A week later,
Morning sunlight filtered through tall windows of the academy's main training hall, a structure so vast it could easily swallow several gymnasiums whole. The polished stone tiles gleamed faintly, their sheen broken by long shadows stretching across the floor. Banners hung from the rafters, each representing one of the three divisions that dictated the students' social standing. White and gold shimmered like radiant fire, green and gray blended with muted pride, while black and violet draped heavy like a storm waiting to break.
Kurayami Hikari adjusted the collar of his own uniform, though it had already betrayed him on the very first day. Where the Irregulars were expected to wear plain black trimmed in violet, his uniform seemed to writhe under the light. Threads of darkness curled across the fabric like smoke rising from unseen flames. His jacket's hem bled into shadow whenever it brushed too close to the floor. It wasn't loud, it wasn't flamboyant—but it was unsettling. And unsettling was enough to make every gaze in the hall linger on him just a second too long.
Students whispered, some not bothering to hide it. To them, he was already branded as something off-script, an anomaly that even the strict colors of the hierarchy couldn't cage. He tried not to notice, but every step he took across the polished floor felt like walking against a tide of judgment.
The day's session began with something deceptively simple: physical training. Rows of students lined up in neat columns, each led by instructors who barked orders like drills in a military camp. Mats had been laid down, ropes coiled on the sidelines, and wooden practice dummies stood with scarred surfaces from years of abuse.
"Form up! Warm-ups first—fifty push-ups!"
The voices of the instructors thundered across the hall, bouncing against its stone ribs. In unison, white-and-gold uniforms moved fluidly, their discipline precise. Green-and-gray followed with effort, though their rhythm broke occasionally. Black-and-violet scattered loosely, their synchronization fragile. And then, there was Hikari—sweat already dripping by the twentieth push-up, arms trembling as though gravity bore a personal grudge against him.
He tried. He really tried. His body wasn't frail, but it wasn't conditioned either. For someone who had only recently been dragged into this world of supernatural legacies and ruthless expectations, he simply didn't have the foundation others carried with pride. Around him, students finished their set with ease, some even smirking at his struggles.
When the order shifted to sprints, he lagged behind again. His legs burned as he tried to keep up, each breath sharp and heavy, like knives carving into his lungs. The Nobles glided across the floor with practiced grace, their strides effortless, as though gravity itself bent to their superiority. Even the Commoners, though not as refined, managed steady paces. But Hikari trailed, his shadow dragging behind him in distorted shapes, mocking his lack of form.
Still, he pushed forward. Don't stop. Keep going. Each step was another refusal to collapse, another act of stubborn defiance. He wasn't blind to the fact that he was, by every visible measure, the weakest here. But quitting now, on the very first day of training, would mean accepting the role of failure before the story even began.
By midday, the students were grouped into squads for combat drills. Wooden swords and padded staves clattered as partners squared off, their strikes sharp, calculated, filled with energy. The Headmaster himself did not oversee the training—his presence was reserved for moments of gravity—but the instructors ensured the atmosphere was no less unforgiving.
Hikari gripped the practice weapon handed to him, its weight foreign in his hands. His opponent, another Irregular, eyed him with the smugness of someone who knew the odds.
"Ready?" the instructor barked.
The clash began, and within seconds Hikari was on the defensive. His opponent's strikes hammered down like relentless waves, forcing him back step by step. He managed to block, barely, but each impact rattled his arms to the bone. The instructor called for exchanges, not victories, but even so, it was obvious who dominated the bout.
By the time the whistle blew, his arms were sore, his pride bruised, and his rank at the bottom all but sealed.
When all the matches concluded, the instructors gathered notes and called students one by one to the center. Names were read aloud, followed by provisional rankings—a ritual that determined not only status but how peers would treat each other for weeks to come. Nobles dominated the top. Commoners filled the middle with respectable numbers. Irregulars drifted toward the bottom, a scattering of outliers rising only when talent pushed through prejudice.
Then came Hikari.
The instructor's voice was plain, almost dismissive, when his name was called. "Kurayami Hikari—bottom rank."
A ripple of quiet amusement traveled through the rows of students. Not loud laughter, but soft chuckles, shaking heads, the kind of reaction that stung worse than jeers. It wasn't mockery fueled by hatred—it was worse. It was the dismissal of someone deemed irrelevant.
Hikari felt the weight of it, but he didn't respond. His hands clenched, nails biting into his palms. If his uniform branded him an anomaly, then his rank branded him a failure. Yet beneath the humiliation, a quiet ember sparked in his chest. This wasn't the end. Not yet.
The session ended as the sun began to sink, streaking the high windows with gold. Students dispersed, some boasting of their placements, others sulking at mediocrity. Hikari lingered, gathering his things slowly, unwilling to rush into the crowded exits where whispers still carried his name.
That was when the world cracked.
A thunderous boom ripped through the academy, shattering the steady hum of voices. The ground trembled as dust shook loose from the rafters. Students screamed, stumbling as a wave of heat and sound burst from the far side of the building.
Hikari's head snapped toward the source, and his breath caught. Smoke billowed violently from the direction of the Headmaster's office. Flames licked skyward, staining the air with an acrid tang of burning wood and paper. The banners overhead swayed, disturbed by the sudden force.
Chaos erupted. Instructors barked orders, students scrambled, alarms echoed through the halls. The calm structure of hierarchy shattered in an instant, replaced by raw fear and confusion.
Hikari stood frozen for a heartbeat, his ears ringing from the explosion. The bottom-ranked Irregular, the anomaly with a shifting uniform, the boy who had no place in any of the academy's rigid lines—he found himself staring at the epicenter of disaster.
And for the first time that day, nobody was laughing.