Robin woke before dawn in the alley. His body was stiff from sleeping on cobblestones, but the discomfort was irrelevant.
Today was judgment day.
He stretched carefully, working out the kinks. Completed a truncated version of his morning routine, push-ups against the alley wall, weapon forms with imaginary blade. His body responded smoothly despite the rough night.
The Academy gates opened at dawn. Robin arrived with the crowd of applicants, all nervous energy and speculation.
"I heard they only accept half who pass the combat trial."
"My cousin failed last year even after winning his fight."
"It's all politics. If your family has connections, you're in."
Robin said nothing, he listened and gathered information.
The crowd gathered in the main courtyard. A massive board had been erected overnight, large enough for thousands to read simultaneously. Still covered.
Headmaster Stone appeared on a raised platform. The man was a legend, a former S-Rank warrior whose body was broken but whose mind remained sharp.
Scars covered his visible skin. One eye was milky white, blind. But his good eye swept the crowd with piercing intensity.
"Applicants," his voice carried without magical amplification just pure command presence. "You have completed three trials. Written knowledge. Mana aptitude. Combat capability. These three pillars form the foundation of a warrior's education."
The crowd was silent. Hanging on every word.
"The Royal Military Academy does not accept students lightly. We seek those with potential to serve Valderra with distinction. To become leaders, tacticians, warriors who will defend this kingdom against all threats."
A pause.
"Of the five hundred and thirty initial applicants, three hundred forty-seven reached the combat trial. Of those, two hundred ninety-eight survived their encounters without serious injury."
Murmurs through the crowd. Over a hundred hadn't made it.
"This year, we are accepting one hundred and seventy-three students."
The murmurs became gasps. Less than half. The competition was brutal.
"When your name is called, proceed to the administration building for processing. Those not called are dismissed with our respect for your effort."
Stone nodded to an assistant. The covering was pulled from the board.
ACCEPTED STUDENTS - YEAR 1247
Names arranged alphabetically. Robin's position meant he'd be near the end of the list.
The crowd surged forward. Scanning desperately for names.
Robin waited and watched the reactions. Joy. Relief. Devastation. Rage.
A noble boy near the front screamed at an instructor. "I'm a noble! You can't reject me!"
The instructor's response was cold. "Your father is not here. You are. And you failed to demonstrate sufficient capability."
The boy was escorted out, still shouting threats.
Politics matter less here than I expected. The Academy actually cares about skill.
Robin pushed through the crowd. Found the S-section.
Scanned down.
STARK, LEO - ACCEPTED (Class B)
His brother had made it. B-rank mana, competent combat performance, as expected.
Robin's eyes moved down.
STARK, ROBIN - ACCEPTED (Class F)
There. His name.
Not just accepted. But the notation, Class F. The bottom tier. Where the Academy placed students with severe deficiencies who somehow showed enough potential to warrant training.
Perfect. Exactly where I want to be. In the shadows and underestimated.
Around him, reactions were mixed. Some celebrated. Others argued with instructors, insisting there must be a mistake.
One applicant, a noble with C-rank mana who'd won his combat trial convincingly was reading his rejection notice with disbelief. "I passed everything! This is wrong!"
An instructor responded. "You passed adequately. Adequacy is not sufficient. The Academy has limited space. We accept exceptional talent, not merely competent performance."
Harsh. But fair. The Academy's reputation was built on producing the best, not just graduating everyone who met minimum standards.
Robin made his way to the administration building. A line had formed for accepted students waiting for processing.
He waited patiently. Watched as students ahead of him received assignments.
Most were placed in Class A or B, high mana ranks, strong combat performance. Some went to Class C solid middle tier. A handful to Class D competent but unremarkable.
Finally, his turn.
The administrator was a stern woman with gray hair and no-nonsense demeanor. She looked at Robin's paperwork. Her eyebrow raised.
"Robin Stark. F-minus mana rank. Written exam score forty-seven. Combat trial....." She paused. Looked up at him. "Single strike elimination. Two minutes fight."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Your case was... controversial." She pulled out a different file. "The evaluation committee was split. Some argued your mana deficiency disqualifies you regardless of other performance.
Others noted your written exam and combat efficiency suggest exceptional skill."
Robin said nothing.
"Headmaster Stone cast the deciding vote. He believes you have potential." Her expression was skeptical. "I disagree. But I follow orders. You are accepted into Class F. Conditional acceptance."
"Conditional?"
"You must maintain minimum performance standards. Fall behind, and you're expelled immediately. No second chances. No family influence to save you."
She stamped his paperwork. "Class F dormitory is in the eastern barracks. Report there before sunset. Your instructor will be Master Torren."
Robin recognized the name. The weapons master who'd overseen his spar with Leo.
"Understood. Thank you, ma'am."
"Don't thank me. Thank Headmaster Stone. He's the only reason you're here." She handed him his papers. "And Stark? Prove him right. Because if you fail, it reflects badly on his judgment."
Robin took his papers. The weight of expectation settling on his shoulders.
Conditional acceptance. They're watching me and waiting for me to fail.
He left the administration building. Found a notice board listing dormitory assignments.
CLASS F - EASTERN BARRACKS
STUDENTS: 23
Twenty-three students in the bottom tier. Robin scanned the names. Recognized none. A mix of commoners with E or F-ranks and a few nobles who'd probably barely passed.
The dregs. The unwanted. The students the Academy accepted because they showed flickers of potential but were too deficient to place higher.
My people. Or they will be.
Robin made his way to the eastern barracks. The building was older than the rest, stone walls weathered by time. Less maintained. The Academy's version of the servant quarters.
Inside, a large common room. Bunks lining the walls. Simple and functional but no luxury.
A few students were already there. They looked up when Robin entered. Assessed him. Saw his worn clothes, small frame, lack of equipment.
One, a large commoner with a scarred face grunted. "Another charity case. Just what we need."
Robin ignored him. Found an empty bunk. Bottom corner. Good tactical position, back to the wall, view of the entrance.
He set his small pack down. His entire possessions. One change of clothes. A damaged dagger. A stolen book.
Start small. Build from here.
More students filtered in as the day progressed. The common room filled with the bottom tier of the Academy's new class.
Most were quiet. Defeated before they'd even started. The weight of being Class F, of being officially labeled the worst was crushing their spirits already.
Robin observed them all. Cataloged faces, names, behaviors.
These are my resources. My potential allies. Or obstacles. Time will tell.
Evening came. A sharp whistle from the doorway.
Master Torren stood there. The weapons master. His scarred face was set in a permanent scowl.
"Listen up!" His voice cut through the room. "I'm Master Torren. I've been stuck with training Class F for fifteen years. You know what that means? I've seen hundreds of students like you. And I can tell you right now most of you won't last."
He walked into the room. Every eye tracked him.
"Class F is where the Academy puts students with potential but massive deficiencies. You're here because someone saw something worth training.
But potential means nothing without work. And most of you don't have the discipline for what's required."
His gaze swept the room. Stopped on Robin.
"Stark. Stand up."
Robin stood.
"You're the one who killed the Scrabbler in two minutes. "
"Yes, sir."
"How?"
"Nerve cluster behind the head. Precise strike disrupts the entire nervous system."
"That's not in any textbook."
"No, sir. Observed it through experimentation."
Torren's expression was unreadable. "Experimentation. Right." He turned to address the room. "This is what I'm looking for. Stark has no mana. F-minus rank.
By every traditional metric, he should fail. But he used his brain. Studied his opponent. Found a weakness. Exploited it."
He pointed at Robin. "That's why he's here. That's why you're all here. You have something; skill, determination, intelligence that compensates for your deficiencies.
My job is to sharpen that something into a weapon."
Torren walked to the center of the room. "Class F training is different. Harder. We can't rely on mana enhancement like the upper classes. We have to be smarter. Faster. More efficient. We have to kill enemies that are stronger than us through pure technique."
A pause. Then the hammer.
"Most of you will fail. Transfer out or drop out within the first month. Those who survive will become something the upper classes can't: warriors who succeed despite impossible odds. Questions?"
Silence. No one dared speak.
"Good. First lesson is at dawn. Don't be late." Torren turned to leave. Paused at the door. "And Stark? See me after dinner. We need to talk."
He left. The room exhaled collectively.
The scarred commoner who'd called Robin a charity case looked at him differently now. "Two minutes. That true?"
"Yes."
"Damn." Respect in his voice now. "I took ten minutes. Thought I was fast."
Robin said nothing. Lay back on his bunk.
First day. First impression established. Torren sees something. The class sees something.
Now he just have to maintain it. Build on it. Without revealing too much too fast.
He closed his eyes. Let the noise of the dormitory wash over him.
Class F. The bottom tier. Exactly where he needed to be.
The Duke sent him here to fail. To be humiliated. To prove him worthless.
*Instead, he is exactly where he can grow strongest. Away from his surveillance. In an environment that rewards skill over status.*
Thank you, Father. For your cruelty. For your contempt. For your conditions.*
You've given me the perfect training ground.
Robin smiled.
Now let's see what the cursed child can become when properly trained.
Let's see what happens when the Academy tries to forge a weapon from broken steel.
Let's see if they can handle what they've created.
Tomorrow, his real education would begin.
And Robin Stark was very much ready.