Magma leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement as he rested his chin on his knuckles.
"Who would have thought?" His voice was smooth yet carried an undeniable weight. "A so called commoner would be the first to surprise us all?"
The nobles around him exchanged glances, their whispers filling the air like rustling leaves.
Magma's smirk deepened as he turned toward Aramir. "Tell me, what's the highest score ever recorded in this test? Surely, even a kingdom that claims to have the world's greatest academy must have its limits."
Before Aramir could speak, Ramires stepped forward, his voice ringing with pride.
"That record was broken just last year," he announced. "By none other than the king's son, James Murderthrone. He scored 1700, the highest in history for a green Neba."
Magma's golden gaze shifted to James, his interest piqued.
"Oho?" His voice held a slow, deliberate curiosity. "So the young prince carries the weight of expectation. Strength, talent, bloodline, it seems you have everything, don't you?"
James met Magma's eyes with a steady, composed expression. He nodded once before offering a slight bow. "I do my best."
Magma chuckled. "As you should."
Then, his attention drifted again. "And what of his brother? Damion?"
The tension in the air shifted. A slight hesitation. A breath held across the royal stands. And then, Damion himself spoke. His tone was flat. Unmoved.
"Damion Asus Murderthrone is a man without talent."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
"He does not possess Neba. A poor soul. A prince turned laughingstock in Rendely. A stain on his family's name, so much so that even his own father is ashamed of him."
It was as if Damion had ripped away the insult before it could even be thrown at him, laid it bare for all to see, with neither shame nor anger.
Magma laughed. A deep, rich laugh that echoed through the air like rolling thunder.
"Doesn't this bother you at all?" His voice held a sharp, taunting edge now. "Tell me, 'Talentless Prince of Rendely, you must become the successor of the king, would people be happy with someone like you ruling over them?"
Damion did not blink. Did not shift. His expression remained eerily composed, unshaken.
"At the end of the day, I'm still a prince, living in a castle, while those who bark at me sleep in the dirt. Why would the words of the powerless ever hold weight? Insults? They mean nothing to someone who stands above them. I could drop a single coin, and the desperate would tear each other apart for it, so why should I flinch at the opinions of those beneath me?"
He leaned back slightly, his red eyes unwavering.
"A man who lives by the approval of others is a man shackled by their expectations. No king has ever risen by seeking favor, and no ruler has ever lasted by bending to the will of the weak. The world must move around you, and yet you must remain unmoved by it. That is the only right way to lead."
For the first time since his arrival, Magma's smirk faltered.
His golden gaze flickered, searching the young prince's face for something, anything, but finding no weakness. No doubt. Something about this boy felt off.
It was not the look of a boy who had accepted his fate. Nor the look of someone who sought to prove himself. No, it was the gaze of someone who already knew something they didn't.
Magma narrowed his eyes.
Was he speaking to an eighteen-year-old? Or to something far colder, far older than his years should allow?
Aramir's hoarse voice rang through the air.
"Number 76!"
The crowd quieted as the next name was called.
Ned.
He stepped forward, his usual carefree demeanor still present, but something was different. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't grinning like a fool. He simply stood there, staring at the glowing Neba circle. Thinking.
Then, he turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Dune. And he smiled.
Dune's stomach twisted. A bad feeling crept up his spine.
"Ned…" His voice was low, wary. "What are you about to do?"
But it was too late.
Ned didn't bow.
A second student in a row defying tradition?
The crowd stirred. Whispers spread like wildfire. Some students gasped, others smirked, and the nobles furrowed their brows in disgust.
Then, Ned spoke, his voice steady, unwavering.
"Our original selves, without Neba, have no meaning. They don't matter."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Magma, who had been lounging back in his seat, suddenly leaned forward. His sharp, golden eyes locked onto Ned, intrigued.
This kid…
Ned continued, his voice like steel, cutting through the murmurs.
"People who grow too strong and forget their roots often fall the hardest."
A murmur spread through the audience. Students and nobles exchanged glances. Some looked at Magma for a reaction.
And then
King Aramir smirked.
"I'm Ned," he said simply. "Yeah, Just Ned."
Then, his lips curled slightly, but his eyes, his eyes were burning.
"And my reason for joining this academy?" His voice grew sharper, cutting through the air like a blade.
"To prove every single arrogant man wrong, the ones who look down on hard work and rely only on the gifts and rich families they were born with. The ones who spit on the struggle of people like us, who don't have the luxury of privilege or the blessing of talent."
His hands clenched into fists.
"I will prove them wrong with my own hands."
The weight of his words crashed over the academy like a tidal wave.
Magma's golden eyes widened, realising what Ned was about to do.
Dune and Atlas froze.
The nobles stiffened.
The students didn't dare breathe.
And then Ned moved.
A Fist Against Fate
Dune's eyes widened in horror.
"Wait, what are you—"
BOOM
The impact shook the entire arena.
Ned had thrown his entire body into the strike, his muscles straining, veins bulging. This wasn't just a punch.
A raw, full-powered, unrestrained strike.
No Neba. Not any enhancement. Just his own strength.
The force of the impact sent a shockwave blasting through the air. Dust rose. The very ground trembled. And then, the blood hit the ground.
Ned's hand was shattered.
His fingers bent at unnatural angles. Bones pierced through skin. Blood dripped onto the floor, pooling beneath him.
Gasps. Screams. Even the nobles flinched.
And then the score appeared.
[650]
The world froze.
Chaos Unleashed
King Aramir's smirk widened even more.
"Hah! Monarch of Sarodenly, what do you have to say about that?" His deep voice echoed through the royal seats as he glanced at Magma with amusement.
Magma didn't look offended.
He looked thrilled.
His lips curled into a wide, sharp grin.
"Isn't this interesting?" His voice was like molten steel, hot, dangerous, and excited.
The crowd erupted.
"That's insane!"
"How did he do that?!"
"Did he use potions? Some kind of trick?"
But Ned didn't care about the noise. He turned, blood still dripping from his ruined hand, and walked back toward Dune and Atlas.
Dune, still stunned, punched him in the head.
"Are you crazy! Why do you hate your hands so much?!"
Ned grinned, his face twisted in pain.
"Dune… be honest. Wasn't I cool?"
Dune stared at him. Then, despite himself, he laughed. "You were way too cool, you idiot."
Atlas shook his head, smiling. "Reckless as hell, but yeah. That was something else."
Then, Ned winced. "… Ouch." Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain finally hit.
Suddenly someone stepped forward. Seraph Neville. She didn't speak. She simply placed her delicate hands over his broken one, a soft glow radiating from her fingertips.The pain vanished. Flesh stitched itself back together. Bones snapped into place.
Ned stared. "Whoa…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Thanks." Seraph nodded once.
"This is payment for earlier." And then, without another word, she walked away.
Ned blinked after her before turning to Dune and Atlas. "…She totally likes me, right?"
Dune and Atlas, in unison: "Nope, probably not."
Above them, Magma was in deep Thoughts
To perform such an act in front of this many people. How many would go as far as breaking their own hand just to prove a point?
It's possible to achieve such strength without Neba. That much I know. But how many would actually choose to? How many would willingly endure that kind of agony just to stand by their beliefs?
This is why I respect those raised in the harshest places. They know pain, they know fear, and yet, they are not ruled by it. They push forward and fight without hesitation, because they've had to. Because they know no one is coming to save them.
Nobles and rich, on the other hand… They've never known true struggle. Spoiled since birth, cushioned by wealth and status, they don't understand the world outside their walls. They take power for granted, as if it was simply owed to them.
But this boy, Ned. He understands. He's lived it. And that makes him dangerous.
Soon after, another number was called.
"Number 77!"
The crowd fell silent again.
This time, it was Dune.
And now, all eyes were on him.