The moon rode low above the Vale estate, its silver illumination across the courtyard. In the distance, a single bell tolled the hour — late, perhaps midnight.
Adrien slumped at his desk, the sealed Imperial Academy letter unopened by his elbow. He hadn't shifted an inch in an hour. Simply sat. Thinking.
The stillness within the estate was stifling.
No footsteps. No shouting. No clinking of silver or muttering from servants. Just that endless, thick quiet that filled spaces too large for one man to feel at ease in.
He regarded his hands.
"You could cut the atmosphere with a knife."
Not his.
Still didn't feel like it.
'Adrien Vale.'
'That's the name I bear now. The name people have expectations of — or despise on sight.'
[Technically, they expect both. Disappointment and danger. You're breaking records.]
He didn't respond to the system this time. He was too far in it. Too intense.
He wasn't familiar with this world yet — not yet. But he knew enough. Strength counted. Status counted. And not knowing how to protect yourself? That got you accustomed to, overlooked, or worse.
'I need to be strong. True strength. The kind people respect. The kind that keeps me alive.'
The original Adrien did not have either. Arrogance, indeed. Mana, of course. But control? Discipline? Strategy?
Not a chance.
He opened the tiny glass window and let the chill night air flow in. It cleared his head.
He had lightning affinity — uncommon. Powerhouse. Unreliable.
And his core?
'Copper rank, mid-tier. Not impressive… but not hopeless.'
He pulled up the status screen once more:
⟢ STATUS: ADRIEN VALE ⟣
Level: 12
Race: Human
Affinity: ⚡ Lightning
Mana Core: Copper – Mid Rank
Mana Capacity: 210
Strength: 14
Dexterity: 17
Intelligence: 11
Endurance: 12
Willpower: 10
Charisma: 13
Reputation: ☠ Very Low
[Still under average for an heir. But hey — great bones.]
'Great bones. Wow. Motivating.'
[Also, you can do magic with the smashy power of a falling tower. But go ahead, gripe more.]
Adrien put his hands flat on the desk.
He had two days.
Two days before, he was cast into a holding pen with sons and daughters of generals, spellweavers, inventors, and dictators.
Two days to transform from a walking error to a person who could make it through the year alive.
'Training begins now.'
Not flashy spellwork. Not dueling in the courtyard with heroic music being played in the background.
Basics.
Discipline.
Control.
If lightning ran in his veins, then he had to learn to tame it. And quickly.
'No one at that academy is going to hold my hand. No one's going to care if I fail.'
[They'll care if you explode.]
'So don't explode. Got it.'
He stood from the chair and walked to the center of the room, stretching out his fingers.
He concentrated.
A single, faint spark crackled across his palm — not violent, but real.
He felt it. The hum of power just beneath the skin. Dormant. Waiting.
'It's like being in a storm and knowing that it listens to you — but only if you don't blink.'
[Lovely. Poetic. Please do that in your journal after you shock yourself senseless.]
He took a breath.
Concentrated.
The spark fizzled out and went dead.
Not yet in control enough.
But it would be.
He wasn't going to attempt heroism. Not villainy either. Just someone who knew what was going to happen — and wouldn't crack under it.
'I have two days.'
'I'm not wasting them.'