The classroom for Adventurer Studies was one floor below Miss Silent's room. The air here was warmer, but heavier—of chalk, old wood, and a hint of leather. From the belts, pouches, and training armour hanging on hooks in the corner. Some of the straps looked as though they had been loosened and tightened many times over; not polished, but used. A sharp smell clung to them, as if the material itself had stored memories.

  At the board today stood not a slender instructor in Academy robes, but a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair and a scar that ran from his chin to his collarbone. His uniform was half Guild, half Academy: a dark coat with the embroidered crest of the Adventurer's Guild of Soltris—and above it, the Academy's emblem. Neither looked like decoration. They looked like two seals. Two proofs that no one here debated whether rules applied.

  "Sit. Quiet." His voice was rough, as if he'd earned it out in the wind. "You're not here today to be lulled by stories. This is your possible path to the outside—into dungeons, on monster hunts, in the service of kingdoms and guilds."

  The word outside couldn't be heard softly. It sounded like a border. Like something you cross—and then don't come back from so easily.

  Krent sat in the middle of the room, chin propped in his hand. Beside him, Diamant leaned back, hands laced behind his head, as though this were a pleasant diversion and not a lesson. His ease was almost provocative—not loud, not exaggerated, but visible.

  As visible as the round badge on the chest of their school uniforms.

  The badges were official, meant so that no one had to guess. A round ring, a star within it. On Krent and Diamant, in a bright, clear blue—Platinum. Even from a few rows away, you could make it out. And everyone here could count how far Platinum lay from what the Academy actually allowed you to be by the end.

  Combat theory, Adventurer Studies… Krent let his gaze sweep through the room. Let's see how much of this lines up with reality.

  Further back sat two girls he had seen before—not often, but often enough to know their names: Valeria and Rubin. Not friends. Not enemies. More that category of "familiar faces" you keep seeing pass by in a building without anything ever coming of it. Both seemed quieter than usual today. Not because they had suddenly started taking everything seriously—but because they kept glancing over at him and Diamant while pretending they hadn't.

  The man at the board was unfazed. He reached for a piece of chalk, turned it briefly between his fingers, and said:

  "Name. For those who read the schedule too late: I'm Guildmaster Haron." His mouth didn't even twitch toward a smile. "Don't worry, you don't have to address me as 'Lord Guildmaster.' 'Master Haron' will do."

  A few students giggled nervously. The giggling died faster than it had started. Not because Haron glared at them—but because his voice kept the same tone regardless of whether anyone laughed or not.

  Haron took the chalk and wrote in large letters on the board:

  STAR RANK SYSTEM

  The letters were clear, angular, without flourish. As if he had no interest in wasting time on pretty lines. Chalk dust came loose in a dry veil and drifted briefly in the light before settling somewhere on wood and fabric. Krent smelled it. Dry. Almost bitter.

  "The Star Rank System," Haron began, "is older than any of the kingdoms you live in. It originates from fragments of an ancient civilisation. Whether it was developed for war, protection, or research back then—we don't know."

  He drew a horizontal line beneath the heading, straight through, without hesitation.

  "What we do know: it survived." He rapped the chalk briefly against the board. Tock. "Gods didn't. Ancient kingdoms didn't. But this ranking system did. And today, adventurers are judged by these stars, points, and ranks."

  Krent tapped his quill against his notebook. Not loudly. Just enough to give his fingers something to do.

  The same system as in the guilds… just ironed smooth for a classroom.

  "Let's start at the bottom." Haron wrote:

  Registered

  "'Registered' means: you exist in the system. Name, data, entry." He turned halfway, as if scanning the class. "But you're not adventurers yet. No rank. No assignments. No experience."

  Some quills scratched into motion immediately. Others paused, as if at no rank they had instinctively glanced down at their chest badge.

  Haron wrote beneath it:

  Ranks 1–5: Star Points

  And then, in a column, neatly one below the other, without pause:

  1 Star Point

  2 Star Points

  3 Star Points

  4 Star Points

  5 Star Points

  "Beginner tiers," Haron said. "And yes—you'll hate them if you ever start there."

  A quiet murmur ran through the rows. More reflex than reaction. Did you hear that too? He means it.

  "One Star Point: first simple assignments." Haron tapped the chalk on the first line. "Courier runs. Clean-up. Small game. 'Semi-safe' areas."

  Semi-safe. Krent let the phrase sit in his head for a moment. It was a good phrase. Honest enough not to lie to anyone. Vague enough to still hide risks.

  "Two Star Points: first real trial in the field." Haron's chalk swept across the second line as if wiping it away rather than marking it. "More danger. Many fail here because they believe too early that they're something."

  Krent glanced briefly at Diamant. He just grinned, as though "believing too early that you're something" was a conversation he had put behind him long ago.

  "Three Star Points: first trial in a dungeon." Haron said it as if laying a knife on the table. "This is the point where you find out whether the adventurer's life suits you… or whether you'd be better off seeking a quiet life in a library."

  A few students laughed uncertainly. Haron didn't wait for the laughter to end. He simply kept going.

  "Four Star Points: advanced. Can hold your own. Still considered a beginner, though."

  He tapped on the fifth line.

  "Five Star Points: top of the novice tiers. If you reach this, you have a foundation." His voice stayed dry. "But you're still far from being a great adventurer."

  A few faces looked relieved at the word foundation, as if they had just been permitted to have something worth building on.

  Krent noticed his gaze falling involuntarily back to the chest badge—Platinum, light blue. That was no foundation. That was a leap across several tiers, one most people here knew only from stories.

  Haron didn't set the chalk down. He wrote directly beneath:

  Ranks 6–10: Veterans

  And listed, without faltering, the five words below:

  Copper

  Tin

  Bronze

  Iron

  Steel

  "From here on," Haron said, "begins what most people out there actually call an adventurer." He swept the chalk like a pointer across the five lines. "Veterans. Not because you're immortal—but because you've survived enough to develop routine."

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  A chair leg scraped somewhere. Leather creaked softly as someone shifted on their belt.

  "Copper is the first veteran rank. The first point where you're no longer just 'along for the ride,' but expected to make decisions that keep you alive." He glanced at the class. "Many dream of Silver. Most forget they have to reach Copper first."

  In the back row, someone set an inkwell lid down too hastily. Clack. The sound stood a moment too sharp in the room.

  Haron wrote a new label, this time beneath, neatly separated:

  Ranks 11–15: Prestige

  And continued the column:

  Silver

  Gold

  Platinum

  Rhodium

  Osmium

  When Platinum appeared on the board, it was as though a thread had been drawn taut across the room. Not visible—but felt. Heads didn't turn immediately. Only after a second, like an echo.

  Rubin pushed her quill aside without noticing that she dragged a wet streak of ink across the edge of her page. Her gaze didn't slide to Krent's face. It slid to his badge. The light-blue ring. The star within.

  "Platinum…" The word was barely more than a breath.

  Valeria didn't answer right away. Then, just as quietly: "And we're allowed to be Copper at most when we graduate."

  It wasn't an accusation. It was that sober observation that can trigger fear precisely because it's so logical.

  Krent pretended he hadn't heard. Not out of arrogance. Out of habit.

  Of course. 'Exceptions.' 'Special cases.' 'We just want to make sure you don't become a walking disaster.'

  Haron didn't linger on Platinum. He moved on as if it were just another word—and precisely because of that, it gained weight.

  "Silver: Prestige." He tapped the chalk on the first line. "More access. Larger dungeons. Troop command, if you've proven yourself."

  "Gold: harder assignments, responsibility." A brief look across the class, as if noting who swallowed at the word responsibility.

  "Platinum: widely respected. Mentor function. Clearance for powerful monsters." Haron's voice stayed calm. "Extended archive access."

  Diamant snorted quietly—not mockingly enough to be caught for certain, but too honest to hide entirely.

  Krent kept his eyes on his notebook, but his fingers clenched briefly around the quill.

  If they knew… we were Platinum before we ever set foot in this Academy.

  He forced his hand to keep writing. Not because he needed to. But because not writing drew attention.

  Haron wrote the next label:

  Ranks 16–20: Legends

  And set beneath it the final five tiers, this time a little more slowly—as if allowing each one to land in the room:

  Iridium

  Tantalum

  Mithril

  Orichalcum

  Adamantite

  At Adamantite, the room grew noticeably quieter. Not because Haron demanded it—but because the word itself carried a weight that couldn't simply be brushed aside with a laugh.

  "Legend ranks," Haron said. "From here, rank carries political weight. Military weight. Historical weight." He tapped the chalk on Adamantite. "And this is the highest known rank."

  Krent couldn't help but think of Miss Silent's class. Of the Emissary, the light, the benchmark they had forged from a story. And of how quickly myth becomes something pressed into terms until it suddenly looks like a rule.

  Haron set the chalk aside, wiped the dust from his index finger with his thumb, and turned to the class.

  "Now comes the part that interests you most: the connection to the Academy."

  He clapped his hands once—sharp enough that no one could ignore it. The sound cut through every scratching quill.

  "The better your final examination at the Academy of Soltris, the higher your potential entry into the adventurer guilds—should you choose that path." His finger pointed at the word Copper. "But one thing is clear: a direct entry above Copper rank is out of the question. No one graduates the Academy at Tin. Or Bronze. Or Silver. Or higher."

  Some students looked relieved. Others disappointed—not because they had truly believed in Silver, but because they had just been officially told the ladder was shorter than they had hoped.

  Diamant's expression didn't change, but his foot tapped restlessly against the table leg. That soft, rhythmic sound was almost like a second heartbeat in the room.

  We're already past that, Krent thought. And yet here we sit, being told what a One Star Point is.

  Haron crossed his arms.

  "So we're clear," he said. "There are exceptions. People who are already adventurers before they come here." He searched for a heartbeat for the right word. "In rare cases, they are permitted to attend the Academy—not to make them stronger, but so that they…"

  He let the pause stand until someone swallowed without meaning to.

  "…become bearable for society."

  The word landed dry. Unyielding. Like chalk on wood.

  A few heads turned discreetly in Krent's direction. More than before. Not just curious—cautious. In the back, Krent caught from the corner of his eye how Valeria paused briefly. Her quill hovered above the paper without writing. Rubin sat beside her, and her shoulders suddenly looked a little too stiff.

  Krent pressed his lips together.

  Of course. Projects. Risks. Things to be managed.

  Haron let his gaze wander once through the room but didn't truly settle on anyone.

  "Don't fool yourselves," he continued. "Most of you will be glad if you ever see Five Star Points. Some will reach Copper. A few, Silver. Fewer still, Gold." He tapped the board once, as if nailing the words down. "Platinum and above—those are stories you hear in taverns… or read in history books."

  He paused briefly, and in that pause the wood creaked somewhere, as if the room itself were briefly giving way.

  "And then," Haron said more quietly, "there are those who shaped this system itself."

  He wiped part of the board clean with the flat of his hand. Chalk dust came loose in a pale veil and drifted until it slowly settled on the bottom edge. Haron wrote two lines beneath Adamantite:

  Unknown Emissary

  Vera Vannes Soltris

  "Historical note," Haron said. "To date, only two individuals are known to have reached Adamantite rank beyond any doubt."

  He tapped the chalk on the first line.

  "First: a mysterious fighter from the ancient era." His voice remained matter-of-fact. "Some equate him with the so-called Holy Divine Emissary. Others doubt it. What is certain: the accounts of his power exceed every measure we know for mortals."

  Haron raised the chalk slightly, as if tracing a star in the air without truly drawing one.

  "The Academy assumes he possessed a Unique Skill." A brief look at the class, as if gauging how many even understood the term. "Not because we can prove it—but because this inconceivability cannot be explained otherwise. And because after his appearance, Unique Skills began emerging among the peoples."

  Krent felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  So there it is. Directly tied to Miss Silent's lesson.

  Haron tapped on the second line.

  "Second: Vera Vannes Soltris. The Hero Queen of Exciteru."

  There was a different quality to his voice when he spoke her name. Not reverence. Not myth. More like respect—with a trace of weariness, as if he had seen too many people turn Vera's name into either an altar or an excuse.

  "Vera is not a legend who lives only in songs," Haron said. "She is history. Verified. Documented. With her death, the calendar was reset. Today we write the year 1315 after the Hero Queen."

  Some students nodded. Others whispered quietly. Valeria and Rubin didn't whisper this time. They simply listened, as if someone were showing them just how vast the gap between "student" and "benchmark" truly was.

  "She was an adventurer," Haron continued. "She reached Adamantite at the age of sixteen." He let the words stand without adornment. "No Unique Skill. No divine blessing. Only will, talent, discipline—and a stubbornness that can shatter kingdoms and forge them anew."

  Krent had heard this story many times: in taverns, around campfires, in dusty archives. But here it sounded different. Drier. More incorruptible. Without the comfort of music or warmth.

  Adamantite at sixteen… and I'm sitting here at Platinum rank, supposed to pretend Copper is the big goal.

  "She broke slavery, toppled tyrants, united kingdoms," Haron said. "In Exciteru, they pray to her. Not as to a goddess—as a symbol. As a benchmark for what a human being can be."

  Krent felt an old reflex stir inside him: that need not to be diminished by a benchmark he hadn't chosen. And right behind it: the knowledge that Vera, as a benchmark, wasn't even unfair.

  Just… brutally honest.

  Haron set the chalk down for good.

  "So if you dream of ranks," he concluded, "remember: stars and numbers are tools. Not ends in themselves." He let his gaze briefly sweep the class. "A Two Star Point can carry more honour than a lazy Mithril holder."

  He half-paused—just long enough to be felt.

  "And a Platinum adventurer…"

  His gaze brushed Krent and Diamant for just a moment. Not accusing. Not friendly. Just that kind of look that says: I know who you are. And I know why you're sitting here.

  "…can sometimes cause more trouble than a whole horde of goblins."

  Quiet laughter ran through the room. Part nervous, part genuinely amused. This time it sounded less like relief and more like the cautious testing of whether they were allowed to breathe normally again.

  Diamant grinned broadly and leaned over to Krent.

  "Did you hear that?" he whispered. "We're officially more trouble than goblins."

  Krent rolled his eyes inwardly.

  Great. Exactly what you want to hear about yourself.

  One by one, students began closing their notebooks. The lesson wasn't quite over yet, but Haron had set something before them that couldn't simply be packed away by folding paper.

  "For next time," Haron said, "memorise the rank sequence. And think about what you actually want. Adventures are not a game. And if you're only here to listen to stories like the Hero Queen's…"

  He shrugged.

  "…then stay in the lecture hall and don't go into a dungeon."

  The bell tolled dully through the corridor.

  Krent stood, put his quill away, and felt the gazes again. Some curious, some envious, some suspicious. With Valeria and Rubin it was something else: less envy, more caution. As if the light-blue badge on his chest had asked them a question they didn't yet have an answer for.

  Iridium, Tantalum, Mithril, Orichalcum, Adamantite… For him and Diamant, those weren't mere words. They were tiers everyone expected them to reach someday—just because they had made Platinum early.

  Krent pressed his lips together briefly.

  And yet, what they'd like most is to see us back at zero. As students. As projects. As risks.

  Diamant nudged him.

  "Come on," he said quietly. "If we hurry, we might catch a few minutes of peace before the next teacher tries to explain to us how the world works."

  Krent breathed out, cast one last glance at the board—at the rows that looked like a path, and at the two names standing beneath them like nails. Then he turned away and followed Diamant out of the room.