The Grand Ceremonial Hall stretch before Leon like a cathedral of broken dreams. Hundreds of eighteen-year-old fill the marble benches, their nervous chatter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Golden light from enchanted crystals baths everything warmly, but Leon feel cold to the bone.
His hands tremble as he grips the worn fabric of his pants—the sa pants his mother patched three tis this month. Around him, students wear silk robes embroidered with family crests, and their conversations are peppered with the nas of prestigious guilds and legendary hunters.
"My uncle says Iron-Fang Guild is already scouting for A-Ranks," whispered a girl behind him, her voice brimming with the confidence of soone who never worried about paying rent.
Leon’s stomach churns. He had dread of this day for years, but sitting among Armathor’s elite, he feels like a fraud. His father’s funeral briefly flashes through his mind—the closed casket because dinsional creatures left little behind—and the Hero’s Pension that barely covered dicine for his mother’s failing lungs.
"Hey." Damian nudges his shoulder. "Stop looking like soone died."
Leon manage a weak smile. His best friend always radiate the easy confidence of soone born to wealth. Damian’s father commands an entire district’s guard force, and his mother owns three restaurants in the upper quarter. Even his clothes scream money—midnight blue silk that probably cost more than Leon’s family earn in a month.
"Just nervous," Leon said.
"About what? We’ve been planning this forever." Damian grinned. "You get your class, I get mine, and then we join the sa guild, easy."
Easy for him. Damian has the build of a natural warrior—broad shoulders, quick reflexes, and a presence that make people step aside. Leon is tall but lean, better suited for books than battles. His only advantage is his sharp mind, but intelligence doesn’t guarantee a good awakening.
The crowd fell silent as Grand Assessor Vaelin took the stage. His silver robes marks him as one of the Association’s highest officials—the man who will determine their future with a single magical evaluation.
"Today, you leave childhood behind," Vaelin announce, his voice carrying without amplification to every corner of the massive hall. "The Awakening Orb will reveal your true nature. Your class. Your rank. Your place in the world."
Leon knew the rankings by heart. Everyone did.
S-Rank: The legends. One in ten thousand. Guild leaders and continental heroes.
A-Rank: The elite. Comfortable lives, respect, and power.
B and C-Rank: Professionals. Good money, decent prospects.
D and E-Rank: Workers. Honest lives but limited advancent.
F-Rank: The forgotten. The System’s mistakes.
"Marcus Thorne," Vaelin called.
A massive boy with coal-black hair approach the stage. The Awakening Orb—a sphere of crystallized manna, the size of a person—pulsing with light. Marcus place both hands on its surface.
Golden fire erupted around him. The orb blazed like a miniature sun.
"A-Rank Fla Berserker!"
The hall explode in cheers. Marcus pumps his fist as a guild representative scrambled from their reserved seating. Leon watches three recruiters nearly trample each other to reach the stage first.
One after another, students approach the orb. Most receive D or E-ranks, which are still respectable. A few earn C-Ranks to moderate applause. Another A-Rank sparks a bidding war between guilds.
Leon’s palms grow slick with sweat. Each announcent feel like a countdown to his judgnt.
"Damian Falken."
His friend squeezes Leon’s shoulder. "See you on the other side."
Damian walk to the orb with the swagger of soone who’d never doubted himself. His hand touches the crystal surface, and silver light erupts in sharp, blade-like patterns. The energy feels dangerous even from Leon’s seat.
"A-Rank Warblade!"
The Iron-fang Guild representative is already moving before Vaelin finish speaking. Leon feel a stab of pride mixed with growing dread. Of course, Damian gets an A-Rank. Of course, he’d join Iron-fang—Arcadia’s most prestigious combat guild.
The gap between them has just widen to a chasm.
More nas. More celebrations for others. Leon barely heard them. His mind replays every childhood mont with Damian—racing through Armathor’s streets, sparring with wooden swords, planning their future as legendary hunting partners.
All of it feels like soone else’s mories.
"Leon Graves."
The words hit him like cold water. As he stands, his legs feels sowhat disconnected from his body. The walk to the stage stretches forever. Each step echoing in the sudden silence.
The Awakening Orb looms large before him, larger now when he stands before it. Its surface swirls with captured starlight. Leon had read about the orb’s history, crafted by ancient mages to identify magical potential. Thousands of kings, heroes, and legends had touched it over the centuries.
And now it is his turn.
Leon presses his palms against the crystal. It feels warm, almost alive. Energy flowing through him, probing deep into his soul. The sensation feels invasive, like soone rifling through his most private thoughts.
The orb’s light shifts. Golden warmth fading to silver, then blue, then a sickly gray that reminds Leon of winter fog.
No. Not gray. It is worse than gray.
The color of ash. Of death. Of failure.
"F-Rank Necromancer."
Vaelin’s voice might as well have announce Leon’s execution. The words echos in the sudden silence, each syllable driving nails into his coffin.
F-Rank. The bottom. The mistake. The one classification that guarantees a life of poverty and disgust.
Necromancer. Death magic. The class parents use to scare children into behaving.
Laughter starts as a giggle from sowhere in the crowd. It spreads like an infection, growing louder and crueler. Leon stand frozen at the orb, unable to move or think. This is not ant to happen. He is not ant to be the failure everyone pity.
Guild representatives who were watching every awakening suddenly find their shoes fascinating. The few who bother to look at him wear expressions of disgust, as if his classification might be contagious.
Leon’s gaze find Damian in the crowd. His best friend’s face cycle through different emotions—shock, confusion, and sothing that stops Leon’s heart.
Disgust.
The sa look everyone wears, the look that proves Leon has beco sothing shaful, sothing better left forgotten.
Damian’s mouth move, but Leon can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. His forr friend take a deliberate step backward, away from Leon. Away from the F-Rank, nobody will drag down his bright future.
The Grand Assessor is still speaking, probably offering the standard condolences, but Leon hear nothing. His legs carry him off the stage without any conscious thought. Students shift away as he passes, creating space around the newly classified necromancer.
He keeps walking until he reaches the hall’s exit. Behind him, the ceremony continues—more nas, celebrations, and futures written in golden light.
Leon steps into Armathor’s afternoon sun and finally understood what his father had tried to tell him before that final mission. The world isn’t fair. Heroes aren’t born from nothing. And sotis, no matter how hard you dream, the System keeps decided you are worth nothing.
The worst part isn’t the classification itself. It was the look on Damian’s face as he stepped away.
That look says everything Leon need to know about his future.
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