Rise Of The Lesser-Blood

The transition from the quiet theory halls to the subterranean combat coliseum was stark. The air here was cool, smelling heavily of iron, swept stone, and old sweat. Class 1-A stood in a loose semi-circle on the polished black sand of the arena floor. Standing before them was their combat instructor, a battle-scarred man who looked at the group not as students, but as raw materials waiting to be forged. He held a thick ledger in his hand, tapping a heavy wooden rod against his palm.

”Your theory lectures are done,” the instructor barked, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. ”In this room, your grades mean nothing if you cannot execute. Before we begin practical sparring, I want to know exactly what tools I am working with. When I call your name, step forward and state your talent clearly.”

There were only twenty students assigned to Class 1-A, with sixteen of them being High-bloods. Thomas quietly observed from the back row. He didn’t care about memorizing the abilities of every single person in the room; most of them were mediocre nobles whose wealth outshone their actual utility. However, he carefully memorized the talents of the students who actually mattered: the three other lesser-bloods who stood near him, and the five prominent High-bloods who held the real power in the class, including Julian.

When the first lesser-blood stepped forward, Thomas focused. It was a nervous-looking girl with short brown hair.

”Lina,” she stammered, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. ”Grade D, Support talent: Healing Touch. I can accelerate the closure of minor flesh wounds using low-density mana.”

A few of the nobles in the front scoffed, but the instructor merely nodded, making a note in his ledger. Next was the second low-born girl.

”Mina,” she said, her voice a bit more steady. ”Grade C, Utility talent: Scent Tracker. I can isolate and follow the residual mana trails left behind by organic entities or beasts.”

The third lesser-blood was Ryan, who stepped up with a calm, confident stride that seemed to irritate the nobles. ”Ryan. Grade B, Combat talent: Gale Edge. I can manifest a razor-sharp layer of compressed wind around any bladed weapon I hold.”

Thomas noted Ryan’s talent with a look of respect. A Grade B combat talent was highly lethal, explaining why Ryan carried himself with a bit more confidence than the others.

Then came the High-bloods, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The first four nobles stepped forward one by one, their voices dripping with arrogance as they declared powerful, offensive Grade A combat talents, ranging from explosive fire casting to reinforced iron skin. These were the elite lineages of Samra, bred specifically for the frontline of the King’s army.

Finally, Julian stepped forward. He didn’t just walk; he glided to the center of the arena, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh torchlight. He adjusted his pristine cuffs, looking directly at the instructor, though his eyes subtly flicked toward the back row where Thomas stood.

”Julian,” he announced, his tone terrifyingly casual and utterly devoid of a house name, as if his identity alone was a supreme title. ”Grade S, Combat talent: Crimson Void. I can isolate small pockets of space and collapse them, crushing anything caught inside with localized gravity.”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the arena. A Grade S combat talent. Julian wasn’t just a handsome noble; he was a devastating weapon, a literal national treasure. The sheer destructive force of a space-collapsing talent meant he wielded the kind of power that could effortlessly wipe out entire squads of regular infantry.

”Very well,” the instructor said, his eyes narrowing with deep satisfaction as he closed the ledger with a heavy snap. He then looked directly past Julian, his gaze landing squarely on Thomas. ”And lastly, our latecomer. Step forward, Thomas.”

Julian turned around slowly, a cold, elegant smile playing on his lips as he stepped back into the line of students. His eyes locked onto Thomas, tracking his movements like a hawk watching its prey.

Thomas steeled his resolve and walked down the steps of the coliseum, his boots crunching softly against the black sand. He knew exactly what he had to say. The System’s deception protocol had already taken care of the paperwork, but now he had to say the lie out loud in front of sixteen people who wanted to see him fail.

He stopped a few paces away from the instructor, keeping his posture straight and his expression entirely unreadable.

”Thomas,” he announced clearly, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. ”Grade A, Utility talent: Enhanced Analysis. I can perceive structural weaknesses in objects and track the flow of low-density mana.”

All the High-bloods burst out laughing except.

But Julian didn’t laugh. He just adjusted his glasses, his striking ebony eyes narrowing slightly as he continued to stare at Thomas with dangerous, intense curiosity.

”An analysis talent, is it?” the combat instructor murmured, tapping his wooden rod against his palm. ”A highly valuable asset for a tactical squad, though useless if you cannot survive long enough to use it. Let’s see how well that analysis holds up under actual pressure.”

The instructor gestured toward the wide-open center of the black sand arena. ”Since you missed a week of training, we will skip the standard warm-ups. Pick a training weapon from the rack. It’s time to see what that talent of yours can actually do.”