Fitran's footsteps echoed in the marble corridors of the Gaia palace, his eyes reflecting the darkness. Hector Alfrenzo himself accompanied him, introducing him to the Selection Council of the Atlantis School of Magic—a gathering place for the blue bloods, geniuses, and chosen kin from all corners of the world. Beneath the simple robe he wore, Fitran seemed out of place: his hair was unkempt, an old scar exposed on his jaw, and his wild gaze expressed a deep mistrust towards authority.

  One of the Council members, Lady Sybill, regarded Fitran with a skeptical stare. "You do not come from a registered lineage. Is your dedication merely a joke?" she said, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a dagger. "No name, no origin, only a recommendation from Hector. Why should we accept a 'street child' into the oldest academy in the world?"

  Fitran replied with a wry smile, "Street child or not, I never asked to be born into this world. What makes you believe in lineage more than in spirit and effort?"

  Hector stepped forward, sensing the tension creeping through the air. "This world has changed, Lady Sybill. Just because he is not of noble birth does not mean he is foolish or weak. Give him a single test—if he fails, I will take him away myself." He gazed at the Council with a shining confidence. "Do you dare to grant this chance?"

  Fitran bowed his head, attempting to conceal the painful laughter behind a smile. "Don’t waste our time. Just show me what I must do. I seek no attention, only a chance to prove myself." His voice was firm, yet inside, a suffocating doubt lingered.

  A magister called out to him, "Come on, it’s time to prepare. This test will be much more than just a challenge." His tone was commanding as he guided Fitran toward the simulation chamber. "In there, your abilities will be tested, and defeating the illusions is the only way to measure your worth."

  In that dark chamber, he was confronted by illusions of foes—ranging from towering beasts with sharp claws to frenzied elite sorcerers. "Depending on the score, freedom isn’t something to be taken lightly," the master intoned, his voice resonating ominously in the gloom. The floor of the room trembled, magic surged in every direction. Yet Fitran moved swiftly and ruthlessly—enemy after enemy was shattered by his fighting style, a blend of untamed sorcery and street techniques. "I am no creature to fall beneath the feet of nobles!" he shouted, as his magic struck with fervor, unleashing pain and fury upon every adversary in his path.

  He wasted no time exploiting his surroundings, deftly manipulating any gaps in their defenses. "Remember, they don’t care who you are—only your strength speaks," he murmured to himself, finding power in his harsh words that disrupted the concentration of his foes. "This isn’t just for me. It’s for every soul that has ever felt discarded!"

  When all the lifeless enemies lay sprawled before him, he stood tall, his spirit ablaze with the desire for victory. Within his heart, intertwined between hope and dread, he felt the warm trace of triumph.

  The master stood frozen, staring at the exam results laid out before him; the highest score in the history of the selection, as if he could hardly believe his own eyes. "Hector, look at this! No one can match this achievement," the master exclaimed, his eyes shining with pride, his voice echoing through the room. Hector stood tall, filled with pride and confidence, a wide smile gracing his face. Yet beside him, Lady Sybill appeared cold, suppressing the tumult of emotions roiling within her heart. "Very well, we shall let fate decide," she said with a trembling tone—was it anxiety, or was there a hint of disappointment that lingered? In the depths of her heart, she doubted whether all of this truly served justice.

  Fitran felt the tension hanging in the air of Atlantis Magic School, a place that was utterly unlike anything he had ever known. "Those towers steal the tranquility," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. At first, the beauty of the place captivated him, but life had taught him that beauty did not always align with goodness. The classrooms appeared to float, yet all he could see were the nobility stepping gracefully upon the carpeted floors, laughing contentedly while looking down upon the common folk from their crystal balconies. "What good is all this if they continue to mock my suffering?" he thought bitterly, hatred and sorrow intertwining in his mind.

  Filled with a sense of inferiority, Fitran felt how alienated he truly was. "I don’t have a proper uniform; no one cares about me," he murmured softly, recalling the absence of the splendid room enjoyed by the nobility. He slept in the filthiest corner of the dormitory, surrounded by children whom society deemed outcasts. "You’re just a nuisance here," a child whispered with a sneer, wrinkling his brow in disdain. Some even harbored hatred toward his presence— their words sliced through his heart, yet he responded with a thin smile, trying to show courage even while feeling utterly powerless inside. Within his soul, the flicker of determination began to stir. Every night, he vowed, "I will teach myself, no matter how hard it is." He tinkered with incantations, traversing the pages of forbidden books hidden in the underground library. "Here is where I can find my strength," he said to his own reflection in the cracked mirror that hung in that tiny room.

  One tense night, a young nobleman—Lord Gavin—approached with a countenance full of challenge. "Fitran, I dare you to a duel! Are you brave enough to steal an artifact from me?" His gaze was defiant and rife with mockery. Fitran, though his heart raced, could only manage a flat smile. "You only have courage when your guard is at your side, don’t you?" His voice was calm, even as uncertainty creased his features. In this wager, would his bravery be enough to rival the immense power of high status?

  The duel was unavoidable and brimming with brutality. Gavin unleashed top-level fire magic, scorching the floor beneath him with seething wrath. “Back off! Or you’ll feel the heat of the flames!” Gavin shouted, his voice echoing as if uncaring of anyone present. Fitran allowed himself to be consumed by the fires of life, recalling all the hardships he had endured. “If this is the only way to prove my existence, nothing will stop me,” he whispered softly, filled with resolve. Then, as his opponent faltered, he summoned all his strength. In an instant, he broke Gavin’s hand and seized his staff. “Now, behold who is stronger!” he declared, though deep down, doubt crawled back into his mind. Was all this worth the price?

  All the students stared in horror, their faces reflecting deep fear. With a resonant voice, Fitran stood tall over Gavin's limp body, his eyes glowing with mystery. “Never accuse me without proof,” he said, emphasizing each word as if it were a powerful incantation. “Or you will lose more than just your dignity. Mark my words!”

  After that incident, no noble dared to openly challenge him. In whispers of fear, they asked one another, “What will happen if he comes again?” But Fitran knew that behind those marble walls, slander and conspiracy grew like mushrooms in the rainy season. That night, he stood before a mirror, trying to find strength in the reflection that stared back, searching for a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “The Trial Tower?” Fitran thought, his brow furrowing. “Is this for all those who dare to consider themselves brave?” Each student was invited to explore “The Trial Tower,” an imposing structure with a hundred floors filled with illusions, ancient magic, and creatures from nightmares. “No one has ever managed to pass floor 47,” one of his friends whispered, his voice trembling with fear. Yet, Fitran simply smiled cynically; nothing would deter him.

  “I am not afraid,” he muttered, as if trying to convince himself. Each night, he stepped into the tower alone, confronting the shadows of himself. “You are nothing but a monster,” whispered a voice in his head. “Do you think this is all just a game?” Despite that, he refused to surrender. Existential creatures and past illusions clawed at his soul. “Stop! I will not be your victim!” he shouted, pushing back against the fears that gnawed at his heart.

  Each floor challenged him with memories—the dying face of Aveline, blood staining the alleys of the old district, and the cries of little Rinoa, cornered by the mafia. On the 40th floor, he faced the shadow of Hector, the figure that always loomed over his life. "Do you truly think you have the right to change this fate, Fitran?” Hector sneered, his tone laced with a deep burden of guilt. “Are you aware of what you have done?”

  Fitran stared at that shadow, his heart trembling. “I have the right to live. Every choice I make is for my survival!” He was close to giving in. Yet, like a whisper of conscience, each time he doubted himself, he slapped his own cheek. “No! I will not fall into regret,” he said firmly, his gaze filled with conviction.

  At last, he broke through to the 50th floor— the only student in the history of Atlantis to have ever made it this far. As he stepped into that empty room, the mirror's voice seemed to whisper, “What are you searching for here, Fitran?”

  He stared at the giant mirror, and his reflection appeared like a shadow filled with regret. “I... I just want to see who I am now,” he said slowly, full of doubt. “But all I see is a monster.”

  Suddenly, a raspy voice echoed from within the mirror, “A monster? Or a hero yet to be recognized?” Fitran gasped, his eyes widening. “Who’s speaking?!”

  “Only you,” the voice replied. “The right to recognize yourself is the first step to escaping from the darkness.”

  “I am not a hero!” Fitran shouted, his voice echoing in the silence. “I just want to stop fighting. Yet every time I think to give up, I remember...,” he paused, swallowing the pain that enveloped his heart. “Outside, they see me as the king of the streets, but inside, I am still a nameless boy.”

  “Perhaps what you consider a curse is a blessing,” the voice gently reminded him. “Will you allow the world to dictate your fate?”

  Fitran turned his gaze away, and his shadow looked increasingly sorrowful. “What does it mean to struggle if the outcome is always the same? Disappointment, violence…”

  “Only when you step forward with a sincere heart will justice become your ally. Remember that, Fitran.”

  Determined to break free from the darkness that loomed over him, he stepped forward. “I don’t know how, but I will try,” he said humbly.

  As Fitran stepped out from the tower, his body was nearly shattered, yet his eyes shone like embers newly ignited. The weight of his experiences pressed down on his shoulders, but his spirit remained unyielding. “I have journeyed this far. Nothing will stop me now,” he whispered to himself.

  The Council of Atlantis greeted his arrival with a mix of fear and respect. “Behold, the king returns!” shouted one council member. “He has triumphed over darkness!”

  “You do not know what truly happened,” Fitran replied, his voice firm though slightly trembling. “This battle is not over. I still fight for justice.”

  Now Fitran was revered, even the nobles began to approach him, eager to exploit his fame. He sat on the school balcony, gazing at the beautiful garden awash with the unmatched fragrance of flowers. A noble student, dressed in finery, approached him with a sparkling glass of wine in hand. “Drink this, Fitran. It’s worth the life of a wanderer,” the student offered, an arrogant smile gracing his face.

  Fitran raised an eyebrow, studying the glass that gleamed in his friend’s hand. “Why do you not simply enjoy your new life?” he asked, his tone as gentle as a caressing breeze. “So, you are the powerful legend now, possessing wealth, women, and power... Is this not heaven for those who once were mere street rulers?”

  “Paradise?” Fitran glared at the wine glass, his eyes filled with loathing, as if he were staring at burning poison. “Here, the nobles are revered as gods. Yet, in my old district, those in power are hunted like wild beasts— their hearts turned to coin, their blood transformed into fuel. And you know all of this, don’t you?” His voice grew hoarse as he continued, “You and I, we are both shaped by this world. What’s the difference between a hunter on the street and a god in a tower? None. You’re all just as rotten.”

  The noble man smiled bitterly, unable to respond with words. “You should respect your place here, Fitran.”

  “Respect?” Fitran stood, his eyes gazing far out towards the horizon, gleaming with a fire that burned within his soul. “You’re just laughing over corpses, like wolves wrapping themselves in golden cloaks. One day, the wheel of life will turn. Those who feel immortal will fall, and this world will never be the same.”

  The noble fell silent, gripping his glass tightly, as if Fitran’s words had stung deep into his heart. “You’re only inviting disaster with your words.”

  Fitran stepped closer, his voice low yet unwavering. “From this balcony, I know: I have not reached my end. There are still wounds that must be avenged, still much justice to be wrested from the hands of the rulers. The world of Atlantis is now a new battlefield—and I, the street monster who has become a legend, have no plans to surrender.”

  Taking a deep breath, he felt the tension enveloping the air. This nobleman, wrapped in the luxury of his garments, would never comprehend the agony he had endured. He was determined not to relent until everything was paid back in full. In the silence, his gaze fell below, daring anyone to stand in the way of his mission. “The time will come when all this will end, and justice will call my name.”

  “Fitran, this tale is not just about you,” Alira's gentle voice broke the silence within the grand marble hall. “It is about those who have no voice.”

  Fitran gazed at the shimmering tower, his mind ensnared in turmoil. “But whose voice will be heard? These rulers see us merely as obstacles.”

  “We must fight; every drop of blood we shed is a tribute to those who have fallen,” Alira replied, her depth of resolve shining in the dark night.

  “What is the true cost of all this?” Fitran sighed, his voice heavy with burden. “I have lost too much.”

  “That cost is freedom, Fitran. Do you want our names to be forgotten in the annals of history? Or shall we strive to have our names heard, even if it means standing against a thousand soldiers?” Alira stomped the ground in anger, as if awakening the spirit from the earth beneath her feet.

  “Tonight, I stand here, ready to step further,” Fitran growled, his gaze sharp like the eyes of a harbinger of doom. “But you must remember, the darkness does not only shroud us; it can also change us.”

  “I know you are wrestling with fear and pain,” Alira said softly, moving closer to offer encouragement. “But I am here; we are united. We must trust each other.”

  She paused for a moment, reflecting on all that had been lost. “Is there any hope left for us in this world that pretends to be holy?”

  “We shall create that hope,” Alira responded, looking at him with deep conviction. “All of this can start from here.”

  Fitran nodded, though doubt crept into his heart. “If that is what you desire, then let us face the challenge of this night together.”

  “We will fight for justice,” Alira declared with conviction, prepared to navigate the darkness. “Are you ready to battle those who wish to destroy us?”

  “Always ready,” Fitran sighed, and with a fiery spirit, they stepped toward the tower, united to confront whatever awaited them. The injustice in the outside world ran deep, yet within their hearts, an unquenchable spirit surged, yearning to blaze forth.