Six months passed in measured breaths and quiet discipline.
Within the stone walls of Castle Hart, Rush trained in silence—no cheers, no witnesses, no room for impatience. Each dawn began with meditation, the Khaos Blocker resting against his skin like a living restraint, tightening whenever his mana output wavered beyond control.
He learned the Blocker's limits the hard way—through burning nerves, trembling hands, and spells that failed by fractions rather than force. At night, when mana was forbidden, steel took its place. Blades traced familiar paths through the dark, footwork whispering across frost-coated stone, every movement sharpened until even errors became deliberate.
By the time winter loosened its grip, Rush was no longer chasing power. He was learning how not to waste it.
Dawn came quietly to Castle Hart.
The sky above the eastern hills was still bruised with night, painted in pale blues and ash-gray clouds as the first sliver of sunlight crept over the horizon. Frost clung to the stone walls, and the banners of House Ryanheart stirred faintly in the cold wind.
The courtyard was awake.
A carriage with the Ryanheart sigil waited by the gates, its wheels packed and ready. The horses breathed white mist into the air, stamping impatiently against the frozen ground.
Rush stood at the foot of the steps, cloak fastened tight, a travel pack resting against his back. The silver markings of the Khaos Blocker were hidden beneath his sleeve, but he could feel its presence—steady, watchful.
Behind him, the castle doors opened.
Lady Elsa stepped out first.
She had dressed simply, abandoning noble silks for a dark traveling cloak lined with fur. Her eyes were tired—not from lack of sleep, but from a night spent fighting emotions she refused to show. She crossed the courtyard quickly and stopped in front of Rush, her hands already gripping his shoulders as if grounding herself through him.
"You ate?" she asked.
Rush nodded. "Yes."
"You slept?"
"…Yes."
She frowned, knowing the lie, but didn't call him out on it. Instead, she reached up and adjusted his collar, then smoothed a crease in his cloak that didn't exist. Her hands lingered longer than necessary.
"You don't have to prove anything," she said softly. "You don't have to be the strongest. Just stay away from trouble."
Rush met her eyes.
"I will," he promised. Not bravely. Not loudly. Just honestly.
Her lips trembled. She pulled him into a tight embrace, the scent of lavender and parchment wrapping around him like a memory he could carry.
Behind her, small footsteps hurried across stone.
"Brother!"
Liz ran into him, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. She clung to his waist, burying her face against his coat.
"You're not allowed to forget us," she said fiercely. "And you have to write. Every week. And if someone bullies you, I'll—"
Rush laughed quietly, kneeling so they were eye to eye.
"You'll what?" he asked.
She hesitated, then puffed out her chest. "I'll beat them and save you."
He tapped her forehead gently. "Then I'll make sure I don't need saving."
She hugged him again, tighter this time, before pulling away and wiping her eyes furiously with her sleeve.
The courtyard fell silent.
Lord Ryanheart stood near the carriage.
He hadn't approached. He hadn't interfered. He watched his son with the same sharp, measured gaze he used in the training yard—but there was no distance in it now. Only intent.
When Rush turned toward him, Erwin stepped forward.
He placed a hand on Rush's shoulder. Solid. Heavy.
"The Academy is not Castle Hart," he said. "No one will slow down for you. And no one will forgive weakness."
Rush nodded.
"That is good," Erwin continued. "Because it means every step forward will be yours alone."
His grip tightened briefly.
"Learn. Observe. Choose your battles carefully." A pause. "And stand by your choices."
Rush met his father's gaze. There was no praise there. No warning either.
Only trust.
"I will, Father." Rush said.
Erwin nodded once. That was all.
Rush turned away.
The moment he faced the carriage, the stoic mask cracked. His chest tightened, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing against his ribs. He wanted to turn back. He wanted to stay in the warmth of the solar, listening to Liz laugh and his mother hum.
He bit the inside of his lip, tasting iron.
Don't cry, he commanded himself. If you cry, Mother will break. If you cry, Father will worry.
He forced his legs to move toward the carriage door. But as he stepped onto the runner, a single, traitorous tear escaped, sliding hot and fast down his cheek.
He wiped it away instantly, a blur of motion too fast for anyone to see.
He stepped inside.
The door closed, sealing him in.
The horses surged forward, iron hooves striking stone as the gates of Castle Hart slowly opened. The carriage rolled out beneath the paling sky, carrying Rush toward the local trade city of Orlyin—and from there, toward a world that would test his limits time and again.
From Orlyin's skyport, Rush boarded a commercial Manaship bound for the capital.
Two days later, the manaship began its descent.
Rush stood near the observation railing, fingers resting against the cold crystal pane as the clouds slowly parted beneath them.
Then the world opened.
Prasta emerged from the clouds like a god-forged monument.
It sprawled across the endless Golden Plains like a vast, stone ocean.
It was a city of white marble and slate, encircled by massive defensive walls that stretched for miles. Outer walls curved with the horizon, etched with glowing mana circuits that pulsed steadily even in daylight. Hundreds of medieval towers rose from the streets, their spires topped with glowing mana crystals that acted as beacons. The streets were wide, paved with ancient cobblestones, bustling with carriages and mounted knights.
From the air, two colossal structures dominated the landscape, separated by the winding Aether River.
To the North stood the Royal Castle. It was a fortress of impossible scale, built into the side of the only mountain on the plains, its white towers piercing the clouds, draped in banners of gold and crimson.
To the East lay the Royal Academy.
It was a city within a city. Encircled by its own pentagonal wall, the Academy was a sanctuary of lush greenery, ancient libraries, and floating training arenas. Unlike the busy capital, the Academy grounds glowed with a soft, protective blue barrier.
"Disturbing," Beelzebub muttered. "The capital reeks of commerce and greed, but that Academy… it reeks of ancient pride."
Other manaships filled the sky. Massive vessels drifted between spires along invisible aerial routes, their rune-lined hulls humming with restrained power.
The manaship shuddered softly as it aligned with a floating docking platform anchored to a skyport tower's side. Arcane thrusters flared—silent, controlled.
"Noisy," Beelzebub muttered again. "And saturated with control spells. Disgusting."
Rush exhaled.
The ramp extended. Rush stepped onto polished white stone, adjusting his coat. The silver Ryanheart button on his shirt caught the light.
He merged into the crowd, heading toward the massive golden gates of the Academy in the distance.
The crowd was a river of diversity. It wasn't just humans. Rush could see Elves, Dwarves, and Beastfolk moving through the throng, their distinct silhouettes marking them apart in the sea of robes and armor. The Royal Academy gathered talent from every corner of the continent, regardless of race.
Above them, a holographic banner shimmered in the air:
ROYAL ACADEMY OF ATHERLAND: 198th ANNUAL ENTRANCE EXAM.
Rush moved through the crowd like smoke. His Assassin's Footwork meant he made no sound, slipping through gaps in the throng without touching anyone.
He reached the Registration Plaza.
Lines of students stretched for miles. Rush waited for an hour. When he finally reached the front, a balding instructor didn't even look up.
"Name and age."
"Rush. Fourteen."
The instructor paused. "Surname?"
"Ryanheart."
The pen stopped scratching. The instructor looked up,annoyed—until his eyes locked onto the silver button on Rush's collar.
The color drained from his face. His eyes widening behind thick spectacles.
"Ryanheart? As in… the Eastern House?"
The chatter in the nearby lines died down instantly. The name Ryanheart carried weight. It meant blood. It meant shadows.
"Yes," Rush said simply.
The instructor straightened up, clearing his throat. boredom vanished, replaced by a nervous, bureaucratic stiffness. He wiped sweat from his brow.
"I… I see. The… uh… the procedure remains the same for all applicants," the instructor stammered. He gestured to the crystal orb with a trembling hand. "Place your hand on the Mana Gauge."
This was it.
The crowd leaned in. They wanted to see the power of a Ryanheart. They expected a blinding flash of purple or black light. They expected the orb to crack.
Rush placed his right hand on the crystal.
Under his sleeve, the Khaos Blocker tightened.
Ignis, Rush thought, pushing a tiny, controlled trickle of mana into the orb.
The Khaos Blocker devoured 99% of his output instantly. It filtered the raging violet storm of the mana into a harmless, pathetic drip.
The crystal orb hummed. It glowed.
A faint, sickly orange light appeared in the center. It flickered like a dying ember, then stabilized. It was dim. Incredibly dim.
The crowd froze.
"Is… is that it?" the instructor asked, staring at the orb in disbelief.
"Yes," Rush said, keeping his face blank.
The instructor looked at the readings. He frowned, scribbling something on the parchment. The fear in his eyes vanished, replaced by confusion, and then… pity.
"Mana Capacity: Low," the instructor announced, his voice flat. "Elemental Affinity: Fire (Weak). Magic potential... Below average. "
A murmur ripped through the crowd.
"Below average ?""Look at that crest… what a waste of a noble bloodline."
Laughter followed. The tension evaporated.
The instructor handed Rush a wooden badge: Block D.
"Next."
Rush took it without expression and walked away from the desk, listening to the insults fading behind him.
He touched the silver pattern under his sleeve.
It worked perfectly, Rush thought.
As he headed toward Block D, a commotion broke out near the VIP entrance.
"Out of my way, peasants!"
A red-haired boy in gold-trimmed robes shoved a smaller beastkin student aside, heat radiating from his body. The air around him shimmered.
"That's Richard Von Dragonean," someone whispered nearby. "Heir to the Dragonean Clan. A prodigy."
Richard laughed, basking in the attention. But then, the whispers from the other lines reached him.
"Ryanheart? Where?"
"Below average?"
Richard turned sharply. "Ryanheart? A Ryanheart was here!" He scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on the instructor who had just tested Rush. "Where is he?"
The instructor pointed toward Rush's retreating back. "He is over there, Lord Dragonean. But… he has been assigned to Block D."
" D Block?" Richard laughed, a loud, booming sound. "A Ryanheart is trash? "
He glared at the boy in the grey coat walking away.
"Oi! You! Grey coat!"
Rush didn't look back.
Richard launched a small fireball—just a prank, a flicker of mana—at Rush's back.
"Catch!"
Swoosh.
The fireball flew through the air, sizzling. It wasn't enough to kill, but it was enough to burn a hole in his coat and humiliate him.
Rush didn't stop walking. He didn't turn around.
"Incoming projectile," Beelzebub warned. "Trajectory: Spine."
Rush didn't use mana.
He simply shifted his weight.
He took a half-step to the left—a movement so subtle it looked like a natural sway in his walk.
Whoosh.
The fireball missed him by an inch. It sailed past his shoulder and hit a stone pillar, scorching the marble black.
Rush kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Behind him, Richard blinked. The crowd went silent.
Did he dodge it?
No… he just walked. It was luck.
Rush disappeared into the shadows of the entrance tunnel.
"Luck," Beelzebub mocked the thoughts of the crowd. "The ignorance of sheep is truly a shield for the wolf."
Rush fingered the wooden badge in his pocket.
The Exam hadn't even started, and he already caught attention of many eyes.
Welcome to the Academy