A thin, pale young man with dark shadows under his eyes woke up freezing.
It wasn't the sharp kind of cold that bites at your skin. This was different—the quiet, creeping kind that seeps into your clothes and bones. The kind you feel in rooms that have been abandoned for years.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above looked wrong. Smooth gray stone with faint carvings running through it. The patterns glowed softly, giving off steady light. This wasn't a hospital ceiling. Not his bedroom. Not anywhere he recognized.
He froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't a dream.
He knew that instantly. Dreams were blurry and confusing. This place was too clear. Too solid. Too real.
He sat up fast.
Long strands of purple hair fell forward, brushing across his face and blocking his vision. He blinked hard, pushing them back with trembling fingers. Purple? His hair had never been purple. It used to be dull brown—short, messy, always hanging in his eyes because he never had money for proper haircuts.
Sharp pain exploded through his chest and shoulders. He gasped and grabbed the thin blanket, holding it against himself. His body felt strange. Lighter somehow. Stronger. Like someone had taken him apart and put him back together, but the pieces didn't quite fit right anymore.
He stared down at his hands.
These weren't his hands.
The fingers were longer and thinner. The skin was smooth—no scars, no calluses, no marks from years of rough work. They looked young. Too young. He flexed them carefully, watching as they moved with an ease his old hands never had.
Seventeen, a quiet voice whispered in his head. This body is only seventeen.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood. His knees wobbled dangerously. The room was small and painfully neat—no personality, no warmth. A narrow bed. A plain wooden desk. One tall window showing stone towers and blue sky. The walls were bare. No posters. No photos. No proof that anyone actually lived here.
This wasn't a home.
It was just space someone had assigned to him.
On the desk sat a thin black rectangle, like a tablet with a dark screen. As he gripped the wall for balance, the device suddenly lit up by itself.
Glowing text appeared across the surface:
ACADEMY CENTRAL RANKING — FINAL TRIAL RESULTS
His stomach dropped.
"No," he whispered hoarsely. "No, no, no..."
He didn't understand why panic was rising in his chest. He didn't know what academy this was or what trials they meant. But his hands were already shaking anyway.
Names scrolled down the screen. Hundreds of them. Strange surnames paired with colorful symbols he'd never seen before.
Then the scrolling stopped.
The screen zoomed in tight on a single line.
Rank 01
The name underneath wasn't his old name.
It was this body's name.
His vision went blurry around the edges.
"That's impossible," he said out loud. His voice sounded wrong—lighter, clearer than he remembered. "There's no way."
He stumbled backward until his legs hit the bed. Rank one. First place out of everyone. The absolute best in the entire academy.
In his old life, he'd never been first at anything. He'd barely scraped by in everything.
Worse than that—he couldn't remember taking any trials. Not a single one.
A sharp knock echoed from the door.
He jumped hard enough to slam his shoulder into the wall.
The door swung open without waiting for permission.
A tall man in flowing dark robes stepped inside. His posture was military-straight, his expression carefully neutral. Behind him, the wide hallway was packed with students in matching uniforms.
Every single one of them stopped moving.
Nobody said a word. Nobody stared directly at him. But they all shifted, creating a wide bubble of empty space around the doorway.
Around him.
"Rank One," the man said evenly. "You're awake. Good."
Those two words hit harder than any physical blow.
"I think there's been some kind of mistake," he blurted out quickly. "I don't—"
"There's no mistake," the man interrupted smoothly.
His eyes swept over the young man—not examining, not judging. Watching. Like you'd watch something unpredictable and dangerous.
"The trials concluded last night," the instructor continued. "Your results were verified three times. Every metric confirmed."
"But I didn't take any trials!" The words burst out before he could stop them.
For the first time, something flickered across the man's face. Not confusion exactly.
Wariness.
"I see," the man said after several long seconds. "You're experiencing post-trial exhaustion. Common among high-level practitioners."
"That's not what I'm trying to say—"
"Orientation begins in thirty minutes," the instructor talked right over him. "Your attendance is required."
He turned toward the door.
"Wait!" Desperation crept into his voice. "I don't know how to use magic!"
The man stopped dead.
Very slowly, he turned back around.
The silence stretched between them like pulled taffy.
"...I see," the instructor finally said, his tone impossible to read. "Then I strongly suggest you don't demonstrate anything at all."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
The hallway exploded into frantic whispers.
The young man stood frozen, heart hammering wildly, staring at the glowing tablet still sitting on the desk.
Rank One.
He forced his lungs to work.
After a moment, he lifted one shaking hand and tried to concentrate. He'd seen this in movies, read it in books, played it in games. Close your eyes. Focus inward. Feel for the power inside you.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, squeezing his eyes shut harder.
Still nothing. No warmth. No tingling. No sense of energy waiting beneath his skin.
His chest felt tight.
"I can't..." His voice cracked badly. "I can't do anything."
Then a memory slammed into him—except it wasn't his memory.
A massive battlefield drowning in light. These same hands moving with terrifying speed and precision. Enemies collapsing without visible spells—no explosions, no colored magic, no dramatic effects. People just dropped like someone had cut their puppet strings.
The memory shattered like broken glass.
He staggered, breathing hard and fast.
Whatever this body had been capable of before—whatever impossible power had earned it the Rank One spot—it was completely gone now.
And nobody at the academy had realized it yet.
Outside, the whispers grew louder and more excited.
He caught fragments of conversation as he stepped into the hallway on unsteady legs.
"...obviously suppressing his power on purpose..."
"...I couldn't sense any magic from him at all..."
"...that's how you know he's really that strong..."
"...did you see the ranking board? All perfect scores..."
Not one person met his eyes.
They all moved aside as he walked past, creating a clear path.
Fear crawled up his spine—not fear of them, but fear of what they all believed.
They thought he was powerful beyond measure.
They thought he was completely untouchable.
And when they eventually discovered the truth—
He swallowed against the lump in his throat.
The tablet in his hand buzzed softly.
Orientation Hall — Attendance Confirmed
He looked up at the massive double doors looming ahead.
Rank One.
With hands that wouldn't stop shaking, he pushed the doors open wide.
And walked into an academy that believed it had found its strongest student ever—while standing on legs that could barely hold his weight.