The journey from the quiet, clinical safety of the Carter estate to the pulsing heart of the city was a descent into a mechanical fever dream. Roman didn't take a private grav-car; despite Damien's desperate sacrifices, the family's liquid credits were drained, and the sleek vehicles of the elite were a luxury they could no longer afford. Instead, Roman was forced to board the Sector-Link Maglev, a high-speed rail system that screamed across the city on a bed of invisible magnetic repulsion.
Inside the train, the air was a stale cocktail of recycled oxygen, industrial ozone, and the sharp, chemical tang of cheap energy stimulants favored by the working class. Roman stood near the rear of the carriage, his hand gripped tightly around a cold, brushed-steel railing. Around him, other students in various iterations of the Academy uniform whispered and pointed, their voices barely muffled by the rhythmic hum of the magnetic tracks.
"Look, isn't that the Carter branch kid? The one with the defective bloodline?"
"I heard he got into a 'training accident' near the cliffs. Surprised he can even stand, let alone show his face here."
Roman stared through the reinforced plexiglass window, his gaze fixed on the blurring cityscape. Outside, the architecture of Sector D reflected the brutal social hierarchy of Terra. Massive, soot-stained residential blocks gave way to towering neon advertisements for Earth-rank neural-links and high-output energy cells. The Maglev climbed higher, banking sharply as it passed over the sprawling slums of the "Unawakened"—those who had failed their ceremony at sixteen and were now the cogs in the city's vast industrial machine. Finally, the train began its deceleration toward the Academy Spire, a colossal obsidian structure that pierced the smog-choked sky like a jagged obsidian tooth.
The Sector D Central Academy was not a place of education in the traditional sense; it was a high-tech sorting facility designed to maximize the potential of the strong and discard the weak. As Roman stepped onto the arrival platform, the school's pervasive AI—a flickering, blue holographic projection named Aegis—scanned his Student ID via a laser sweep that felt like a cold needle prick against his retinas.
"Welcome back, Student 4421," the AI's voice droned, devoid of any human warmth. "Biometrics confirmed. Status: Post-Trauma Recovery. Please report to Average Class 1-A."
The Academy was built as a vertical map of power, divided strictly into two worlds: the Elite Classes and the Average Classes.
The Elite Classes occupied the apex of the spire. There, students with Level 4-6 and higher bloodlines—and the wealthy heirs of Mid-Level families who could buy their way in—trained in gravity-controlled gardens. They breathed air enriched with spiritual particles and utilized Heaven-rank resources. They were the future "Dragons" of the Eastern Continent.
The Normal Classes, where Roman was headed, were located at the base of the spire. Here, the air was heavy with the heat of the school's massive fusion reactors, the equipment was three generations out of date, and the "trash" of the city—those with Level 1 to 3 bloodlines—were taught just enough to be useful, but never enough to be dangerous.
Roman walked through the dim, flickering corridors of the lower levels. The walls were made of unadorned reinforced concrete, a sharp contrast to the chrome and glass of the upper levels. Most students he passed looked defeated, their shoulders slumped under the weight of a system that had already decided their life's value based on a biological roll of the dice.
Roman entered the lecture hall of Normal Class 1-A, a cavernous room filled with rows of battered holographic desks that crackled with static. At the front of the room, leaning against a desk made of dark, polished mahogany—a piece of furniture that looked far too expensive and ancient for this industrial dungeon—was a man who looked like a ghost from a higher world.
He was strikingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features that seemed carved from marble. His hair was a pristine, groomed silver, tied back in a neat, professional queue. Unlike the other instructors who wore the standard-issue Academy jumpsuits, he wore a tailored, midnight-blue trench coat made of Earth-rank woven silk, which shimmered with a faint, protective mana-field.
This was Professor Alistair Thorne.
The rumors regarding Thorne were the only thing that kept the Normal Class students from total despair. Some said he was a disgraced High Commander from the Galactic Core front who had been exiled for a crime he didn't commit. Others claimed he was a High-Level cultivator who had intentionally burnt out his own meridians in a forbidden ritual to reach a higher state of being. He never showcased a bloodline ability, and his voice never rose above a calm, authoritative hum, but even the Elite Class instructors gave him a wide berth in the faculty halls.
"You're late, Mr. Carter," Thorne said. He didn't look up from the physical book he was reading—a rare, paper-bound relic that must have been worth a fortune. His voice was like velvet pulled over jagged gravel.
"Medical leave, Professor," Roman replied, his voice steady as he took a seat in the farthest corner of the room.
Thorne looked up then. His eyes were a piercing, cold grey—eyes that felt like they were scanning Roman's very DNA. For a split second, Thorne's gaze lingered on Roman's chest, precisely where the Star Cultivation Manual's energy was currently circulating through his Bone Refining stage. It was a look of intense, quiet recognition.
"Medical leave," Thorne repeated, a faint, cryptic smirk touching his lips. "Most people return from the cliff-sectors in a body bag, Mr. Carter. They don't usually return with a skeletal density that has tripled in forty-eight hours. Sit down. We were just discussing the supposed 'futility' of the Star Form for those born into the normal tiers."
Thorne stood up, closing his book with a soft, resonant thud that silenced the murmurs of the class. "The Academy curriculum tells you that if you are in the Normal Classes, your ceiling is the Mortal Rank. They tell you that your 'Snake' or 'Rat' bloodlines are biologically incapable of handling the pressure required to solidify gaseous spiritual energy into a planet-like core."
He began to pace the front of the room, his movements possessing the measured, predatory grace of an apex predator.
"They are, statistically, correct," Thorne continued, his grey eyes sweeping over the room. "In ninety-nine percent of cases, a Level 2 attempting to achieve Star Form will suffer a total systemic collapse. Their veins aren't wide enough. Their bones are too brittle. They attempt to house a star inside a glass bottle, and the bottle shatters."
He stopped directly beside Roman's desk. The scent of ancient parchment, sandalwood, and a faint hint of ozone—the smell of high-level lightning—surrounded him.
"But," Thorne whispered, leaning down so that only Roman could hear him, "the universe is not a statistician. It does not care about your bloodline classification. It only cares about the Will of the Star. There are those born with the blood of dragons who possess the souls of worms. And then, there are those..." He tapped Roman's desk with a gloved finger. "...who house the soul of a supernova inside the skin of a lizard."
He straightened up, his voice returning to its normal volume. "Today's lesson is Bone Density and Energy Stress. Activate your interfaces. We are going to calculate exactly how much voltage a human frame can take before the marrow begins to boil. Perhaps some of you will find that you are sturdier than the Academy gave you credit for."
The class had barely begun their data-entry when the reinforced door hissed open. A group of students in the white-and-gold uniforms of the Elite Classes sauntered in. At the lead was Brent Carter. He looked radiant, his Level 5 wind wyvern energy causing the air around him to ripple with a faint, heat-haze distortion.
"Professor Thorne," Brent said, his voice dripping with a mock-politeness. "I heard my dear, fragile cousin miraculously survived his... unfortunate fall. I simply came to see if he required a wheelchair, or if he finally realized that a snake should stay in the dirt where it belongs."
Brent's eyes locked onto Roman. His smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second when he saw Roman sitting perfectly upright. He wasn't the trembling, broken boy Brent had left in the dirt. Roman looked... solid. Still.
"Roman," Brent sneered, walking toward the back of the room. "You look healthy. Almost suspiciously so. Did the fall knock some sense into that Level 2 brain of yours, or are you just too stupid to stay dead?"
Roman didn't look up from his holographic display, but his fingers paused over the glowing keys. He could feel the Lightning Snake energy in his marrow vibrating, responding to the proximity of the Fire Drake's heat. Inside his mind, the Star Cultivation Manual began to churn, ready to convert his annoyance into a lethal discharge.
"The fall was high, Brent," Roman said, his voice flat and cold, echoing in the silent classroom. "High enough to see things clearly. Like how pathetic your footwork was when you kicked me. You're an Elite, yet you couldn't even kill a Normal properly. That's the real embarrassment here."
The room went deathly silent. Brent's face turned a deep, angry crimson, sparks of orange flame dancing at the tips of his fingers. Thorne, at the front of the room, simply leaned back against his mahogany desk, crossing his arms with a look of intense, academic interest.
"What did you say to me, trash?" Brent hissed, the temperature in the room beginning to rise.
Roman finally looked up, his tinted eyes meeting Brent's fiery gaze. "I said you're incompetent. But don't worry. I'm back now. I'll be happy to show you exactly where you went wrong."