announcing veteran leaned closer.
His brow furrowed.
He straightened.
"Level 5 — Wyvern."
Silence.
Not hesitation. Not confusion.
Silence.
Level 5.
Moderate threat.
No recruit in recent Academy memory had been classified that high on entry.
Then the applause came—louder, sharper, edged with disbelief.
Some recruits stared openly.
A commander exchanged a glance with another.
Even several veterans nodded in quiet approval.
On the balcony, Aelyss did not clap. She simply watched.
Midarion allowed himself a small smile.
Of course.
A whisper slipped from somewhere in the formation.
"House Ashborn…"
Midarion turned his head slightly, just enough for the recruits beside him to hear.
"You haven't seen anything yet."
A few recruits snorted quietly.
He continued, voice low but confident.
"I'll be at least Level 4."
A brief wave of laughter moved through the row—light, half-teasing.
For a moment, his arrogance returned—not loud, not exaggerated, but present.
He believed it.
He had survived the jungle.
He had fought demon-possessed beasts.
He had nearly died.
He had endured what many of them had never seen.
Level 5 at minimum.
The veteran called the final name.
"Recruit Midarion Ashborn."
The hall felt narrower.
He stepped forward.
Confident. Steady.
Each footfall deliberate.
As he approached the platform, memories surfaced unbidden.
The jungle's humidity clinging to his skin.
The smell of blood and wet soil.
The demon-tainted beast's distorted roar.
The moment he thought he would not rise again.
He stepped onto the triangle.
Released his Kosmo.
Nothing happened.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Then—
Inside the crystal core, something shifted.
Not blue.
Dark.
Smoke-like distortion curled within the glass, slow and viscous, as if ink had been poured into water.
Several Research division observers stiffened.
One leaned forward sharply, adjusting the lens over his eye.
The distortion thickened for a breath—
Then blue light burst through it.
The scan began, slightly uneven at first, then stabilizing into the familiar upward column.
Midarion's jaw tightened.
The scan passed his chest. His throat. His head.
It ended.
He stepped down.
A faint dizziness brushed his vision, gone in a second.
The symbol appeared.
The announcing veteran leaned in.
His expression shifted.
He leaned closer.
Silence stretched.
He read it again.
The hall's air grew heavy.
Finally—
"Level 8 — Rankless. No threat."
The words settled without sound.
Midarion blinked.
He had been smiling—slightly, expectant.
The smile did not vanish immediately.
It faded slowly, as if his face had not yet understood.
Level 8.
Rankless.
No threat.
The hall remained silent for two long seconds.
Then whispers began.
"Rankless?"
"That's impossible."
"He can't even integrate a bastion at that level."
A thin ripple of laughter moved from the back rows—hesitant at first, then steadier.
Midarion remained standing.
He replayed the words.
Level 8.
He saw again the beast lunging toward him. Felt the weight of its body. The crack of bone. The suffocating mud.
No threat?
A recruit muttered, not quietly enough, "Maybe he's suited to attendant duty."
More laughter.
Not cruel. Not violent.
Worse.
Casual.
Viktor stepped forward from the side.
"No one is being expelled," he said evenly.
The laughter diminished, though not entirely.
Another voice whispered, "Rankless can't integrate a bastion."
"Why is he even here?"
Midarion lowered his head.
Not in anger.
In containment.
His throat tightened.
His hands did not shake.
He would not let them.
The first tear fell without sound, striking the stone at his feet. He did not wipe it away.
He did not look up.
Reikika stood rigid in her place.
Her brows were drawn together—not in pity. In disbelief.
Impossible.
She had felt his Kosmo. Seen it. Fought beside it.
The Research division members near the artefact were no longer neutral. One was visibly irritated, lips pressed thin. Another whispered sharply to a colleague, gesturing toward the crystal.
Tension built—not explosive, but focused.
Then—
A soft sound from the balcony.
Boots against stone.
Captain Aelyss descended.
She did not rush.
Each step down the staircase was measured.
The hall quieted before she reached the floor.
By the time she stepped onto the main level, no one was speaking.
She walked toward the center, stopping near the artefact.
Her gaze swept the recruits once.
"Ranking," she said calmly, "is a measurement. Not a verdict."
Her voice was not raised.
It did not need to be.
"The artefact records present resonance. It does not define future capacity."
Her eyes rested briefly—only briefly—on Midarion.
"True strength is not always immediately visible."
She turned her attention back to the formation as a whole.
"Growth is proven under pressure. Not in ceremony."
No comfort.
No contradiction of the artefact.
Just reframing.
She stepped aside.
"Division captains. Please select your recruits."
Commanders moved forward.
Names were called.
Level 7 and Level 6 recruits were chosen—assigned to Defense, Support, Intelligence.
Reikika was claimed by Strike Division without hesitation.
Lior by Defense.
Midarion's name was not spoken.
One by one, recruits left their rows to stand beside their assigned captains.
The hall gradually emptied.
Bootsteps faded.
Whispers dissolved.
Eventually, only a few figures remained.
Midarion stood where he had been since the announcement.
Not rigid now.
Just still.
Aelyss's words repeated quietly in his mind.
Growth is proven under pressure.
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
The triangle platform remained in the center of the hall, faintly humming.
The crystalline core seemed inert once more—clear, silent.
Midarion lifted his head slowly.
No one was looking at him now.
He turned toward the exit—
And for the briefest second, inside the crystal, a thin curl of dark smoke flickered.
Then vanished.
Unseen.