Rayden didn't understand. One moment, he was siting alone in class, heart still pounding from the trial. The next, a large hand clamped tight around his arm—cold, heavy fingers like iron.
"Hey—hey, wait," he muttered, trying not to sound afraid. "Sir, can you let go, please?"
His voice came out softer than he meant, laced with a strange mix of politeness and unease. The man—Trialkeeper, they called him—didn't speak. Didn't even look at him. Just kept walking, dragging Rayden down a corridor dimly lit and humming with strange energy.
Something inside Rayden snapped.
"Oi, I said let me go!" he growled, jerking his arm back. His voice wasn't calm anymore. "Take your hands off me! You better let me go, or else—"
The Trialkeeper stopped. Slowly, he turned his head and leaned in close. Too close. His breath smelled of steel and ash.
"Else what?" he whispered.
Rayden froze. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the floor. He hated how small he felt. Hated how his voice had vanished when he needed it most.
He didn't fight when the Trialkeeper dragged him the rest of the way.
The room they entered was strange—bright, sterile, humming with unseen life. Not large, not small, but something in between. Too precise, too clean. The walls were white, like untouched paper, patterned with sharp box-shaped outlines. Tiny holes marked the corners, and cameras—one in every angle of the ceiling—watched him like silent predators.
There was no welcome. No explanation. The Trialkeeper threw him forward like he was something unwanted, something broken. Rayden stumbled, caught himself, then turned to the closing door.
"Wait! What is this place?" he shouted, running to the door and slamming his fists against it. "Let me out! I didn't do anything—!"
The metal didn't even rattle. It stood still and unmoved, like it didn't even register he was there.
Rayden's breath shook as he stepped back. His knuckles throbbed from the impact. Fear gripped him, crawling slowly up his spine like ice water. But more than fear—it was confusion. Why him?
Then, a voice spoke.
"Hello, Rayden."
He spun around. No figure. No source. The voice wasn't human. Too calm, too clean, but not cold. Still, it unsettled him.
"Who said that?" Rayden called, turning in circles, scanning the corners. "Where are you? And how do you know my name?"
"I am MENA 4.0. A voice interface assigned to the academy's test chambers. I have access to all registered students, including first-years."
Rayden blinked. His chest rose and fell in sharp breaths, but he tried to steady himself. At least the voice wasn't threatening.
He paced slowly, letting his eyes take in the odd room again.
"Why am I here?" he asked. "What's this room for?"
"This is a testing chamber. You will be evaluated for strength, adaptability, and mental processing. We will also scan for any latent power or bloodline anomalies. Do you possess any hidden abilities?"
Rayden hesitated. His throat felt dry.
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
"No," he whispered. "I don't have anything. I'm just… human. I don't even know who I am yet. That's why I came here. To find out."
There was silence. On the other side of the cameras, hidden from him, the Principal and the Trialkeeper stood watching—wordless shadows behind a veil of glass and screens.
Rayden sat down on the floor. It was cold. Sterile. The kind of cold that didn't come from wind or stone but from emptiness.
He lowered his head, let his voice fall.
"Why do you even care?" he murmured. "Nobody else does."
The voice assistant didn't answer immediately. Then a quiet, mechanical hum filled the air.
"Scanning."
A light passed over him—soft, pale blue. Rayden felt it crawl along his skin, then sink deeper. It wasn't painful, just… invasive. Like being undressed without anyone touching him.
"Your blood markers, facial structure, and biometric profile match 87% of the archived records for Black Sun Magus. Genetic similarity indicates a possible direct relation. Are you his descendant?"
Rayden lifted his head slowly. His chest tightened. He knew that name. Everyone did. The Black Sun Magus—one of the feared heroes of the last era. A man both hated and revered. A symbol of destruction and power.
His lips parted. He almost said it. The truth. Yes… he's my father.
But something stopped him. A quiet voice in his head, the kind that didn't shout but lingered like a wound.
If they knew, they'd treat him differently. Not like a person. Like a symbol. Or worse, a threat.
Rayden lowered his gaze again.
"No," he said. "I'm not related to him."
The Principal leaned back from the monitor, a cold sneer curling at the edge of his mouth.
"Useless," he muttered.
"Release him," he told the Trialkeeper. "Let the boy go back."
Inside the room, a panel opened in the wall with a quiet hiss. From within, a folded cloak emerged. Brown. No shine. No pattern. Just a dull, heavy brown.
"Take this," the assistant said.
Rayden stood. His legs felt stiff, but he moved to the cloak and held it. The fabric was rough in his fingers. He didn't look at it for long.
The door opened behind him.
The Trialkeeper was there again, waiting in silence.
"You can return to your class now."
Rayden stepped past him without a word, the cloak folded in his arms. He walked with slow steps, his eyes straight ahead.
He didn't look back. But something inside him had changed.
Even if no one believed it… even if he lied today… the truth was still inside him.
Rayden slipped into the classroom quietly, as if afraid his presence might offend the walls. The others were already seated, chattering, adjusting their cloaks, or showing off tiny sparks of mana like they were born with the gift wrapped around their fingers.
He took the seat in the back. Not because he wanted to hide—though maybe he did—but because no one had ever offered him a seat closer.
The room hushed as the door opened and in stepped Professor Delka.
She walked with heels that clacked like knives on stone, and her eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the students like she was already disappointed in all of them. A woman forged in heat and command, her flame-red hair tied high, not a strand out of place.
"Good morning," she said without warmth. "I am Professor Delka. You're all first-years, so I'll make this simple. Today, we begin with the most basic and the most crucial—mana control."
She stepped closer. Her voice didn't rise, yet it filled the room like smoke.
"Hold out your hands," she ordered. "Feel the mana around you. Command it. Not with force, but with will."
The students obeyed. Eager, some trembling with excitement. They closed their eyes, hands outstretched.
Rayden hesitated, then did the same. His palms trembled faintly as he reached out—not just into the air, but into something he didn't understand.
Around him, sparks flickered.
The boy to his left exhaled and a small flame danced between his fingers, licking the air like it belonged there. The girl to his right opened her eyes as a thin ribbon of water spiraled upward from her palm, clear and effortless.
Rayden focused harder.
He searched for something—anything. A tingle. A hum. Even a whisper.
But there was nothing.
His mind strained, pushing beyond what it should. Pain bloomed behind his eyes like a slow, cruel flower. His jaw clenched. His hands ached.
Still… nothing.
Then, Delka's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Tch. Some of you aren't even Bronze material," she muttered, more to herself than the class. "Useless."
Rayden flinched.
The word hit him harder than it should've, dragging across old wounds. His fists clenched, heat rising behind his eyes—not anger, not yet, but the weight of failure.
The lesson ended soon after.
Chairs scraped. Bags shuffled. Voices returned to their careless volume. Most of the students seemed untouched by her words—laughing, teasing, showing off. Rayden stayed behind a few seconds longer, fingers still curled too tight, eyes downcast.
He rose slowly, heart still bruised, and turned toward the door. But in that single distracted step, his foot slid across something—another boy's shoe.
The boy stumbled, lost his balance, and slammed onto the floor with a loud thud that echoed across the room.
There was a pause. Then laughter—sharp and cruel, like knives in the air.
The boy on the ground looked up, his face twisted in embarrassment and rage. Heat shimmered from his skin, and his eyes, once dull, now sparked with fire.
Rayden stepped back, startled. "I—I didn't mean to—"
But it was too late.
The boy surged to his feet like a torch igniting. One moment he was on the ground, the next he was in Rayden's face, his hand gripping Rayden's collar, slamming him hard against the cold wall behind them.
The crack of impact rang out like thunder in Rayden's skull. His breath caught. His heart raced.
The boy's arm pressed against Rayden's chest, holding him in place, and in his other palm, fire danced—wild, untamed, ready to strike.
"You think you're funny?" he growled. "Think you can trip me and walk away?"
Rayden couldn't speak. Not because he didn't have words—but because his voice was caught somewhere deep, under the weight of years of being ignored. Being small. Being no one.
His body trembled—not with fear, but with something stranger. A pressure building, low in his chest. It wasn't fire. It wasn't lightning. It was something else.
Something waiting.
But he didn't fight back.
He just stared, eyes wide, breathing fast, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
Around them, the room had gone still.
Everyone was watching.
No one moved.
And in that moment, Rayden felt like a child again—helpless in the dark, arms around his knees, waiting for the storm to pass.
Only this time, the storm was right in front of him.
And it had a name.