The city of Arlinvale smelled like sweat, smoke, and steel. It wasn't as grand as the capital, but it wasn't some backwater village either. Its streets were paved, its towers were sharp-edged, and its people moved with the brisk tension of survival, not leisure.
Tyran stepped off the armored carriage with nothing but a duffel of training gear and a folded letter stamped with his mother's seal. The sun caught on his silver pin — a token that marked him as a test entrant to the lowest-ranked academy in the kingdom.
Outcast Academy.
Of course, it had a real name: Greythorn Academy of Applied Magic, but everyone just called it "Outcast." The place for the leftovers. The problem children. The rejects who weren't good enough for Virelle or Drakmor or Silver Thread.
Tyran was many things, but he wasn't "not good enough." He just hadn't been born with a flashy enough gift for his mother to keep him in the capital.
His fingers clenched.
She'd been all smiles when she'd sealed his transfer.
"This place should be more appropriate for your… temperament."
Translation: I'm tired of dealing with you. Go break yourself somewhere far from my name.
He crumpled the letter in his fist.
The academy was built into the side of a shallow hill, its towers tall but undecorated — not stone spires of elegance, but reinforced walls of functionality. Metal siding, reinforced windows, chalk-marked fields.
It felt like a military outpost, not a school.
Tyran liked it.
Inside the main hall, students gathered in loose clusters. Some wore noble family sigils. Others looked like wandering mercs who had gotten lost and decided to try education for a change. A few stared at Tyran as he passed. He didn't meet their eyes.
He was here for one thing: the entrance exam.
"First-timers, line up by color!" shouted a man with a scar across his nose. "White bands for general admission, red bands for noble house submissions, black bands for... other cases."
Tyran checked his wrist. His band was black.
Of course it was.
A girl with white-blonde hair gave him a look as he passed her. Not disgust — amusement. As if wondering what kind of beast wore a collar like that. Tyran ignored her.
They were led out to the field. Five instructors stood in a row, all wearing leather cloaks over practical armor. Adventurers, clearly. Not a single mage's robe among them.
"Welcome to Greythorn Academy," one called out, a grizzled woman with a longsword and a wolf-fang necklace. "If you were expecting books and scrolls, go home. We don't waste ink on those who can't survive a real fight."
Murmurs rippled.
"We've received statistics on you lot from the magic association, your tests will be tailored to you. Your results in this test will separate you into classes, the higher you score the better the class."
Simple.
Tyran grinned.
His was one of the last to go. While others filtered in and emerged bruised, exhausted, or wide-eyed, Tyran sat alone on the bench, bouncing one leg, clenching and releasing his fists. Waiting made him twitchy.
4 hours past of constant tension and apprehension leading to frustration. Patience wasn't one of his virtues.
Finally, his name was called.
"Blackmoor, Tyran — you're up."
The gate opened with a mechanical groan, and Tyran stepped into the dueling chamber.
It was a square room. Scorched stone covered in blood from the previous tests. Lit by magical orbs floating along the walls. The only sound was the hum of enchantments and the soft clack of steel on stone as his opponent stepped forward:
A humanoid golem. Same size as him. Limbs jointed like a real fighter. Blank metal face. Open hands. No weapon.
It dropped into a loose orthodox stance.
Tyran smiled. Good. It wants a fight.
"Single opponent. Adaptive humanoid construct. Physical-based exam. You are scored on technique, movement, and effectiveness. Begin on the horn."
The horn sounded.
The golem moved first — straight jab, centerline. Tyran tilted his head and sidestepped, already building momentum with his footwork. His right leg coiled, then snapped low into the golem's outer thigh. Metal clanged. Sparks flared.
Don't aim to stop it. Slow it down.
The golem adjusted. Right hook — fast. He leaned with it, letting it graze past, and countered with a quick elbow into its chin plate before pivoting out and circling.
Constant movement. Stack momentum. Stay fluid.
He weaved inside again and landed a short flurry: left jab to the eye slit, cross to the sternum plate, liver-line kick. The floor tile under him cracked slightly as his foot launched him backward — unnaturally fast.
Magic engaged.
"He's using his core," one teacher whispered above. "That's not just footwork—he's channeling movement to amplify power."
Tyran darted in again. This time with blinding speed.
Momentum Surge.
His dash accelerated mid-run — and he ducked under the golem's counterstrike, pivoted inside its guard, and unleashed a flurry of straight jab's to various parts of the body, leading into a final brutal overhand right to the golems jaw.
The impact rang like a bell. The golem staggered back, its headplate partially dented.
He landed light on his feet and stayed moving — never in one place, constantly shifting angles.
Faster. Keep going. Build until you break it.
The golem adjusted again, arms higher, stance lower. It was learning.
Too slow.
Tyran feinted a side step, using his mana to burst forward instead, launching a flying knee straight into its chestplate, delivering every ounce of speed-fueled momentum through his hips.
CRACK.
The chestplate caved in. The golem slid backward, metal screeching.
Tyran hit the ground and rolled back to his feet in one fluid motion, shoulders rising and falling.
The golem tried to stand again.
I need to finish this.
He dashed in a final time — faster than before — and delivered a step-in straight punch, full-body alignment, enhanced with raw kinetic transfer from every motion he'd made thus far.
Direct hit to the core crystal.
It shattered.
Silence.
The golem collapsed.
Then came the voice:
"Combatant Tyran Blackmoor: Trial complete."
From the gallery above, several instructors murmured among themselves.
"That wasn't just striking. That was tactical movement control. Looks like he's a speed type."
"He moved like a brawler, but fought like a weapon."
"Looks like the boy has a momentum affinity."
Tyran walked out without waiting for validation. Blood ran from his knuckles. Sweat clung to his back. His heart was a war drum in his chest.
And yet, his voice was quiet:
"Still not fast enough."
---
The evaluation chamber wasn't grand. Just stone walls, a long table, and five seated figures in varying degrees of armor and formal wear — the heads of the academy's divisions.
A projection orb floated in the center, replaying slowed-down moments from Tyran's match. Impact paths. Trajectory curves. Foot pressure analysis.
"Momentum affinity," muttered Commander Varn, head of Combat Instruction. "Uncommon. Not particularly flashy. But…" He rewound the footage and played the spinning heel kick again. "That's clean work. Even against adaptive response. Maybe we went too easy on them, the golems we used were the weakest we could find."
"He's physically gifted," said Master Yelaine, the Tactical Officer, arms crossed. "But limited. He relies on instinct and athleticism. A note was passed from the magic association telling of his previous violent outbursts and his disobedient nature."
"He's a savage, untrained in mana theory," said the Arcane Evaluator, frowning at the readings. "He's burning far more magic than necessary. Inefficient."
"He still won," Varn said flatly.
"And?" replied the Deputy Head. "So do wild dogs when they catch something slower."
The table went quiet.
Eventually, the head scribe wrote a single sentence in the admissions ledger:
"Passed trial with excessive brute motion and physical conditioning. Poor theoretical foundation. Raw, aggressive style. Recommended: Class C."
The dormitory building loomed behind the training yard — less fortress, more barracks. Its stone walls were damp from the morning mist. The roof sagged slightly at the corners. Above the door hung a worn wooden plaque that read:
Dormitory Wing Three – Classes C through F
Tyran read it once and snorted.
The inside was warmer than he expected — not cozy, just hot. Old furnace pipes hissed somewhere below the floor. The walls were scratched, the floorboards worn with muddy boots. A wall-mounted bulletin board displayed faded class schedules, and a crudely drawn doodle of a troll punching a noble in the gut. Someone had carved "ROOM 7 SMELLS LIKE DEAD GOAT" into the wooden frame.
It smelled like sweat, steel polish, and bad hygiene.
Tyran inhaled, then exhaled through his nose.
Guess this is life now.
A narrow hallway split the dorm in two. Doors lined each side, most closed, a few open. From one room came the sour stench of old socks, from another the thumping of a wooden training dummy taking repeated blows. Somewhere upstairs, someone shouted a spell incantation and promptly set something on fire — followed by curses and the sound of a bucket sloshing.
Tyran walked toward the front desk.
Behind it sat a grizzled woman with a buzzed head, a scar across her lip, and a massive book in front of her. She wore half an adventurer's coat, a set of reading spectacles, and a name tag that simply said:
"Hesta (Don't Test Me)"
She didn't look up when Tyran stepped forward.
"Name?" she asked in a gravelly voice.
"Tyran Blackmoor."
She flipped a few pages, jabbed a finger at the line, and pulled a key off the hook behind her.
"Room twelve. Shared. Try not to bleed on the floor. Or do, I'm not your mother."
He took the key. "Noted."
Room twelve was at the end of the hall, across from the communal washroom. The door creaked open with resistance — swollen wood and old hinges.
It was small. Cramped, even. A bunk bed, two footlockers, one window barely large enough to let in moonlight. A cracked mirror above a shared basin. The walls were blank except for a single iron peg driven into the stone — likely for hanging weapons or coats.
No sign of his roommate yet.
He dropped his bag beside the lower bunk and sat down. The mattress sagged slightly under his weight. It wasn't soft — but it was real. He'd slept on training mats, campgrounds, and temple floors. This was luxury in comparison.
His fists throbbed — slow, deep pulses in the knuckles. He flexed his fingers and watched the bruises bloom beneath the skin.
Passed the trial. Won the fight. Still Class C.
A sudden knock on the doorframe made him snap upright.
A boy stood there — broad-shouldered, thick black eyebrows, nose clearly broken at least once. He wore a faded coat with a noble family crest stitched into the collar. A bronze pin marked his Class C status.
"Yo. You're the other one in twelve?" the boy asked.
Tyran nodded.
The boy stepped in, tossed a bag on the top bunk, and stretched.
"Name's Garrick," he said. "I snore like a wyvern, and if you touch my boots, I'll drown you in the washbasin."
Tyran blinked.
Garrick grinned. "Just kidding. Mostly."
A pause.
"You the guy who took out the humanoid golem?"
Tyran said nothing.
Garrick gave a short whistle. "Saw that kick on the recording. Nasty. You do that kinda stuff in your spare time?"
"How'd you get access to the recordings of the fights? I thought they were off limits to anyone who wasn't an examiner."
"I'm the son to one of the examiners. I asked my dad to show me anyone who looked interesting."
"That so, and you're still Class C."
"What would be the point of cheating my way into Class A if I can't pull my weight? Plus, there are bound to be some pompous-ass nobles that care more about how pretty their white dresses and books are than actually fighting. Nah, I'd rather be where I'm useful."
"I like your thinking Garrick, I think we'll get along just fine"
Garrick gave a chuckle. "Anyway, welcome to hell, kid. Let's get along."
And with that, Garrick climbed onto the top bunk and promptly passed out.
Tyran sat in silence.
He opened the window. Cold air rolled in. Outside, the lights of the academy flickered across the hillside like tired stars.
He looked at the class paper again.
Class C.
He folded it and tucked it under the mattress.
Then whispered to himself, as if daring the room to disagree:
"Doesn't matter where they start me. I'll end at the top."