"Oh shit…"
Now all the pressure was on him. Just by odds alone, Ysaac knew the chance of becoming an S-class was practically zero. Statistically speaking, there is no way that there will be a second S-class in a academy of a thousand students.But what about his dreams? What about the silent promise he made to carry on his father's legacy?
His fingers fidgeted with the ring that hung around his neck. Lost in thought, he didn't even notice when the official first called his name.
"Ysaac Van Risk," the official repeated.
Still no response.
Mina leaned over and tugged at his sleeve. "It's your turn," she whispered gently.
"Ah—uhm—congratulations!" Ysaac blurted out awkwardly as he stumbled forward. His knees trembled with every step toward the testing stone.
He swallowed hard. "M-my Seed of Power is called Space Walker, and my skill is Blink," he said to the official.
A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd.
"A spatial talent? That's rare…"
"Could it be another S-class?"
"Don't be ridiculous. One in a million at best."
"He'll be lucky if he hits A-class."
"I heard he bragged he'd reach S-class."
"Well, we now know he is a braggart"
All eyes locked on Ysaac as he reached out with a shaking hand and pressed against the crystal.
The stone erupted with light. The first layer lit up instantly—then the second, third, and fourth, each one faster than the last. Gasps filled the hall as the glow surged upward, climbing higher and higher. For a heartbeat, it looked inevitable: another S-class was about to be born.
But then… it stopped.
The brilliance froze at the fifth layer. No matter how Ysaac willed it, the light refused to climb higher.
The silence was deafening.
"…B-class," the official declared at last.
Ysaac's heart plummeted. His chest felt hollow, as if the air itself had been ripped away. His ears rang. The official's words echoed again and again in his skull.
B-class.
He wanted to scream. To demand another test. To deny reality itself. But with hundreds of eyes on him—watching, whispering, savoring his humiliation—he couldn't.
He forced his lips into a grin, though it felt like his face might shatter from the effort. "B-class, huh?" His voice wavered, but he kept it loud. "Good enough. At least I didn't end up an F or E."
Laughter scattered across the room. Mocking. Cruel. But at least it filled the silence.
Ysaac walked back to Mina's side as the official launched into the same speech he gave every year—about being an asset to society, driving the monsters back, standing as humanity's shield.
Ysaac kept his smile fixed, his shoulders squared, as though he didn't care at all. Behind his back, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
Mina's eyes lingered on him. She wasn't fooled. She could see the tremor in his jaw, the stiffness in his walk, the way his smile was less a mask and more a wound.
"…Ysaac," she whispered, brushing her hand against his arm.
He didn't dare meet her gaze. If he did, the mask would shatter. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered, forcing steadiness into his tone. "I told you—I'll climb higher than even an S-class. A stupid test isn't the end of me."
But Mina's expression only grew heavier. She knew. She saw straight through him.
---
Classes resumed afterward. The whispers followed him like shadows. Mocking stares burned into his back.
Adrel made sure to drive the knife deeper. "Tch. Just as I said—delusional. Spatial affinity? Nothing but a parlor trick."
Ysaac sat at his desk, eyes locked on the window, refusing to react. His body was there, but his mind was adrift, sinking deeper and deeper.
But John… John couldn't let it go. He slammed his desk, eyes blazing. "Say that again, bastard!"
The classroom erupted as John and Adrel clashed, fists flying, desks scattering. Teachers dragged them apart, but the damage was done.
When the bell finally rang, John rushed to Ysaac's side. "Hey. Forget them, alright? Let's go out, get some food or something. You'll feel better."
Ysaac didn't answer. He stood, walked past John, and left without a word.
---
The house was dark when his mother came home. The silence pressed in heavy, suffocating. No lights, no sound of footsteps—just stillness.
"Ysaac," she called softly, her voice careful, almost trembling.
No response.
She opened his door and saw him—sitting curled in the corner, head bowed low, the silver ring clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles had turned white.
Her heart ached. Without hesitation, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.
That was it. The wall he had built all day collapsed.
"Mom" His voice cracked, raw and broken, as tears spilled freely at last. He buried his face into her shoulder, his body trembling like a child's.
Ysaac cried.
For his broken dream. For his father's legacy. For the cruel whispers and mocking laughter. For the weight of being ordinary in a world that demanded the extraordinary.
"Mom… I'm sorry." His words tumbled out between sobs, jagged and uneven. "I couldn't… I couldn't become like Father. I wasn't able to be special. I'm just… a failure. How can I call myself the child of a S-class, when a single test was enough to prove me worthless? How… how can I ever make you proud, Mom?"
The words dissolved into more tears as he clung to her desperately.
His mother said nothing at first. She simply held him tighter, her warmth wrapping around his shaking frame, shielding him from the world outside.
Finally, in the quietest of voices, she whispered:
"Ysaac… you don't have to be your father. You just have to be you. And that's enough for me."
She paused, her hand gently stroking his trembling back. Then, with a faint smile, she added, "But let me tell you a little secret. Your father… he didn't start out as an S-class. When the whole world awakened, he was one of the only few who didn't. Everyone thought he was hopeless. But he never faltered. He lived, he was bullied and abused but he endured, and he kept striving to be better. He didn't become who he was because of some test. He became who he was because of his conviction—his refusal to stop moving forward."
Her words sank deep into Ysaac's heart. His sobs didn't stop, but for the first time that day, they carried something else alongside the grief—something faint, fragile, but undeniably there.
Hope.