The air inside the fortified administrative tower of Greyhart Academy did not just smell of polished granite and old parchment; it was thick with the high, metallic tang of concentrated Mana and the sour, barely concealed stress of its faculty. Greyhart was not just an institution; it was a fortress, a symbol of humanity's quantified war against the Dungeon Overlords. Its walls were reinforced with Aether-infused alloys, and its windows were permanently shrouded by filtering matrices designed to suppress the relentless System Notifications that plagued the outside world.
Yet, even within this sanctuary of academic rigor, a single, infuriating anomaly managed to breach the sanctity of their quantified existence: Darkiel Mikado.
A roundtable conference was underway in the Dean's private war room, the hololenses above the table projecting swirling, aggressive tactical maps of nearby Dungeons—all except for the central lens, which displayed a solitary student profile. The profile was a terrifying paradox: Attributes were listed as "Incalculable/Unsubmitted," and the Class field simply read "Undesignated."
"I submit that the very sight of that file is going to push my Wisdom score into a critical decline," Professor Varrick, head of the Practical Combat Department, growled, running a hand over his close-cropped, grey hair. His Blademaster Class aura, normally a shimmering, controlled silver, was tight and agitated. "He attends four classes in a semester. Four. And yet, when we ran the standardized terminal exam last week, he completed the theoretical component in nine minutes, thirty seconds, scoring a ninety-nine percent."
Dean Arista Solis, a formidable woman whose high INT score was rumored to rival that of the continent's Arch-Mages, pressed her thumb against her temple. A faint, almost invisible Mana-shield flickered around her head, a silent defense against the administrative headache Darkiel represented.
"Professor Varrick, the ninety-nine percent is not the issue, as frustrating as his speed is. The issue, which you all conveniently forget, is why he missed the perfect score," Arista stated, her voice a low, melodic tremor that nonetheless commanded absolute attention. "He intentionally miscalculated the final differential Mana-flow equation—the one that would have locked in the 100%—and chose the solution that yielded the required minimum passing grade of 682 points out of 1000. The system flagged his answer as 'Intentionally Erroneous, Margin of Minimal Sufficiency Achieved.'"
A collective, frustrated sigh filled the room. This was the Mikado paradox in its purest form.
"But why, Arista? Why the persistent, calculated disdain for excellence?" demanded Professor Helion, a gaunt, furious man who taught Mana Theory and believed, with religious fervor, that the System was the only path to salvation. He adjusted the thick, circular spectacles that magnified his intense, focused eyes. "We have students whose families have bankrupted themselves to attend Greyhart. They bleed and struggle for every tenth of a STR point, for every hour of theoretical knowledge! And this… this slacker treats our sacred curriculum like a frivolous joke, perfectly calibrating his output to avoid any meaningful engagement."
Arista leaned forward, her elbows on the dark wood, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her faculty—faces etched with years of battling Monsters and decades of fighting the System's harsh logic. "Helion, we have had this conversation a hundred times. We cannot grade him on attendance, because the System's rules, hard-coded during The Fracture, state that academic performance is based solely on quantifiable achievement: quizzes, practical scores, and examinations. And in every single quantifiable metric, Darkiel Mikado achieves the set passing requirement, no more, no less, and always with the eerie, chilling efficiency of a well-oiled machine."
"But the practicals! That's where the real scandal is!" shouted Instructor Kaia, a young woman who specialized in unarmed combat, her face flushed with fury. She slammed a fist onto the table, the impact making the hololenses wobble. "We forced him into the Mana-Disruptor Chamber for the final physical prowess evaluation! That chamber actively suppresses all latent Mana, eliminating the use of any Skills or Auras. It reduces every Catalyst to their pure, physical STR and AGI scores, whatever base level the System assigned them at Awakening. We figured, finally, without Mana to cushion his inherent laziness, he would fail the gauntlet!"
Professor Varrick picked up the narrative, his voice low with grudging respect mixed with deep annoyance. "He didn't fail, Kaia. He ran the gauntlet—a Level 15 Shadow Weaver course, which should require high-tier [Cloak] and [Phase Step] Skills—at a dead sprint. He didn't use Mana, yet his recorded speed was 72 kph. His reaction time on the pressure-plate sequence—designed to test high-AGI Catalysts—was 11 milliseconds faster than our current top student, Lyra Volkov. And when he reached the final barrier, which requires a basic [Fist of Mana] Skill to shatter, he simply... punched it."
Helion recoiled, shaking his head slowly. "And?"
"And the barrier shattered. Not with Mana, Helion. Not with an Aura. With pure, horrifying STR. The internal monitoring system registered a kinetic force of 2.4 tons. He has no STR points logged, but the raw output exceeds many of our veteran Blademasters who live and die by their Attribute grind. He did it wearing a five-kilogram tactical vest, a casual cigarette dangling from his lips, and he didn't even break a sweat."
Arista sighed, the sound heavy and weary. "That is the source of my sleepless nights. How does he generate power that defies his logged statistics? The truth is, he exists in a terrifying space—he is a high-level Catalyst who has chosen to opt out of the System's framework. He relies on a raw, inherent, almost pre-Fracture physical superiority. We can't grade what we can't quantify, and we can't expel a student who passes every single mandatory test required by the global Academic Concordat. He is, statistically, ready to graduate. The minimal points needed for the degree are the only points he has ever bothered to collect."
The silence that fell was not empty, but filled with the silent roar of frustration. Darkiel Mikado wasn't a bad student; he was a walking, smoking, infuriating indictment of the entire post-Fracture educational philosophy.
In a brightly lit, high-ceilinged common area known as the Ascension Hall, a group of graduating students—the academic elite, the future pillars of the Catalyst Guilds—were gathered. They were identifiable by their crisp, unwrinkled Academy uniforms and the faint, visible Auras that constantly flickered around them, a testament to their perpetual Mana usage and high levels.
Lyra Volkov, the star pupil and the Catalyst with the fastest recorded AGI score at Greyhart, was pacing near a shimmering, crystalline water fountain. Her Shadow Weaver Class was evident in the rapid, subtle movements of her hands as she spoke.
"It's humiliating, utterly humiliating," Lyra spat, the words laced with barely contained fury. "Three years of bleeding out in the training Dungeons, subsisting on nutrient sludge, sacrificing every leisure moment to chase a single VIT point. And then there's him. That ghost who smells permanently of burnt tobacco and cheap spirits, who strolls in for ten minutes and outscores us on theory."
Beside her, Jaxx Vane, a towering Blademaster whose STR score was publicly logged at a formidable 188, scowled deeply. Jaxx's aura was a solid, vibrating gold, a sign of immense physical power. He had a deep, throaty voice that usually carried confidence, but now held a tremor of outrage.
"It's not just the score, Lyra. It's the attitude," Jaxx muttered, his massive hands tightening into fists that could crush stone. "Last month, during the Monster identification quiz, I saw him. He was standing outside the lecture hall, leaning against the wall, sipping from a flask, not even looking at the projection. He didn't enter until the final minute, grabbed a data-slate, wrote down thirty Latinized names of high-level Overlords, and walked out. The proctor checked it: perfect score. He didn't even sit down! He treats our entire grueling life's work as if it were a casual observation."
"He is a mockery of the System's Gift," declared Elara Fenix, an Aether Mage with a serene, cold demeanor, whose INT score was her badge of honor. She spoke slowly, each word calculated for maximum impact. "The System elevates humanity. It gives us a measurable, reliable path to power. Darkiel Mikado rejects that reliability. He rejects Mana itself. He attempts to bypass the very energy that sustains our civilization. And that, Jaxx, is why he frightens me more than any Level 30 Goblin. He suggests that all our efforts, all our rigorous, quantified struggle, might be fundamentally unnecessary."
Lyra stopped pacing, her bright silver eyes narrowed with focused calculation. "But the numbers don't lie, Elara. We know his official log shows almost zero Mana usage. The only thing the System registers from him is the consumption of low-grade cigarettes and low-proof spirits. How does he know the information? How does he move with that absurd, unnatural speed without relying on AGI point acceleration? It's not just inherent talent; it's a terrifying, learned mastery that we can't access because we're too busy following the System's explicit instructions."
Jaxx slammed his fist onto the marble table, eliciting a loud thwack that drew glances from other students. "He's a cheat! He must be hiding a relic, a high-level Unquantifiable Artifact that masks his true Attributes! I say we confront him! We should demand he submit to a full Mana-Node Scan before he's allowed to graduate. He's going to be a liability out in the Dungeons. Imagine him leading a raid, and then, suddenly, his hidden power fails. Lives will be lost because Greyhart let a slacker through the gate!"
Elara shook her head, a soft, chilling smile on her lips. "And risk drawing the attention of Dean Arista? No. We fight him the only way we can—with our own quantified, overwhelming excellence. The final practical, the Lich King's Gauntlet simulation, is in two days. It requires sustained, high-level Mana-Flow control over a twenty-minute period. He cannot fake that. He cannot punch his way through a magical resilience test. He will fail the final, and his file will be flagged as 'Insufficient Mastery of Essential Catalyst Functionality.' Our hard work will finally be validated."
Lyra nodded, her lips forming a thin, determined line. "Two days. Let the genius prove his methods are sustainable. Or let him finally crash and burn under the weight of his own appalling arrogance."
Darkiel Mikado was not in the sterile, fortified halls of Greyhart.
He was in The Iron Lung, a perpetually smog-choked, low-rent industrial district situated dangerously close to a Level 5 Gate—one too small to Erupt, but large enough to attract the most desperate, low-level Catalysts looking for scraps. The air here was heavy with unsuppressed Mana, which mixed nauseatingly with the smell of stale cooking oil, exhaust fumes, and the particularly noxious odor of his preferred brand of tobacco.
Darkiel sat on the splintered roof of a forgotten warehouse, his legs dangling over the edge. He was clad not in a uniform, but in faded, loose-fitting denim and a perpetually stained leather jacket. In one hand, a dark bottle of cheap, potent liquor caught the faint, sickly yellow light of the industrial lamps; in the other, a rolled cigarette glowed a faint, angry orange.
He was surrounded by absolute silence—a self-imposed silence only he could hear. The constant, intrusive chatter of the System Notifications that plagued every Mana-aware person was muted in his mind, pushed aside by an iron wall of mental discipline that allowed only the faintest echo of the world's numerical existence to penetrate. He watched the distant, pulsing purple light of the Level 5 Gate, an ambient threat that provided the perfect, dangerous backdrop for contemplation.
A low, guttural cough broke the stillness below.
"Mikado! You damn bum, you up there again?"
It was Old Man Rourke, the grizzled, one-armed custodian of the condemned warehouse. Rourke was a low-level Brawler Catalyst, scarred and broken by a past he rarely spoke of, now surviving on the miserable salary provided by the land owner. He squinted up, his remaining eye bleary.
Darkiel took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his mouth before being exhaled in a slow, perfect ring that dissolved into the ambient Mana. His voice was rough, like gravel ground between two stones, yet surprisingly calm.
"Rourke. Just enjoying the view. Tell your landlord I haven't damaged his precious, rotting structure. The roof is sound. Though the insulation is atrocious."
Rourke chuckled, a hacking sound. "Sound, you say? The roof creaks like a dying beast every time the wind shifts. You weigh less than a damn feather, I swear. Just watch your step. I need this job, and the paperwork for a collapsed roof is worse than fighting a Manticore."
Darkiel slid off the roof, landing soundlessly on the cracked concrete ten feet below. There was no thud, no disturbance of dust—just a silent transition from roof to ground, an utterly frictionless movement that defied the known laws of human mechanics and gravity.
Rourke, who had witnessed this unnatural descent countless times, rubbed the stump where his arm used to be. "See? Feather. I swear, you move without the damn numbers. If I tried that without my [Ground Stomp Lv. 5] Skill to cushion the impact, I'd shatter my kneecaps. Where's your Mana signature, kid? You're breathing the stuff in like oxygen, but the air around you is dead."
Darkiel shrugged, leaning back against the cold, metal wall, the cheap whiskey bottle tilting slightly. "Mana is inefficient, Rourke. It's like using a thousand volts of electricity to turn a tiny key. I prefer the lock-pick."
"Inefficient? It's the only way to survive, boy! What's your STR at, huh? Mine's a respectable 132. Enough to break a Grade 7 Shell-Crawler. You? You won't even submit your file!" Rourke challenged, growing bolder under the influence of his own courage.
Darkiel sighed, the sound exasperated. He looked down at the concrete. "Do you want to see the number, Rourke? Is the numerical quantification so vital to your existence?"
Rourke bristled. "It's vital to everyone's existence! It's the truth of the world now!"
Darkiel pushed himself off the wall. He did not move fast; he moved with an unnerving, perfect economy of motion. He took the half-full whiskey bottle, tossed it lightly into the air, and caught it with the same hand. Then, with no change in his posture, no preparation, and certainly no flicker of Mana, he punched the solid, reinforced concrete wall beside him—a section of wall that Rourke knew had been structurally enhanced against low-level Monster incursions.
The sound was not the sharp crack of bone against stone, or the heavy thud of a Blademaster's Aura impacting an object. It was a single, terrifying, deep boom, like the detonation of a distant, muffled charge.
The whiskey bottle, held lightly in Darkiel's hand, didn't shatter. The skin on his knuckles didn't even redden. But the two-foot-thick concrete wall split horizontally, a jagged fissure running ten feet in either direction from the impact point. Tiny, pressurized dust motes of pulverized cement erupted from the rupture, smelling like burnt powder.
Darkiel stepped back, dusting his hands casually. He looked at the shattered wall, then at the terrified, wide-eyed Rourke.
"My STR score? I am certain the System would assign it a ten, like every other civilian who refuses to Awaken," Darkiel said, his voice calm, almost bored. He raised the bottle to his lips. "The numbers are a lie, Rourke. The System tells you how strong you can be. It doesn't define how strong you are when you learn to ignore the blueprint."
He took a long swig of the liquor, the act seeming to dismiss the casual destruction he had just wrought. Rourke, frozen in fear and astonishment, could only stare at the wall, the perfect, terrifying silence of the feat settling over him.
Darkiel turned back to the roof, found a small, almost invisible ledge, and began climbing with the effortless grace of a spider, not using his muscles so much as manipulating the air and surfaces around him. He resumed his silent vigil on the roof, leaving Rourke alone with the split wall and the terrifying realization: Darkiel Mikado was not lazy; he was simply operating on a level of efficiency so profound, so completely outside the System's metrics, that he only needed a tiny fraction of effort to achieve results that demanded years of toil from others.
Two days later, the air inside the Hall of Mastery was electric. This massive subterranean chamber was where Greyhart conducted its final, most demanding practical examination: the Lich King's Gauntlet. This was a simulation, not a real Dungeon, but the Mana cost and the mental strain were brutally real.
The Gauntlet required Catalysts to maintain complex Mana-structures while navigating a randomized mental labyrinth. It was designed to push INT and WSD to their absolute limit. Jaxx, Lyra, and Elara had all completed their runs with flawless, high-level execution, each earning scores in the high 900s—more than enough to guarantee them placement in the elite Vanguard Guilds.
Now, it was Darkiel's turn.
He sauntered onto the platform, still reeking faintly of smoke and a surprisingly complex, almost floral aroma from his cheap liquor. His proctor was Professor Helion, who looked ready to spontaneously combust from anxiety and righteous indignation.
"Mr. Mikado," Helion began, his voice tight. "This examination requires the stable, sustained output of Mana and the successful deployment of three separate Tier-3 Aetheric Constructs to solve the final sequence. Failure to maintain Mana stability for the required twenty minutes will result in a zero and immediate academic dismissal. You are aware of the stakes?"
Darkiel adjusted his leather jacket, not even looking at the projection of the complex Mana-Flow Chart that displayed his current, flat Mana level. "Perfectly aware, Professor. Let's get this over with." He then pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and reached for a lighter.
"You will not smoke on the examination platform, Mr. Mikado! This is a controlled Mana environment!" Helion shrieked.
Darkiel sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as if Helion had just requested something utterly ridiculous. He flicked the lighter shut, and tucked the cigarette behind his ear.
"Starting simulation now," Helion said, practically spitting the words. He activated the platform.
A powerful Mana-field immediately enveloped Darkiel. His body shuddered momentarily as the System began its relentless, standardized test. The simulation projected a massive, hostile landscape into his mind—a desolate, wind-swept moor populated by illusory Wraiths whose only purpose was to break his WSD score.
Darkiel did not summon Mana. He did not activate a single Skill.
He stood perfectly still, closing his eyes, his breathing slowing to an almost imperceptible pace. He was not fighting the illusion; he was simply ignoring it. While other students screamed or shook with the mental exertion of keeping the spectral enemies at bay, Darkiel simply let the terrifying mental image wash over him, his mind remaining utterly clear, utterly unperturbed by the digital onslaught.
Professor Helion watched the monitor in stunned disbelief. Darkiel's WSD reading was not rising—it remained at a flat, unlogged base level—but his Mental Stability Index was locked at 100%. The system was reading his response to the assault as non-existent.
"He's not engaging the simulation! He's just… enduring it!" Helion hissed, tapping frantically on his console.
"Endurance is the test of WSD, Professor," Darkiel's voice drifted out, calm and steady, despite the illusory screams that should have been tearing his mind apart. "If the goal is to break the spirit, then the best defense is to have no spirit to break."
Then came the second phase: the Aetheric Constructs. This required the Catalyst to generate, shape, and maintain three complex, geometric Mana shields simultaneously for five minutes.
Darkiel, without opening his eyes, began to draw Mana.
But instead of drawing it from the small, internal pool the System had recognized during his Awakening—which was minuscule—he began drawing in the Ambient Mana that permeated the testing chamber itself. He was not using the System's Mana; he was leeching the Academy's Mana supply.
A sapphire-blue glow, far purer and more concentrated than the standard grey-blue of most Catalysts, began to emanate from his hands. It swirled, not with the programmed precision of a typical Aether Mage, but with the raw, chaotic beauty of a natural storm.
Within thirty seconds, three perfect, spinning geometric structures—a Hexagonal Shield, an Octahedral Cage, and a Twisted Mobius Loop—were humming silently around him. They were flawless. They pulsed with such immense power that Helion's own Mana-Attunement system registered a faint overload warning.
Lyra, Jaxx, and Elara, watching from the observation deck, gasped in unison.
"The control… it's instantaneous!" Elara whispered, clutching Jaxx's arm. "He didn't need to stabilize the Mana flow! He just commanded it into shape! He bypassed the entire channeling process!"
Darkiel maintained the structures for precisely nineteen minutes and fifty-two seconds. This was the exact threshold required for the highest possible passing grade.
Then, with a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, he dismissed the entire complex array. The three devastatingly powerful constructs simply vanished, the Mana returning instantly to the ambient field with no wasteful energy explosion.
Helion's face was white. He stared at the final score flashing on the main screen.
[Darkiel Mikado: Lich King's Gauntlet Practical Score: 998/1000]
"You… you stopped eight seconds before the required full twenty minutes! Why?!" Helion screamed, his voice cracking with sheer, baffled hysteria. "If you had held it for the remaining time, you would have achieved a perfect score! The highest in Greyhart history! Why, Mr. Mikado, why do you constantly reject the ultimate achievement?!"
Darkiel finally opened his eyes, which were a startling, deep amber color—eyes that seemed to see the energy of the world, not just its physical forms. He gave the Professor a tired, dismissive look, a tiny smirk playing on his lips.
"Because, Professor," Darkiel said, walking towards the exit of the platform, his job done, his degree secured. He reached up, retrieved the cigarette from behind his ear, and pulled out his lighter. "Perfection is boring. And the required passing grade is all that matters to me. I was finished with this curriculum weeks ago. I simply returned for the formality of the numbers."
He flicked the lighter, illuminating his face for a brief, defiant moment, and finally inhaled the noxious smoke, walking out of the Hall of Mastery, leaving behind the screaming Professor and the three terrified, high-level Catalysts who had just witnessed the rise of a genius who had deliberately refused to be quantified.