The ceiling was too high.
That was Callum's first thought as he stared up at it—long, vaulted arches stretching into darkness, like a cathedral built by someone who worshipped pressure.
Everything about the testing hall whispered you don't belong here. The marble floors didn't creak, didn't scuff, and seemed to reject dust out of principle. The other students were dressed in uniforms so clean they looked ironed by magic. Probably were.
Callum adjusted his collar, which he'd stitched himself with clumsy thread the night before. It tugged at his neck like a noose.
"This is dumb," he muttered.
He didn't belong here. Everyone knew it. Especially the instructors. Especially him.
The Academy of Arx Magna didn't take in gutter kids from the South Wall. They took in nobles, merchant heirs, and prodigies who could split mountains by sneezing too hard. Callum was none of those things. What he had was a letter. One letter, sealed with an emerald wax crest and a single sentence:
"You've been chosen. Come. We'll see if the world believes your lies."
He didn't know what that meant. But if the Academy wanted to waste time testing a nobody with one skill, who was he to argue?
A voice boomed through the chamber, magically amplified.
"All examinees, step forward and register. Your results will determine your Class and Path."
The line inched forward. Callum clenched his hands behind his back. He felt the familiar itch crawl into his bones—the one that always came before something went wrong.
Two students in front of him whispered. Loudly.
"Is that the street rat they brought in for 'diversity'?"
"Probably here to buff the curve. Bet his Class is 'Broom Technician.'"
Callum smiled. He liked it when people talked like that. Made it easier.
His turn came. He stepped up to the registry crystal—a floating shard of pale blue, rotating slowly like it knew everything about everyone.
"Initiate, place your hand on the crystal," said the proctor, a bored woman with spectacles and half a sandwich in her coat pocket.
Callum placed his palm on the surface.
The crystal pulsed. Once.
Then… it flickered.
Then it cracked.
A web of hairline fractures darted through it like frost across glass.
The proctor blinked. The sandwich slipped a little in her pocket. "That's… not normal."
Words floated up in blue flame above the crystal.
Skill: [Lie]
Effect: If the target believes a lie spoken by the user, it becomes true for a short duration.
Class: Deceiver
Grade: Unranked (Potential Unknown)
Silence.
Then someone snorted. "Is this a joke?"
Another student—blonde, expensive robes, sword with too many gems—laughed. "He really got [Lie] as a Skill? What's he gonna do, convince us he's strong?"
Callum turned toward the voice and smiled politely. "I'm actually the headmaster's illegitimate son."
The laughter stopped.
For a second, people stared. A few blinked. A couple exchanged glances.
Then someone near the front let out a choking sound. "Wait… is he?"
Callum watched the doubt ripple outward. That's all he needed. Just a little belief.
[Lie] activated.
Temporary Truth: "Callum is the Headmaster's illegitimate son."
Duration: 5 minutes.
The proctor stiffened. "A-Apologies, young master. I had no idea."
Callum kept a straight face, though his heart was a drum in his chest. "It's fine. I like to keep a low profile."
Someone dropped their pen. A boy near the back stepped aside like Callum was on fire.
The blonde noble looked pale. "You—he's not serious, right?"
Callum looked at him, tilted his head. "Of course not. I was lying."
[Lie] deactivated.
The tension popped like a balloon. Someone cursed. Someone else started laughing again—nervous, shaky laughter.
The proctor looked like she wanted to sit down. "Right. Uh. You'll be assigned to Class 9-Z."
Callum blinked. "Is that the good class?"
She didn't answer.
Class 9-Z was at the edge of campus. Past the training fields. Past the herb gardens. Past the toolshed. Past the other toolshed.
They were in a tower that leaned. Not dramatically, but enough to make you wonder if walking through the door was a death wish.
Inside, the room smelled like musty books and roasted potatoes. A girl was upside-down in a chair, reading a book about explosive runes. A boy in the corner was throwing knives at a rat. The rat was throwing them back.
"New guy," said the girl without looking up. "Welcome to 9-Z. The 'Z' stands for 'Zero chance of survival.' Or maybe 'Zesty.' Depends on the mood."
Callum raised a hand in half-wave. "I'm Callum."
The rat hit the wall with a thud. "Nice lie earlier, Callum."
"You saw?"
"Everyone saw," said the boy with the knives. "You cracked the crystal. That hasn't happened since someone tried to feed it a god."
Callum looked around. "So… what's the deal with this class?"
"Failures," said the girl. "Misfits. Freaks. Broken prodigies. Dangerous experiments. You know, fun people."
"Also," added the knife boy, "we're the only class where students are legally allowed to duel instructors. For 'educational purposes.'"
Callum blinked. "That doesn't sound real."
"It is if you believe it."
[Lie] activated.
Temporary Truth: Students of Class 9-Z can duel instructors freely.
Duration: 5 minutes.
Far off in the distance, a bell tolled. And somewhere in the administration building, a teacher stood up, frowned, and muttered, "Why do I suddenly feel like I'm about to get stabbed by a child?"
Callum sat in the corner bunk that night, staring out the narrow tower window.
He had no idea how he made it this far. No idea what this Skill really was. But for the first time in his life, he had a tool that made the world feel… bendable.
Maybe, if he lied well enough, he could stop being a nobody.
Maybe he could become someone impossible.
He closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:
"I will survive this Academy."
No one was around to hear. No one to believe.
But for a moment, just a moment—
[Lie] activated.
Duration: Unknown.
*****
Breakfast at the Academy tasted like guilt. Guilt and burnt sausage.
Callum chewed slowly at the table in Class 9-Z's tower. The sausage was too black to identify the meat. The eggs had clearly fought back at some point. The toast was toast in name only—charcoal in practice.
Across from him, the upside-down girl—whose name, he learned, was Elly—poured salt directly into her orange juice.
"You get used to it," she said, swirling the glass. "The food, the near-death experiences, the general sense of abandonment."
"I'm more worried about the food," Callum said.
Knife Boy—whose actual name was Harlan, and who apparently spoke with knives as much as words—chuckled and twirled a butter knife. "You'll need the energy. Orientation's today."
"We already had orientation."
"No," Elly said. "That was the test to determine how high we'll be allowed to rise."
"And this?" Callum asked.
"This," she said, taking a heroic swig of salted orange juice, "is the day they try to break us."
The orientation arena was large enough to house a small town. The sky was spelled glass, showing clouds that weren't really there. Above the stands, banners waved for each class. Z's was duct-taped to the wall and half-torn, with a crudely drawn goose on it.
"...Why a goose?" Callum asked.
"Inside joke," said Harlan. "Geese don't lie."
Callum wasn't sure if that was meant to be profound.
A tall instructor with robes too clean and posture too straight floated to the center stage.
"Welcome to the Academy," he said. "Today begins your proper initiation."
Callum raised a hand.
The man stared at him. "Yes, student?"
"What if we already feel initiated?"
"Then you may leave." A few students actually looked tempted. "Those who remain will undergo the Trial of Demonstration. You will each display your Class Skill against an opponent. Your performance will be assessed and ranked."
More than one student visibly paled.
Callum's turn came much too fast.
He was led into the center ring. Opposite him stood a third-year student, taller, bulkier, and smug enough to make stone walls flinch.
"Opponent: Byron Fenwick. Class: Steelborn. Ability: Iron Body."
Callum blinked. "Wait. He's literally made of metal?"
"Correct," the instructor said. "You may begin."
Callum exhaled. The ring was large, but not large enough to run. And he wasn't a runner. Not anymore.
The crowd whispered.
"That's the Lie kid."
"He cracked the registry crystal."
"Bet he just says 'I win' and hopes the guy believes him."
Callum heard it all. Good. Let them think he was dumb enough to try that.
Byron cracked his knuckles. "Ready to cry, faker?"
Callum tilted his head. "Did you know I can stop time?"
Silence.
Byron blinked. Then laughed. "What?"
"I said I can stop time," Callum repeated, walking a slow circle around the arena, casual. "That's why they put me in 9-Z. It's a containment class."
[Lie] activated.
Target: Byron Fenwick
Belief Level: Wavering
Effect: Moderate slowdown in perception
Duration: 7 seconds
To Byron, the world blurred. Colors bled. Callum shimmered. For seven seconds, Byron's limbs moved like molasses.
Callum didn't waste them.
He stepped in, ducked a slowed punch, and rammed his fist into Byron's jaw—not to hurt, but to surprise.
Byron's belief increased.
He grabbed Byron by the collar, brought their faces close.
"Also, I can punch through metal," Callum whispered.
[Lie] activated.
Belief Level: High
Effect: Temporary physical amplification
Duration: 5 seconds
His fist flashed forward—once, fast, direct.
Byron's body skidded across the arena and slammed into the wall with a metallic clang.
Gasps. A few cheers. A stunned silence that grew like wildfire.
The instructor nodded. "Assessment: Improvisation excellent. Deceiver Class confirmed viable. Control: developing. Rank: B+."
Callum blinked. "B plus?"
"Don't get cocky."
Back in the stands, Harlan grinned.
"You just punched Iron Man," Elly said. "How's it feel?"
Callum wiped sweat from his brow. "Terrifying. I didn't even know if it would work."
"That's the fun of it," she said. "You're the only mage who doesn't know if his spell is real until someone else agrees."
That night, back in the tower, Callum lay on his bunk, eyes wide open.
He'd lied his way into victory. Again. But it was different this time. It wasn't just a trick. It felt like a weapon. A slippery, dangerous weapon that didn't cut clean—it bent.
He rolled the thought over in his head.
He needed to test the limits.
He whispered to the dark:
"I'm going to be the strongest in this academy."
No one heard.
But he could've sworn the shadows leaned in—just slightly.