Kalen stood by the window for a while longer. The rain beat against the glass in small, angry drops, as if the world itself wanted to wash all this shit off him. But it wouldn't happen. He no longer lived in a rented room, didn't wake up to the sound of his neighbor's stove, and didn't eat noodles with salt.
He turned away from the window and walked over to the cabinet. He pulled out a neatly folded notebook and a carved steel stylus from the shelf. The paper was thick, with the academy's watermark, and it was expensive and official. The list of classes was as follows: Initialization, Magic Theory, Combat Concentration, Basic Alchemy, Mana Control, and the History of the Enarchia.
"Oh, my God," he whispered. "It's like the army and the institute on maximum difficulty."
He put the notebook back. He stretched. His back cracked like an old man's.
He sat back down on the bed. He reached out and looked at his wrist again. The black mark pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly. It was as if it were afraid of itself. Like a puppy that had been kicked all its life and now trembled even in front of its food.
"What am I to do with you?" Kallen muttered. "Shadow, you motherfucker. You're one of the rarest of powers. Legends are made of you. And you act like a piss-soaked coal. Where's the power? Where's the spark?"
There was no response. Just a faint, warm tingle, as if the mark was reacting to his voice. Unsurely. Carefully.
"Listen, I don't know how this works," he sighed. "I'm not from here. But once I'm in this body, we're on the same side. You and me. I won't leave you, and you won't let me down. Deal?"
The mark trembled slightly. It responded with a slight pulse.
Kalen chuckled.
"That's good. Let's smash this world together."
He stood up and headed for the door. There, at eye level, hung a small metal plate.
"Kalen Lionheart. 1st year. Specialization: not specified"
He rapped on it with his knuckles.
"They'll soon find out who I am. Even with the weakest Shadow, I'll make them choke on their snobbishness."
He went out into the corridor. It was evening, but the academy was alive. Someone was running up the stairs with books, someone was practicing in the mana control room—flashes of magic were breaking through the stained glass, training shouts were booming down below. Someone had powers, brilliant and bright. Someone had surnames, titles, mentors. And he had only anger. Stubborn, black, like his mark itself.
So let's start with her.
He turned down a side corridor marked "Primary Manifestation. Preparatory Classes."
The teachers might have thought he was a waste of space. The other students might have thought he was a strange loser. Even though he was the son of a general.
But he was here. And he wasn't going to give up.
He walked down a long corridor, and with each step, the sound of his own footsteps echoed like gunshots. The silence of the academy in this wing was as thick as fog. There was no laughter, no conversations, and no magical flashes. Instead, there was only the hum of the lamps, the rustling of his clothes, and an ever-increasing pressure, as if the walls themselves were watching him.
Kalen stopped in front of the door to the manifestation hall. He looked up.
The plaque was engraved with the following:
"Class I. Repeated diagnosis. Special cases"
"That's awesome," he breathed. "This is a class for those who haven't decided whether they want to be heroes or trash."
He pushed the door. It opened without a sound, as if it had been waiting for him.
Inside was a wide room with a scorched circle on the floor and a huge crystal in the center. Three teachers stood around it. The same faces—the raven-man, the woman with eyes like icy lenses, and the old man in the clay-colored robe, looking at him as if through a thick layer of water.
"Lionheart," the elder nodded curtly. "Get in the circle. Concentrate. We'll give you a second chance."
Kallen took a step, then another. He stood in the center. He took a deep breath.
"Okay, bitch. Let's show these fools that you can still move," he muttered to himself as he lowered his hands.
He could feel his pulse. It was dull and barely noticeable. It was somewhere under his skin, in his blood. It was as if his strength was not a weapon, but a shadow behind his shoulder. It was familiar. It was constant. It was weak, but it was his own.
The crystal glowed. First faintly, then brighter. One of the mages leaned forward.
"Another Shadow... but it's still dim. It's as if it's... trapped?"
"Or asleep," the woman said. "It's not a lack of potential. It's something else."
Kallen stood still. He felt hot, then cold. His blood pounded in his ears. He didn't know what they were seeing, but he could feel his insides contracting, tightening, and focusing into a point.
Suddenly, there was a click. In my head. Or in my soul. Something shifted.
Dark.
A small whirlwind just under the skin. It grew, expanded, and disappeared. Leaving only a slight trace behind.
The crystal flashed black for a fraction of a second. The teachers looked at each other.
"Hm... it's not just a weakness. Is he... is he blocking his power?"
— Or the body is not fully adapted.
"It doesn't matter," the red-and-gold mage intervened. "Assigning the initial class. The lowest form. Let it be observed. Let's see what grows from a Shadow without light."
They made a note in the journal. Kallen heard everything. But he wasn't listening anymore. His gaze was fixed on his hand.
On his wrist, right where the skin was slightly lighter, a black tattoo now appeared. Not sharp. Not jagged. But smooth. Like smoke swirling in the wind. The symbol of the Shadow. His mark. Now official
He traced it with his finger.
"Well, you little bitch. Are you with me?" he asked in a whisper.
There was no response. Only a slight trembling under the skin.
He grinned and stepped out of the circle.
An old man stopped him on the way out.
"Kalen... Do you know why most of the Shadow students disappear in their first year?"
"Because everyone thinks they're useless?" he chuckled.
"Because they think that if a shadow is rare, you can become strong with it, but many people don't even know how to use it properly and end up becoming criminals."
Kalen nodded and walked away.
On his way to his room, he muttered to himself again:
— Oh, well. Once you're in, you're in.
The same words as on the first day.
But now, with a mark on his wrist, a gaze that no longer flinches, and an angry, stubborn determination.
Even if he has the weakest Shadow in this fucking academy. Let them laugh, whisper, and write him off.