The world operated on mana.

It flowed through land, through steel, through flesh, through the marrow of monsters and the foundations of cities. Kingdoms were built, walls were raised, demons attacked wave after wave, and with brutal fairness, it decided what kind of life a person can live.

In the Helian Federation alone, a child could name the ladder of strength before learning proper arithmetic.

Trainee. Awakened. Forged. Elite. Master. Lord. King. Saint.

At the top sat figures so distant they barely seemed human anymore.

And at the bottom stood everyone else.

This morning, the academy’s cracked transmission screen buzzed awake in the main hall with the day’s headlines.

A calm female voice filled the chamber.

“Breaking report from the northern frontier. Lady Seraphine Vale, youngest commander of the Radiant Vanguard, has successfully led the suppression of a Class-C demon breach near Blackglass Pass.”

“Researchers from the Solis Institute of Mana Theory have announced a major breakthrough in resonance-thread stabilization. Early reports suggest the development may significantly improve long-range teleportation gate anchoring and high-rank ruin extraction.”

A boy yawned.
Someone scratched his desk with a knife.
Two noble students in the back were already arguing over whose house had funded the research.

Then the third report came.

The hall went quieter.

“Emergency update. New testimonies and battlefield records continue to emerge regarding the Ruin of Eltara. The Nightveil Directorate is now believed to have been almost entirely annihilated during the incident. Its feared director, known publicly as the Ash Raven, remains presumed dead.”

A pause.

Then—

“Federal investigators have not ruled out the possibility that the director was responsible for the massacre. Civilian losses are still being assessed. Several Round Table representatives have called the event one of the darkest incidents in recent history.”

This time, even the half-asleep students listened.

One of them muttered under his breath. “That bastard killed his own people, didn’t he?”

“Or failed to stop it,” another replied.

“Same difference.”

The screen moved on to weather reports and trade figures.

Interest died immediately.

At Ashgrove Border Academy, catastrophe belonged to other people.

It sat at the edge of Graymark Province like a forgotten piece of cake left to rot by the Federation and fully abandoned its dreams and ambitions. Its walls were chipped. Its training grounds were uneven. Its instructors were either mediocre, exhausted, politically trapped, or too broken to leave.

This was the school that no nobles wished to enter and no civilians saw a glimpse of hope of climbing towards a better life.

It was, in short, the perfect graveyard for losers and failures.

Cassian Voss sat in the principal’s office with both legs on the table with the expression of a man being unfairly treated for wanting a peaceful life.

Principal Orwin Hale stared at him from across a desk piled with reports.

“You have one more selection round.”

Cassian sighed. “Good morning to you too, old man.”

“This is your good morning.”

The principal did not blink. “If you fail to recruit a student this round, then it will be your goodbye.”

Cassian looked offended. “Recruit is such an aggressive word. I prefer inspire.”

“You have inspired exactly no one.”

“That sounds biased. I once inspired a kitchen worker to give me extra meat.”

“You are a teacher,” Hale said flatly. “In theory.”

“In my defense, the students here are ungrateful.”

“In reality, they think you are insane.”

Cassian rested his cheek on one fist. “That hurts. I work hard to teach life-changing experiences.”

The principal leaned forward.

No anger. No theatrics. Just the blank, tired stare of a man who had run out of patience years ago.

“You refuse the school’s curriculum. You modified lesson plans. You even turn supervised drills into survival exercises. Three students left your trial class in tears last year. One vomited.”

“He stopped vomiting by the fourth session.”

“You are not helping yourself.”

Cassian clicked his tongue.

Hale continued. “The board already wants you gone. I bought you time because I believed you might still be useful.”

“Mistake on your part.”

“Possibly.”

The principal slid a file across the desk.

“Selection day is in three days. One student, Cassian. One. If not, you are finished here.”

Cassian glanced at the file and did not touch it.

Finished here.

The phrase should have sounded threatening. Instead, it sounded suspiciously close to freedom.

He stood, stretched, and waved lazily. “Fine, fine. One student. You drive a cruel bargain.”

“Please try harder.”

“I will,” Cassian said solemnly. “If I get enough sleep that is.”

He walked out before the old man could throw something at him.

The corridor outside was colder than the office.

Cassian shoved both hands into his coat pockets and made a face.

One student.

Why couldn’t people let a crippled man slack off in peace?

He had asked for so little from life. A quiet backwater posting. Mediocre food. Students that are dumb enough to ignore him. A salary just large enough to support laziness and bad habits.

Instead, every few weeks, some annoying fossil appeared to remind him that employment came with great expectations.

Cassian was still considering whether dismissal could somehow be turned into a paid leave arrangement when a polished voice drifted in from ahead.

“Well, if it isn’t Ashgrove’s greatest educational tragedy.”

Professor Alistair Marrowin stood near the courtyard archway in dark academy robes lined with silver thread. His posture was elegant, his blond hair was immaculate, and his smile had the precise warmth that helps a knife easily cut through butter.

Three younger instructors stood behind him.

Two looked entertained. One looked like she wanted to disappear.

Cassian kept walking.

Marrowin stepped neatly into his path.

“I heard Hale called you in.”

Cassian peered around him as if searching for someone more interesting. “Did he? Sorry for my terrible memory. Age catches us all, Alistair.”

A faint pulse twitched in Marrowin’s temple.

“I can imagine he finally decided enough is enough.”

Cassian nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I’ve also often felt that after listening to you.”

One of the younger instructors snorted before strangling it halfway into silence.

Marrowin’s smile thinned.

“You should at least show some shame,” he said. “You have no students. No results. Nothing worth respecting. Frankly, I’m amazed the academy kept you this long.”

Cassian considered that. “Counterpoint. I’m charming.”

“You are a stain on the faculty.”

“And yet here you are, seeking me out in broad daylight. Be careful, your clothes might get dirty.”

The second instructor coughed into his fist. The woman turned away very quickly.

Marrowin’s composure cracked by half an inch.

“Talk?” he said softly. “Then let them.”

His voice rose.

“Since some people seem to not understand the situation, let me be generous enough to clarify it.”

A few students nearby slowed.

Others looked over.

Perfect.

“If Professor Voss fails to recruit a student in this selection round,” Marrowin announced, “his contract will be terminated. At last, the academy may be spared his farce of a teaching career.”

The courtyard fell into the subtle, hungry quiet unique to schools and battlefields.

Cassian stared at him.

Then he sighed.

“You really should charge admission fees before performing.”

Marrowin ignored him. “No student with sense will choose you. Why would they? Your methods are worthless. Even the desperate know better.”

Cassian tilted his head.

“What if I find one?”

Marrowin laughed.

Not loudly. Worse, confidently.

“You won’t.”

“If I do?”

By now, half the courtyard was pretending not to listen.

Marrowin folded his arms. “Then I will publicly admit I misjudged you.”

Cassian looked unimpressed. “That sounds free.”

“Then name your terms.”

Cassian’s gaze sharpened for the briefest instant.

So brief most would miss it.

“If I get a student,” he said, “you will apologize in front of the faculty and surrender your share of next month’s dungeon allocation requests.”

Marrowin’s eyes narrowed. The dungeon allocation was one of the few worthwhile resources Ashgrove still controlled. Giving up priority meant giving up influence, materials, and prestige.

“You overestimate your chances.”

“Usually, yes.”

“And if you fail?”

Cassian yawned. “Then I leave quietly. No complaints. You may even compose a farewell speech. I know how much you enjoy hearing yourself.”

Marrowin held his gaze for several seconds.

Then he said, “Done.”

Cassian stepped around him. “Pleasure doing business.”

Behind him, Marrowin spoke like a verdict.

“You’re finished.”

Cassian lifted one hand without turning.

“Possibly. But if I am, try not to look too thrilled. It makes you look old.”

—

Three days later, the academy gates opened for student selection.

Fresh uniforms, nervous families, and of course,  loud noble banners. Civilian applicants pretending not to notice which reception lines moved faster for surnames.

Even Ashgrove would always dress up for selection day to cling onto whatever little pride it may still have. 

Teachers lined the main square beneath faded academy crests while attendants guided the new intakes into the hall.

Cassian stood at the edge of the square with a cup of bad tea and the posture of a man attending his own inconvenience.

He watched the first wave pass.

“As always, it is difficult to spot a ball of gold in a pile of sand.”

It was either too arrogant, too soft, or too obvious and probably dead within a year.

Then he saw something in the corner of his eye. 

Plain clothes beneath a borrowed outer layer. No noble crest. A quiet boy who stood out from the noisy nobles and the timid civilians.

He had dark eyes. And a stillness that did not belong to calm. 

The stillness of someone who had learned very young that attention could become dangerous.

The boy’s shoulders were set carefully, as if he was ready to run if someone attacked him.

It was his turn. The registration assistants said something to him.

The boy answered the questions while carefully observing the surroundings. His gaze moved once across the square, quick and precise.

Cassian’s expression changed, but only slightly.

For the first time that morning, he straightened.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, staring at the boy.

“This could be fun.”