As Noah hit the lake, he forced himself downward, fighting to swim as deep as he could. But the moment he tried, he felt an invisible pressure, like a wall no one could see, sealing off the path ahead.
The resistance grew with every second, as if the water around him were thickening, turning heavy, sticky, suffocating.
Noah's heart hammered faster and faster.
A dull roar filled his ears. Every pull of his arms demanded a ridiculous amount of effort, like something had seized his limbs and was dragging him back toward the surface.
And yet he didn't stop.
He kept struggling, forcing his body to move even as instinct screamed at him to give up.
In that moment tiny, gentle lights began to gather around Noah. One by one, they slipped into his body, streaming toward his heart.
The moment the light vanished, the pressure eased. The invisible wall that had blocked him softened, becoming far less oppressive.
Noah gritted his teeth underwater and kicked hard, flailing his arms and legs as he pushed himself deeper.
But after only two more meters, the wall hardened again, snapping back into its original, unyielding state.
Noah fought with everything he had, trying to force his way down...
And couldn't move even a single centimeter deeper.
A moment later, a massive repelling force slammed into him.
In the blink of an eye, he was hurled out of the lake.
The youths on shore watched in shock as Noah was thrown into the air with a cry, then crashed down, landing squarely on his backside on the hard rocks beside the water.
The academy elder sighed, recorded the result, and announced flatly:
"Noah Morgen. Depth: two meters. No talent to become a Myrks Master. Next, John Wiezn."
Noah's face was deathly pale as he pushed himself up and stumbled back to the group, teeth clenched hard enough to ache.
Without the talent to become a Myrks Master, he would live as an ordinary person, stuck at the very bottom of the clan hierarchy.
In his mind, images of a future he'd never wanted flashed by: endless labor, orders barked at him by peers who had stood beside him just moments ago. Everything he'd dreamed of had just been ripped away by a single cold verdict.
When he rejoined the others, his stance was unsteady. The blow had been enormous, and the reality ahead of him crushed every last trace of hope.
A few people tossed him pitying looks. But almost immediately, their attention shifted to the next person entering the lake.
Not long after, that youth was thrown out as well, barely making it four meters deep, another sign of no cultivation talent.
Not everyone was born with the ability to become a Myrks Master. In general, if four out of ten people had talent, that was considered an excellent outcome.
In the Valen Clan, the ratio was higher, closer to six out of ten.
That was because Valen's ancestor had been famous… and terrifyingly powerful.
His cultivation had refined his bloodline, leaving behind potent heredity. Even generations later, the average talent in the Valen Clan was above the norm.
Just that fact alone hinted at how monstrous the clan's ancestor must have been, his blood still carrying such strength after so many generations.
After three more failures in a row, the elders watching from the carved balcony began to sour.
The elders' balcony had been cut directly into the cavern wall, suspended high above the lake like a stone grandstand. Its edges were uneven, still bearing the scars of ancient tools, and the dark rock gleamed with dampness.
They sat on massive stone seats, each separated from the others by the invisible boundaries of status.
Their robes were subdued but made from materials far finer than what the youths wore, and the embroidery on their sleeves marked their family lines.
Even the clan leader's brows creased slightly at the year's results.
Then the academy elder called out the fourth name.
"Dejvid Lopez!"
"Here!" shouted a young man with a square face.
Wearing simple linen robes, Dejvid stepped forward toward the lake.
He was taller and sturdier than most of his peers, his presence carrying obvious courage, and excitement, as he jumped in.
A moment later, he began swimming down, breaking past five meters without slowing.
Ten meters.
Twenty.
Thirty.
One after another, the lights flowed into his body as he fought to go deeper and deeper.
He made it to thirty-seven meters before he finally felt the invisible wall, one he couldn't push through.
The youths on shore stared with eyes wide open, watching Dejvid pass thirty meters without stopping.
Then he was thrown out of the lake and slammed down onto the rocks with a heavy thud, landing painfully on his backside.
The academy elder shouted happily, "Excellent! Dejvid Lopez, B-grade talent! Come here and show me your Essence Core."
Dejvid walked up, and the elder placed a hand on the boy's abdomen. He closed his eyes, checking carefully.
After a moment he withdrew his hand, nodded, and wrote:
"Dejvid Lopez. B-grade Essence Core. Membrane quality: thick and dense. Suitable for cultivation without issues."
Cultivation talent was graded in four levels: A through D.
A person with A-grade talent, raised properly for three years, could become a Third-Stage Myrks Master, forming a true pillar for their family and clan.
A person with B-grade talent typically reached Second Stage in three years. They were the clan's backbone.
Clans treasured B-grade youths because they often became future elders, and after six or seven years of training, many reached Third Stage.
As for A-grade…
Even a single one brought great fortune to the entire clan.
A talent like that was handled with extreme care, because it was enough to reach Fourth Stage within ten years.
And that level of cultivation was sufficient to become a Clan Leader.
Up on the balcony, several elders turned to look at one of their peers with envy.
That elder had a similar square face, Dejvid's grandfather, Oliver Lopez.
Oliver's face was split with a grin as he glanced provocatively at another elder.
"So? Not bad, huh?" he said smugly. "My grandson isn't half useless, is he, Ethan Weber?"
Ethan Weber stroked his long white beard and let out an irritated snort, refusing to answer.
Seeing Ethan's dark expression, Oliver's smile only widened as he twisted the knife with a few more pointed looks.
***
Two hours later, half the youths had already completed their awakenings. There were quite a few C- and D-grade talents among them.
But even so, more than half still had no cultivation talent at all.
The bloodline is thinning... The clan leader thought, watching the youths below with a quiet sigh.
For several years now, the clan hasn't produced any Fourth-Rank masters to strengthen the bloodline.
The fourth-generation leader had been the only Fifth-Rank master after their ancestor… but in the end, he died alongside Zelathor the Exile of Bitter Grief, and left no descendants.
"Valen's talents are getting weaker year by year," the clan leader murmured, bitterness deep in his breath.
Just then, the academy elder called:
"Leon Weber!"
At that name, all the elders glanced toward Ethan Weber, the boy's grandfather.
Leon was slim and short, with delicate features.
He clenched his fists, nervousness etched across his face as he walked toward the lake.
When he jumped in, the little lights continuously flowed into his body. He swam with everything he had, pushing down until he stopped at thirty-seven meters.
"Another B-grade," the elder announced as he recorded Leon's result.
A ripple ran through the youths as they threw Leon jealous looks.
"Hahaha! Thirty-six steps, thirty-six steps!" Ethan Weber laughed loudly, pride shining as he stared at his grandson.
Then he turned his gaze toward Oliver Lopez, whose expression went sour, as if he'd just bitten into a green apple.
So it's playing out the same way, Roland Weiss thought, rubbing the side of his nose.
He remembered clearly how the clan had harshly punished Leon Weber for cheating during the Awakening Ceremony.
In truth, Leon's talent was only C-grade. But his grandfather Ethan had helped him falsify the results, so everyone believed he was B-grade.
If Roland wanted to cheat, he had countless ways to do it, some far better than Ethan's crude methods.
If he showed B- or A-grade talent, the clan would smother him with protection. But he'd only just been reborn; there was no time to set up a proper deception.
More importantly, even if he fooled the test, he couldn't fake cultivation speed. Within months, he'd be exposed.
Leon only managed to hide it for years because Ethan Weber, one of the two elders with the greatest authority in the clan, shielded him.
Ethan had always been hostile toward Oliver.
And as one of the clan's top authorities, if Ethan wanted to suppress a rival, he needed a grandson with "outstanding" talent to stand as his banner.
If I remember right… if not for "that" incident, the truth about Leon would never have come out.
Roland's eyes sharpened as he considered how to turn that knowledge to his advantage.
If he exposed the fraud right now, he'd get a small reward, and in exchange, he'd offend the powerful Ethan Weber.
I can't use blackmail yet, Roland thought, aware of how low his status currently was. In a situation like that, the clan would turn on him instead.
While Roland weighed how to leverage the information later, the academy elder called the next name:
"Roland Weiss."