The Grand Hall hummed like an instrument someone didn't know how to play.
Light slid down stone arches, caught on banners that said Onward. Upward. Unbroken. and made the words look heavier than they sounded. Rows of students stood shoulder to shoulder, all breathing the same careful breath.
Some crossed arms like armor. Some stared at the floor like it would save them. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else whispered a prayer too soft. No one wanted to be the first to look scared.
At the center, the Awakening Spire waited—crystal clear as ice, threaded with thin lines of lightning that pulsed every few seconds, like a heart learning its rhythm. An instructor in a black coat read names from a slate, voice flat on purpose.
"Candidates will step forward when called," he said. "The Spire will reveal your Talent, Bloodline, Physique, and base Stats. Do not touch it until instructed."
Names fell one by one. A boy from the capital touched the crystal; light crawled up his arm; letters bloomed in the air. The room cheered on cue. Another name, another life decided. It wasn't cruel; it was worse. It was routine.
"Nolan Rivers."
He stepped out like a parade had been waiting for him. The Spire brightened, and clean gold lines wrote the world people expected to see:
Talent: A — Sword Intent
Bloodline: Steelborn (B)
Physique: Iron Skin (C)
STR 43 | AGI 38 | VIT 31 | INT 22
Profession: Knight
A faint shimmer flared at his feet — a blur of light that made the instructors murmur. The System confirmed it a heartbeat later.
[Skill Demonstration: Vector Step (E)]
Nolan grinned as if he'd choreographed it. One step, one flash, and he was suddenly two paces to the side, bowing for applause that didn't need prompting.
The reaction was instant—whoops, claps, the brittle music of envy pretending to be admiration. Nolan turned, letting the light find his angles. He had the grin you practice when you don't think anyone is watching.
Near the front stood Elira Moonveil, the elf everyone watched even when they pretended not to. Silver hair, stillness that made noise feel rude. She clapped once. Polite. Nothing more.
The drumbeat of names went on. With each flash, the hall shifted a little—the way furniture slides a fraction when someone walks through a room, like even the stone wanted to make space for the next blessed kid.
I waited near a window where the light couldn't decide if it wanted me.
"Ash Renfield."
The sound in the hall thinned and then vanished. I stepped forward. My shoes clicked on the stone—too loud for how small I felt. Nolan smirked as I passed. "Good luck, Dust Boy."
I didn't look at him. You don't argue with a hook and then complain when you're the fish.
The Spire's surface was cool, like a river right before rain. The instructor nodded. I touched the crystal.
Candidate: Ash Renfield
Talent: F — Dust Spark
Bloodline: —
Physique: —
STR 7 | AGI 8 | VIT 8 | INT 9
Profession: Dust Collector (F)
There was a heartbeat of quiet where it could have gone either way. Then someone snorted. The laugh spread like spilled oil.
"Dust Collector?"
"Is that real?"
"Guess someone has to sweep the dorms."
The instructor's voice didn't change, which felt worse than being mocked. "Unfortunate," he said. "Next."
Nolan gave me a slow clap. "Keep the Spire polished, Renfield."
I let my hand fall. My face felt hot and numb at the same time—like I wasn't wearing it right. I turned back to my place without a word.
Elira didn't laugh. She didn't smile either. Her eyes met mine for half a breath, steady in a way that made me feel seen and not judged. Then the moment closed and the ceremony rolled on.
By the time we poured out into the courtyard, the sun was high and sharp. People talked with relief in their voices—jokes, promises, plans that all sounded like See? I matter. I kept my head down and walked the long way to the dorms.
The steps still held the morning's cold. My room was small and honest: a bed that creaked, a desk with knife marks, a window that admitted light like a reluctant witness. The kind of space the world gives to people it doesn't plan to remember.
I set my bag down and opened my Status.
[Status]
Name: Ash Renfield
Level: 1
Talent: Dust Spark (F) — Emits minor static. Can ignite dust.
Bloodline: —
Physique: —
Stats: STR 7 | AGI 8 | VIT 8 | INT 9
Profession: Dust Collector (F) — Maintenance tree unlocked.
"Maintenance," I said to the empty room. "Of course."
I closed the panel and stared at the ceiling until the lines blurred. Anger moved under my ribs like something pacing. I wasn't angry at the kids in the hall; not really. Not at Nolan. Not even at the instructor who had perfected the art of sounding like a door. I was angry at the part of me that wasn't surprised. Different world, same punchline.
I lay back and tried to breathe slow. It didn't help. My mind ran the same loop: a river from another life, rain hissing on metal, laughter that pretended it wasn't meant to hurt. The words from this morning stuck like a fishbone—Dust Collector. The world loved neat labels. The world didn't have to live under them.
I thought about leaving. Not the academy—just the room. The north yard had practice circles no one used after dusk. I could walk there, pick up a training blade, and drill until my arms shook. I wouldn't get stronger today. I just wanted the simple math of effort for breath.
I pictured my aunt, Marian, wiping chalk dust off her hands and telling me "Eat before you go breaking yourself." I pictured Mira, two years younger, proud and loud and small enough that she still reached for my hand in markets. I pictured Ellyn—same age as me—leaning on the counter with a daring grin, always asking questions that got us all in trouble and somehow out of it too. I cared about them. I wanted to come home to them in one piece. That caring sat beside the anger and made a tight knot that didn't go away.
I didn't sleep. I didn't move much either. I let the day drain out of the window until the room turned blue and then black. People passed in the hall. Someone told the same joke twice. By the time the tower bell marked midnight, my jaw ached from clenching I hadn't noticed.
I stared at the dark and, for the first time since the bridge in the other world, said it out loud.
"I want to live," I whispered. "I'm just… not okay with how."
Something in the air changed. Not a sound—pressure. Like the room remembered to breathe and then forgot again. A pale panel opened above the bed. White letters wrote themselves in the dark.
[System initializing…]
[Discrepancy detected. Public record diverges from core designation.]
[Initiating corrective protocol.]
I sat up too fast and the bed creaked like it wanted to apologize. The text redrew, line by line, like a careful hand was erasing and rewriting me.
STATUS — ASH RENFIELD
Level: 1
Talent: Exponential Pulse (EX, Hidden) — Doubles all stats whenever Origin (ORI) increases.
Bloodline: Omni‑Seer (EX, 99% sealed) — Witness a skill once to learn it; generates Upgrade Tokens to rank it.
Physique: Eversurge Vessel (EX, Lv. 1) — Prevents collapse from exponential growth; enables stat compression.
Stats (visible): STR 200 | AGI 200 | VIT 200 | INT 200 [Free Stat Points: 10]
Hidden Virtues: WIS 1.0 | CHA 1.0 | LUCK 0.2 (private; nightly variance)
Profession: Paradox Architect (EX) — Authority to restructure parameters within System limits.
Origin (ORI): 0 (Locked)
Mask: Public appraisal returns prior F‑profile.
My first thought wasn't joy. It was suspicion.
"Define Origin," I said, voice dry.
[Unavailable.]
"Figures."
I looked at my stat numbers. 200 across the board felt like the System had reached into my bones without asking. The anger under my sternum didn't leave; it just changed shape. Being handed power wasn't the same as being okay.
"Why me?" I asked the ceiling.
The letters didn't answer, and maybe that was better. If I got a reason, I might start believing the world was fair, and I knew how that ended.
A smaller prompt blinked off to the side.
[Assign free points?]
Ten. I had ten. I let the cursor hover and then moved it away. "Not tonight."
[Acknowledged. MARK‑I interface online.]
The panel dimmed to a faint glow at the edge of vision, like a new window no one else could see. I stood because sitting felt like surrender and took two steps to the window. The world outside was slate and silver. The statue of the Founder pointed a sword at nothing. Somewhere out there, people were asleep, their lives unchanged and fine.
I tried the smallest thing I could think of.
Before moving, I focused on the faint hum behind my eyes — the mark of the Omni-Seer. If it really let me copy what I witnessed, maybe it could see my own attempts too. Maybe it wanted to be tested.
"Let's see if you're real," I murmured.
"Vector Step."
The world pinched and then let go. I ended up a meter to the left, breath fogging the glass. My heart hammered like it wanted answers first. Not awe — fear, then a clean line through the fear: this changes what I can do, not who I am.
I'd seen Nolan use that flash-step in the hall. Maybe that was all Omni-Seer needed — a memory sharp enough to imitate.
[Skill Learned — Vector Step (E)]
[Omni-Seer Active: Upgrade Token +1]
"Enough," I told myself. I closed the panel with a thought and the room got dark again, ordinary again. I sank back onto the bed and sat there with my hands pressed together. Part of me wanted to run into the night and see how far the new edges went. The other part—the louder, older part—said easy. You don't fix a life by sprinting into it.
The day's voices came back like ghosts.
"Dust Collector."
"Unfortunate."
"Good luck, Dust Boy."
I let them run until they ran out. I tried to replace them with different words.
Aunt Marian.
Mira.
Ellyn.
Elira.
I stopped there. We were barely acquaintances. All she had given me was a look that said I see you. That was all I had to give back.
I lay down. I didn't pray. I didn't plan. I just told myself I'd move again in the morning.
Not for them — not for the people in the hall or the System whispering in the dark — but for me. Because if I wanted to keep living, I had to learn how to stay in my own skin without hating it.
When the bell hadn't even rung, I was already awake. The room was gray and cold, the kind of quiet that makes you second-guess if you're really up or still dreaming. My body felt lighter, steadier somehow — like sleep had fixed what I couldn't. The rest of me was still a mess.
I pulled on my training clothes, buckled the cheap academy blade to my side, and stood there for a second with my hand on the latch, trying to remember why that small act felt so heavy. Then I opened the door.
I checked the mask setting one more time.
[Mask: Active — Public appraisal returns prior F‑profile.]
"Good," I said. "Let them see what they expect."
It wasn't bravado. It was safety. The mask bought time. Time meant I could make mistakes without an audience.
The corridor outside was quiet. The dorm smelled like old wood and soap. At the stairwell window, my reflection looked back—same black hair, same tired eyes, same mouth that didn't know how to smile without looking like it hurt. If there was a difference, it was in the way I stood a fraction taller, like the weight on my spine had shifted. Not gone. Shifted.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I told the mirror. The mirror, being a mirror, agreed.
[A/N: why so cringe bro?]
Outside, fog lay low on the north yard. The circles were chalked onto hoarfrost, and the wooden dummies waited with more patience than most people. I stepped into the first circle and drew the practice blade. The balance was off, but it was honest about it. I breathed in, let the cold bite my teeth, and moved.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't dramatic. It was stance before swing, like my father in the memories that were mine now had said. Feet under hips. Blade from guard to cut to guard and back again. Don't chase speed. Chase clean.
After a while my hands warmed, then my shoulders, then the space behind my lungs where panic used to live. The fog turned from iron to milk. Someone crossed the far edge of the yard—tall, a cape, a walk that said faculty—and didn't bother me. Good.
I didn't think about the hall. I didn't think about the numbers. I didn't try the step again. I let breath and repetition push thoughts to the edges where they belonged. When the bell finally rang, I lowered the blade and looked at my hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From work.
Back in the dorm, kids were waking into the version of the day they had earned last morning. Nolan's voice carried from the stairs, laughing with someone about something that wasn't me. Relief sat in the sound like a cat in sun. The world didn't revolve around my failure; it just knew how to orbit it when it needed a joke.
At my door, I hesitated and checked the panel one more time.
[Status — Ash Renfield]
Level: 1
Talent: Exponential Pulse (EX, Hidden) — Doubles all stats whenever Origin (ORI) increases.
Origin (ORI): 0 (Locked)
"Origin," I repeated. The word tasted like a key I hadn't earned. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
I closed the panel and the room felt normal again. Not soft, not kind. Normal. I liked that more than I expected.
I washed, dressed for class, and shouldered my bag. On the way out, I saw a strip of sunlight on the floorboards and stepped over it like it mattered. Maybe it did. The board didn't creak. Small win.
The dining hall was loud the way a river is loud. People ate and bragged and compared. I took bread and a bowl of stew and found a corner where conversation thinned out. Someone said "Dust Collector" behind me on the way to sit with friends. I didn't turn. I ate. It tasted like salt and meat and heat, which was better than pride and air.
Elira passed my table on her way to hers. She didn't stop. She met my eyes for a heartbeat and nodded once, like good morning and I saw you in the yard and you can ignore me if that helps all at once. I kept my face still and nodded back. It was nothing. It was enough.
Classes ran on rails. In Mage Theory, the instructor talked about stable channels like they were polite guests. In System Ethics, someone asked if fairness mattered when survival was on the line. In Combat Form, we copied stances until legs shook. I didn't stand out. I didn't disappear. I just did the next thing and the next.
By evening, the hallways cooled again. Torches hummed against stone. The day had not changed me. The midnight panel had. But not in the way anyone in that Grand Hall would care about. The change wasn't the numbers. It was the line I had drawn for myself while the room was still dark:
I care about living. I'm angry about how it looks. I won't pretend otherwise. I will work anyway.
Back in my room, I let the door close softly. I didn't open the panel. I didn't practice Vector Step across the floor like a child with a new toy. I sat on the edge of the bed, stretched the ache out of my shoulders, and listened to the dorm breathe.
I wasn't calm. I wasn't collected. I wasn't fine.
But I was here. And I was going to keep showing up.
That would have to do—for now.