The arena floor was still scuffed where the squire had landed, but every eye remained locked on the silver-haired boy who had sent him flying.

  Ray stood frozen, his ego having evaporated into pure bewilderment. He’d been too busy basking in his own “main character moment” to witness the actual exchange. One second, he was imagining his name on a leaderboard; the next, a grown man was airborne.

  Elaine saw it. Garret and Isolde saw it. Sera definitely saw it. But even they couldn't explain what had just happened.

  Lucien hadn’t fought like a knight, a mage, or a duelist. His movements were too calm, too mechanical—like a shifting weight in a perfectly calibrated machine. Sera’s eyes tracked his feet; each step landed exactly where it needed to be, yet with a terrifying unpredictability, like a feather drifting and a hammer dropping at the same time.

  He hadn’t blocked the squire. He hadn’t countered. He had neutralized.

  A slight tilt of the body. A tiny shift of weight. Movements so minimal they looked lazy, yet they somehow erased the force behind the squire’s attacks. When the final blow came, there was no flourish. Just a simple, forward step. Yet that step had cracked the stone tiles, and the follow-up shove had left a handprint-shaped crater in the squire’s steel breastplate.

  Sera shivered. It wasn’t strength. It was something that manipulated the flow of reality itself.

  “That wasn't technique,” Sera whispered, her voice dropping low enough only for Elaine to hear.

  Elaine’s eyes narrowed, her sharp mind already trying to categorize the impossible. “…Interesting.”

  The silver-haired boy tilted his head—as if listening to a distant sound—before walking back to the line. He glanced Ray’s way. It was a cold look, quiet but heavy, like distant thunderclouds deciding if Ray was worth the lightning.

  Everyone else sees a prodigy, Ray thought, his teeth gritting. I see a variable that shouldn't exist. Not backing down. Analyze—activate!

  The blue pane flickered, but instead of clean stats, the text spasmed violently.

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  STATUS — TARGET ANALYZED

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  NAME:LUC@@S & @($(($@

  AGE: * &

  LEVEL: ) ( % █ █

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  HP: ((&^

  STM: #$((&

  ATTRIBUTES

  STR: #?#?#?

  AGI: (*

  VIT: ^$%

  DEX: !#

  INT:**

  WIS: ()*

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  ERROR.

  DATA STREAM CORRUPTED.

  UNABLE TO STABILIZE OUTPUT.

  MEMORY DISTORT—

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

  The screen detonated into pixel dust. A white-hot spike of pain shot through Ray’s skull, as if someone had tried to download a hurricane into a floppy disk.

  “GHH—!” Ray grabbed his head, staggering. His vision doubled, then tripled. A high-pitched ringing drilled into his ears.

  Across the arena, Lucien’s chin tilted. He didn't fully turn. He didn't acknowledge Ray. But it was a precise shift in angle—as if he’d felt the scan. As if Ray were nothing more than a brief burst of static.

  Ray was seen. Evaluated. Discarded.

  When the pain finally receded, Ray’s pulse was thudding unevenly. His palms were cold. This wasn’t "Main Character" territory anymore. For the first time since arriving in this world, Ray felt something foreign grip his chest. Not awe. Not rivalry.

  Fear.

  He feared what Analyze had tried to show him—and failed to comprehend. Whatever that boy was... he wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Ray leaned against a pillar, rubbing his temples as if massaging reality itself back into shape.

  Lucien D’Roselle. The name tasted like static in his mouth. Why did his [Analyze] skill freak out like that? In every game he’d played, an "Error" didn't just mean a high level; it meant a corrupted file, a glitch, a variable that shouldn't exist. Lucien wasn't just a rival; he was an anomaly.

  Elaine glanced at him sideways, her brow furrowing with that clinical precision that made Ray feel like a specimen under a microscope. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  Ray coughed, trying to regain his composure while his brain was still reeling from the pixelated explosion. “Just—warming up my... vocal cords. Preparing for the next stage.”

  Garret snorted from his position near the railing. “He’s spazzing out again. Look at his hands; they're shaking like a leaf.”

  “He does that when he’s overwhelmed,” Isolde added flatly, not even looking up from her nails. “It’s a Melborne trait. Usually followed by a nap or a tantrum.”

  “I am not throwing a tantrum!” Ray hissed, though his trembling fingers betrayed him.

  Little Niva hopped over, her innocent energy a sharp contrast to the suffocating tension of the arena. She offered him a small, wilted wildflower she’d scavenged from near the stone perimeter. “For courage, Ray! The big rock is next!”

  Ray accepted the flower like a sacred relic, his hands still vibrating. “Thanks, kid. I think I’m gonna need it.”

  A large, altar-like stone rested at the center of the courtyard, veins of pale light pulsing beneath its obsidian surface. Instructors stood nearby with crystal tablets, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow, ready to record the essence of every student who passed.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Ray swallowed hard. It looked less like a school test and more like a ritual that determined your reincarnation.

  Elaine stepped beside him, her voice low and composed. “Ray, why do you look so worried?”

  Ray blinked, his eyes fixed on the pulsing stone. “What’s actually going to happen?”

  She finally tore her eyes away from the altar to look at him. “The first exam measured your intellect,” she said. “Useful, but ultimately irrelevant here.”

  Ray frowned. “Then why bring it up?”

  Elaine gave a small, elegant smile—the kind that usually preceded a verbal execution. “Just to remind you that you are not quite as stupid as you look.”

  Ray opened his mouth, closed it, and decided not to take psychic damage this early in the day.

  “The second exam measured your physical limits,” she continued, returning to her smooth, instructive tone. “Endurance. Reflex. Pain tolerance. That was the first hurdle. But this?” She gestured to the obsidian slab. “This altar evaluates something far more important—whether your soul can safely endure Engraving.”

  Ray stared at the stone as if it had personally wronged him. “…That sounds worse.”

  “Engraving is dangerous,” Elaine said calmly. “We are chiseling the soul—the very essence of a person. If the soul is weak, the process can cripple you. Or kill you. The Academy does not wish to ruin a life, so they test the soul's stability. Black-market engravers do not—which is why their subjects often end as husks.”

  Ahead of them, a girl placed her hand on the stone. A soft, steady glow pulsed beneath her palm. Flames suddenly fluttered from the altar’s surface.

  “Flame affinity, steady soul,” an instructor murmured. “Suitable for engraving.”

  Next, a boy pressed his hand down. The stone flickered weakly, sputtered like a dying candle, and went dark.

  “Fragile soul,” the instructor announced. The boy trudged off, his head hanging low.

  Ray winced. “Ouch. That’s brutal to watch.”

  “Half the Empire lacks the stability for safe engraving,” Elaine replied with clinical calm. “It is statistically normal.”

  “Rowen Vernhard!” the herald’s voice rang out.

  Rowen strutted forward like a peacock dipped in arrogance. He pressed a hand onto the stone with a flourish.

  FWOOSH.

  A sharp flare burst upward—red, jagged, and roaring like cracking embers. The instructors actually leaned forward.

  “Fire affinity, powerful soul,” one announced. “High-intensity reaction,” another noted.

  Rowen turned slowly, locking eyes with Ray. With the practiced grace of a subpar villain, he lifted his chin and silently mouthed: Try to beat that.

  “He’s annoying,” Garret muttered. “He’s arrogant,” Isolde added.

  Ray almost choked trying not to laugh. He couldn’t believe he was finally agreeing with both of his siblings at the same time.

  “So,” Ray whispered, leaning toward Elaine. “If my stone glows like his, I’m stuck with fire? Fire knights and all that?”

  Elaine shook her head. “No. Anyone can choose any path. The soul can be trained. The altar suggests an affinity, but it does not shackle you. The real question is: can your soul survive what we carve into it? The altar simply shows how you react to pressure. Some flare. Some dim. It only tells us how careful an engraver must be.”

  “So it doesn’t decide anything?”

  “Only the risks,” Elaine replied. She paused, her voice softening into something more wary. “Established engravers avoid anything that risks a blemish on their name. If a client dies under their care, it stains their pride. However… some care less for morality, and more for results.”

  “So then, affinity doesn’t really matter?” Ray asked.

  “It does,” Elaine corrected, her voice taking on a clinical edge. “But it matters most to the Engraver. This is not a one-sum game, Ray. Engravers are craftsmen with their own specialties. Some focus on the core elements—Fire, Water, Earth, or Wind. Others specialize in the rare or the unknown: Wood, Lightning, or even more esoteric aspects.”

  She looked at the altar as another student stepped up.

  “An engraver with a Fire specialty can carve into someone with a Water affinity,” she continued. “But whether they are successful is another story entirely. It’s like trying to write on silk with a burning coal. It is possible, but the risk of destroying the canvas is immense.”

  Ray swallowed hard. “So the affinity tells them which 'ink' to use?”

  “In a sense. It tells them which power your soul is most likely to accept without fighting back,” Elaine explained. “The less the soul resists, the more power the engraver can safely carve into it.”

  Ray swallowed. “So Rowen’s flare… was it good?”

  “Yes,” Elaine sighed. “It was powerful. He will have an easier journey than most.”

  “Ray Melborne!”

  Ray froze. Oh no. Oh yes. This is it.

  Elaine gave him a small, polite nod—the Avery equivalent of a five-minute motivational speech. It translated roughly to: Do not embarrass me.

  Garret slapped him on the back with enough force to rattle his teeth. “Try not to scream.”

  “Or faint,” Isolde added with a sigh.

  Niva whispered, “You can do it, Ray!”

  Ray inhaled sharply. Main character arc. Main character arc. Main. Character. Arc. He stepped forward, ignoring Rowen’s smug, condescending wave. He reached out and pressed his palm flat against the obsidian surface. For one terrifying, heart-stopping moment... nothing happened.

  Ray’s heart dropped into his stomach. Oh no. I’m a dud. I’m a background NPC—

  FWOOOOOM.

  A violent flare of red-orange light erupted from the cracks of the stone, spiraling upward in a sharp, focused column. It wasn't just a flicker; it was a living blaze of pure soul-intensity.

  Students gasped. The instructors, usually as stoic as the stone itself, straightened in unison. Elaine’s eyes widened by exactly one millimeter—which, for her, meant she was shocked beyond mortal comprehension.

  The stone pulsed again. Harder. Brighter.

  “Remarkably strong soul-force…” one instructor whispered, leaning in.

  “This child could survive advanced engraving without a single stabilizer,” another murmured.

  “Rare,” a third added, scribbling furiously. “Exceptionally rare.”

  Rowen stared at Ray as if his ego had been stabbed with a rusty spoon. Ray, meanwhile, stared at his own hand as if it had betrayed his expectations of mediocrity.

  “I—I’m strong?” Ray stammered. “As in… stable? As in—engravable?!”

  Elaine stepped forward, her voice carrying a rare, quiet note of admiration. “Ray. This is exceptional.”

  Garret’s jaw hit the floor. Isolde actually stopped looking bored. Niva cheered at the top of her lungs, “RAY IS BLAZING!”

  Ray wobbled on his feet, the adrenaline finally hitting. “I… I passed? Actually passed? With that?”

  Elaine nodded. “You’ve demonstrated soul stability well above standard thresholds. You’ll be eligible for accelerated engraving selection. You’ve just bypassed years of basic soul-tempering.”

  Ray’s heart swelled. This was it. The moment every protagonist dreams of—the "Hidden Potential" reveal.

  Of course, the moment was interrupted by a furious Rowen Vernhard storming over. “WHAT—HOW—NO! Test it again! The stone malfunctioned! He cheated! He’s a Melborne; they don’t have souls this bright!”

  The lead instructor sighed. “Lord Vernhard. Step back before I subtract points for conduct.”

  Ray turned to Rowen, a massive, uncontainable grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Rowen… it must be so hard having someone bett—”

  Elaine gently, firmly, placed a hand over his mouth.

  “Ray,” she murmured, “do not engage with inferior bait.”

  Rowen made a strangled noise of pure noble suffering. Ray nodded solemnly against Elaine’s palm. “Yesh, ma’am.”

  Elaine removed her hand, her gaze shifting back to the altar. The air in the courtyard suddenly grew cold. The celebratory noise died down instantly as the herald lifted the next tablet.

  “Next candidate: Lucien D’Roselle.”