The Grand Cathedral of Ramona, the spiritual heart of Eldoria was silent. Morning sun raises streamed through the windows, illuminating the Bishop as his voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings.
"Next," the Bishop commanded, his voice resonant. "Place your holy template upon the altar."
A boy with vibrant red hair stepped forward. In his hands, he carried a rectangular glass slate, his template.
With practiced grace, he slid it into a groove carved into the ancient stone.
The altar erupted in a blinding white light. Divine script began to write itself onto the glass, accompanied by wisps of ethereal smoke.
The template began to levitate, drifting into the waiting hands of the Bishop—a man draped in heavy white robes with a beard that reached his waist.
"Hmm... an S-Rank Mage Class," the Bishop announced, his chest swelling with pride. "As expected of Prince Leroy, the pride of House Volkswag. Congratulations, Your Highness."
Leroy flashed a smug grin, reclaiming his template to admire his high stats inscribed on it.
The cathedral, filled with hundreds of ten-year-olds, erupted in thunderous applause.
"S-Rank! The highest possible tier!"
"A Mage class is rare enough, but an S-Rank? He's a prodigy."
"Eldoria's future is secure with him."
In a world where strength dictated status, Mages were the elite. Even a D-Rank Mage lived like a king; an S-Rank was a living god.
Leroy walked back to his seat with his head held high, his every step radiating confidence and arrogance.
As the cheers subsided, the Bishop looked down at his list. His expression immediately soured.
"Maxwell... ugh... Volkswag," he called out, the family name sounding like a chore on his tongue.
A boy emerged from the crowd. Though he was ten, he was small for his age.
His messy black hair partially obscured his brown eyes rimmed with deep, dark circles.
He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week, yet those who knew him knew the truth: he was always asleep, yet always tired.
He shuffled forward, shoulders slumped, dragging his feet as if the very act of walking was a burden.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted from adoration to mockery.
"Tsk... the Sloth Prince is up."
"He's the firstborn twin, you know. Technically, he's the Crown Prince."
"God help us if he takes the throne. Eldoria will fall in a week if we're ruled by a king who can't stay awake for his own coronation."
Maxwell didn't even mind the murmurs behind him. He had heard it all before: that he was useless, that he wasn't like his twin brother Leroy.
He reached the altar, panting slightly from the short walk, only to realize his hands were empty.
"Oh..." he muttered, blinking sluggishly. He turned back to the crowd. "Sebastian?"
A burly boy, dressed in a crisp suit, blonde short hair combed perfectly leaped from the crowd, hauling a massive backpack.
He was Sebastian, the son of a palace servant. He knelt at Maxwell's feet.
"Forgive me, Your Highness! I forgot I was holding it!" He scrambled through the bag, tossing aside bags of jerky and flasks of juice before finally removing the glass template.
The crowd watched in open disgust. The Crown Prince was so lazy he wouldn't even carry his own soul-slate.
"Thanks, Seb," Max muttered, patting the larger boy's head before collecting the template.
Max turned back to the altar and placed the glass down. It flickered with a dull, pathetic spark.
The divine ink appeared for a fraction of a second before vanishing. When the template tried to levitate, it sputtered and fell flat against the stone with a dull clatter.
The cathedral erupted in laughter.
"It didn't even glow!"
"Maybe he awakened an F-Rank 'Napping' skill!"
"He's too lazy for the gods to even bother with."
In any other kingdom, mocking a prince was a death sentence. But in Eldoria, Maxwell was a national joke.
His parents looked away in shame; even the palace maids treated him like a prisoner, sliding his food trays into his room without a word of greeting.
The Bishop sighed, picked up the slate, and squinted at it. His lip curled.
"It says... Null," the Bishop announced.
"Null?" Maxwell asked softly. "What does that mean?"
"It means you don't have a class, idiot!" Leroy shouted from his seat, his voice cutting through the hall. "I'm embarrassed to share blood with you. Get off the stage before you disgrace the crown any further!"
Maxwell tried to turn away, but his legs felt like lead. The weight of his own body seemed to double, and his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cold floor.
Sebastian was there in an instant, scooping Max up into his arms. He carried the panting prince back to his seat, ignoring the jeers of their peers.
It wasn't long before all the children were assessed, and then dismissed from the church.
**
Late that night, beneath the cathedral in a secure chamber, the King sat with the Bishop and the High Nobles.
The mood was somber. For years, the kingdom had struggled against the rising tide of Kaijus; monsters spawning from dungeons that threatened to level entire provinces.
"The results are in," the Bishop whispered. "The children are strong this year. All except the crown Prince's. His template was Null."
The King's grip tightened on the arm of his chair. "Null? Are you certain?"
A Duke leaned forward, his face pale. "You know the legends, Your Highness. If a slate returns Null, there are only two possibilities: he is truly powerless... or he is an 'Inheritor'."
The word "Inheritor" sent a chill through the room. Two decades ago, the last Inheritor had nearly brought civilization to its knees.
"What is your command, Sire?" the Bishop asked.
The King's eyes turned cold, a dark shadow masking his face. "We cannot risk it. I will not have my legacy ruined by a monster or a failure. I know exactly how to dispose of my useless son."
While his death was being plotted in the dark, Maxwell lay in his bed, snoring peacefully, blissfully unaware that his world was about to end.
TBC