Chapter 3: First Failures
The morning bell rang so loud it felt like a physical blow.
He shot up in bed, heart pounding against his ribs. Purple hair stuck to his sweaty face. For just a moment, he wasn't here at all he was somewhere else, somewhere that felt real and broken and his. Then his eyes focused on the stone ceiling above him, the faint glow of magical runes carved into the walls, and reality crashed back down.
This body. This place. This enormous lie he was living.
His tablet blinked angry red letters at him:
COMBAT THEORY – HALL 7 – 8 MINUTES
"Shit," he muttered, throwing off the blankets.
He stumbled to the wardrobe and grabbed the first robe he saw.
The silver clasps fought him for precious seconds before finally clicking into place. The fabric settled against his shoulders like it was made for him. He hated how perfect it felt. How easily this stolen life seemed to fit.
No time to spiral. He snatched up the tablet and bolted for the door.
The hallways were chaos.
Students everywhere dark robes swishing, voices bouncing off the high stone arches, footsteps echoing in rhythm. A few people glanced his way. Their eyes caught on the purple hair, lingered for half a second, then darted away like they'd touched something hot. Nobody said anything. Nobody stopped.
He kept his head down and followed the glowing directional runes carved into the walls.
When he burst through the academy doors, cold morning air slapped him in the face.
He could smell pine from the forest beyond the walls.
Massive towers stretched toward the sky on all sides, connected by narrow bridges that swayed in the wind.
Everything about this place screamed ancient power and unshakeable strength.
He felt like a crack running through the foundation.
He slipped into Hall 7 just as the second bell rang.
The room was circular, with tiered stone benches rising up around a central pit filled with sand. Maybe fifty students scattered across the seats.Some were stretching. Others chatted and laughed. He picked a spot high in the back row, half-hidden behind a thick stone pillar.
For a moment, he thought he might actually get away with it.
Then the instructor walked in.
The man was built like he'd been carved from the same stone as the academy walls.
Broad shoulders, a face marked with old scars, hair cropped short and going gray. His robes looked like they'd seen better years—faded color, worn thin at the elbows.
He stopped in the center of the pit and swept his gaze across the room.
"Combat Theory," his voice carried easily. "First-years and transfers only. If you're in the wrong place, get out now."
Nobody moved.
"Good." A sharp nod. "Name's Instructor Gravel. I don't waste time and I don't repeat myself. Today we're covering basic affinity detection and control exercises. Find a partner. Now."
The room exploded into movement. Friends paired up with easy smiles and fist bumps. Strangers exchanged polite nods and handshakes. Within seconds, the pit filled with small groups. Hands went up, and faint glows of color started forming in the air around them.
He pressed himself further into the shadows behind the pillar.
Please don't notice me. Please don't—
"You there. Kid with the purple hair."
His stomach dropped.
Every single head in the room turned to look at him.
"Yeah, you. No partner?"
Heat flooded his face. He stood slowly, legs feeling like jelly, and made his way down the stone steps. The sand in the pit was warm under his shoes. Gravel stood waiting, arms crossed over his chest.
"Name and rank," Gravel said. Not unkind, just direct.
"Varyn." He swallowed hard. "Rank One."
The whispers started immediately. Dozens of voices hissing and muttering. Someone near the front said loud enough to hear, "Oh. That's why nobody sat near him."
Gravel's expression didn't change. "Show me your affinity. Just a simple color flare. Nothing fancy."
He raised his right hand, palm up. Closed his eyes. Reached deep inside himself for... something. Anything.
Nothing came.
No warmth building in his chest. No pressure behind his eyes. Not even a flicker.
He tried again, pushing harder. In his mind he saw that battlefield memory—the original Lumen's hands moving in silent blurs, enemies dropping without any flash of light or sound. No visible magic at all.
Still nothing.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. The entire room had gone dead silent.
Gravel stepped closer. His voice dropped lower. "Try one more time. Give it everything you've got."
He pushed until his hand started shaking. Until his head throbbed with the effort. Until he could feel his pulse hammering in his ears.
Empty. Completely empty.
Something shifted in Gravel's scarred face. His expression went from neutral to quietly concerned.
"Alright, step back," Gravel said, not harsh but final. "Just observe for today. Watch what the others do."
He retreated to the edge of the pit, face burning hot enough to cook on. The class started up again like nothing had happened.
But everything had happened.
Colors bloomed everywhere he looked.
Tiny red flames danced on fingertips like living things. Blue water swirled into perfect floating spheres. Green vines unfurled from open palms like ribbons made of pure life. Yellow light drifted upward, soft and gentle as lamplight. Every single color was bright and distinct and effortless.
Every student in this room could summon their affinity like breathing.
Everyone except the supposed prodigy standing alone at the edge.
Gravel moved between the pairs, correcting stances here, demonstrating defensive techniques there. But every few minutes, his eyes drifted back to the purple-haired student standing silent and powerless.
When the bell finally rang, students filed out in groups, their voices rising again in normal conversation.
Gravel called out before he could escape. "Varyn Come here a second."
He walked over, stomach in knots.
Gravel's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Listen. Post-trial backlash is real. It hits the strongest people the hardest sometimes. You burn too bright in a trial, and the rebound afterward cuts deeper. I've seen it happen before to top-ranked students."
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Take today to rest. Eat something good. Get some sleep. Come back tomorrow and we'll try again." Gravel reached out and gave his shoulder a careful pat. "You'll be fine, kid."
"Thank you, sir."
Gravel nodded and walked away, already calling out to another student.
He left the hall last, waiting until everyone else was gone.
His next class Elemental Foundations was in the same building. Smaller room, same problem.
He lasted exactly ten minutes.
The instructor, a thin woman with sharp eyes, asked everyone to form basic colored shields. Just simple defensive barriers.
Red shields shimmered in the air like heated glass. Blue ones rippled like the surface of a calm lake. Green barriers pulsed faintly with living energy.
When his turn came, he raised both hands. Concentrated as hard as he could.
No barrier formed. No color. Nothing at all.
The instructor's expression stayed carefully neutral. "Go to the infirmary, please. Get yourself checked out."
He left without a word.
The academy healer worked in a quiet room that smelled like herbs and something faintly sweet. She wore pale blue robes and spoke in a soft, calming voice. She checked his pulse, examined his eyes, ran some kind of glowing tool along his arms to measure his mana flow.
"Severe magical backlash," she finally said, setting down her tools. "It's rare at your rank, but it's documented in the literature. Sometimes the stronger your natural affinity, the longer the recovery period takes." She pressed a small blue pill into his palm. "Take one of these twice a day. Don't try to force your magic to work. Rest for at least three days. Your power will come back."
She handed him a note excusing him from afternoon classes.
He thanked her and left, taking the longest route back to his room. Avoiding the crowded paths. Avoiding everyone.
In his room, he locked the door. Sat on the edge of his bed. Stared at his empty, useless hands.
Two classes. Two complete failures.
By dinner tonight, the story would be everywhere. Rank One Varyn, the academy's top student, couldn't summon even the weakest flare. Couldn't form even the simplest shield.
Some people would call it tragic. Most would whisper and doubt. And a few—the ambitious ones, the hungry ones would start circling like sharks.
He pushed his purple hair back from his face and lay down on the bed.
That battlefield memory flickered through his mind again. Sharper this time, more detailed.
Hands moving faster than eyes could follow. Opponents collapsing mid-spell with no explosion of colored light, no visible magic at all. Just sudden, silent stillness.
No flare. No shield. No visible power.
Because the original Varyn's ability had never worked like everyone else's.
If that was true if the real power was something invisible, something tied to the mind or spirit itself then no pill would help. No amount of rest would bring it back.
That power had belonged to someone else.
And now it was gone forever.
He pulled the blanket tight around himself and curled onto his side.
Tomorrow the rumors would grow louder. Questions would multiply. Suspicion would spread like infection.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly.
Outside, the academy bustled with hundreds of students who could summon fire and water and light with a single thought.
Inside this room, the Rank One student lay very still and very quiet.
He didn't need power right now. Not yet.
He just needed to stay hidden long enough for people to get bored. For the whispers to move on to someone else. For the spotlight to shift away.
Because once they truly realized the top spot was empty—that the prodigy was hollow—there would be no hiding at all.
The wolves would come.
And he had no fangs to fight them with.