In the past, specifically a few years back, I used to be a complete nerd at this stuff.

  Obviously, I wasn't the awkward kind who just read books for fun. Instead, I was an obsessive researcher who would stay up until dawn studying maps, academy rankings, combat statistics, magical theory, and graduation outcomes. While other kids fantasized about being heroes, I researched the ways of becoming one.

  I had notebooks filled with scribbled comparisons between institutions. Yes, I’m that smart.

  I tracked acceptance rates, tuition structures, faculty reputations, alumni achievements, political affiliations, and even rumors about hidden curriculums. Long before I was eligible to apply, I knew which location suited me best and memorized the requirements like scripture.

  The academy was named simply after the region itself: Central Academy.

  The name sounded plain and almost unimpressive, but the institution was anything but simple. Central Academy was the beating heart of the Central Region. It stood as a monument of marble towers and sweeping spires that pierced the sky. The outer gates surpassed the height of most city walls, engraved with runes that shimmered faintly at night.

  Inside the grounds were gardens sculpted with impossible precision, statues of legendary graduates frozen mid battle, and training arenas built to withstand high tier magic without cracking. Every corridor was lined with relics, such as ancient weapons mounted in glass cases, trophies from wars long past, and banners soaked in history. The air did not just feel heavy with prestige; it suffocated you.

  And the students? They were powerful as fuck.

  Beyond being talented or wealthy, they possessed true strength. Most of them came from influential families or had already proven themselves in combat or scholarship. You did not simply walk into Central Academy; you either earned your place or were born into it. As a matter of fact, the prince and princess of this kingdom are enrolling in this academy this year.

  Similarly, this year, I finally met the age requirement to enroll. So I trained like a maniac.

  From dawn until dusk, and every spare second in between, I worked. I swung wooden swords until my palms blistered, practiced mana control until my head throbbed, and ran laps until my lungs burned like they were filled with acid. Though I was neither gifted nor blessed, I refused to be mediocre. For example, I trained my own swordsmanship skills from going to the dungeon raids with my old team.

  Hm, I wonder what happened to Jim. No wait… He got shot in the head by that arrow. But at least the others survived.

  Anyways back to that academy thing. If you think about it, still, enrollment was not automatic. I had to prove that I deserved it. I needed my results back to see where I stood and confirm that all those years of preparation were not just delusional ambition.

  I exhaled slowly and adjusted the rucksack on my shoulder. First step: stop looking like I crawled out of a massacre.

  I walked over to a nearby clothing store, its wooden sign creaking gently in the afternoon breeze. The windows were polished clean, displaying neatly folded tunics and layered garments tailored for merchants, adventurers, and minor nobles. The moment I stepped inside, the tiny bell above the door chimed.

  The shopowner looked up and immediately stepped back. Her eyes flicked to my shirt, where blood had dried into a dark, crusted pattern across the fabric. Some spots remained damp, with smears along my sleeves and tiny flecks dotting my collar. Combined with the faint metallic scent that clung to me, I probably looked like a walking crime scene.

  She did not say anything outright, but her lips pressed thin, her shoulders stiffened, and her fingers tightened around the measuring tape she was holding. She wanted me gone quickly. I could see it in her eyes.

  So obviously, I had to piss her off. Ironically, I slowed down.

  I began examining the clothing racks as if I had all the time in the world. I lifted fabrics between my fingers to rub the texture thoughtfully, tilted my head, and pretended to weigh options. Every movement was deliberate and unhurried. The air in the shop grew tense.

  That was when I remembered something important. Central Academy provided their students with uniforms and standard attire upon acceptance. These were high quality clothes woven with minor enchantments, making them durable, resistant to basic damage, and designed to reflect status.

  This meant I did not actually need everyday clothes. What I required was protection.

  I shifted my attention toward lighter armor pieces, including flexible chest guards and reinforced undershirts lined with thin metal plating. I looked for compact shoulder guards that could be concealed beneath outer layers. They were subtle, practical, and easy to hide under academy robes. I selected a few pieces that could pass as ordinary clothing if layered properly.

  At the counter, I emptied the last of my silver coins onto the wood. The clinking sound was sharp and final, draining nearly everything I had left. Whatever. It was an investment.

  Just before I left, I paused. Then I peeled off my bloody shirt. The fabric stuck slightly to my skin before coming free. Cool air hit my torso, raising goosebumps along my arms, and my abs tightened reflexively as the temperature shifted. For a brief moment, the shop fell silent.

  The shopowner’s eyes widened. Without breaking eye contact, I tossed the blood soaked shirt directly at her face. It hit with a wet slap.

  I did not wait. I pivoted, grabbed a clean white shirt from a nearby rack in one swift motion, and bolted for the door.

  “Hey, what the fuck is this for?” she screamed behind me, her voice shrill with outrage and disgust.

  The bell above the door clanged violently as I burst outside.

  “Come back, or I will be calling the royal guards!”

  Her threat echoed down the street, but I was already halfway down the block. I pulled the clean shirt over my head as I ran, feeling the fabric slide across my skin.

  Royal guards?

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  “Hah.”

  The sound slipped out of me, low and amused, as I kept running. Her voice faded behind me, swallowed by the noise of the street. Royal guards. Over a shirt. Yeah, sure.

  My boots pounded against cobblestone, the rhythm steady and sharp. The clean white shirt clung to my skin as I adjusted it mid stride, the fabric still smelling faintly of starch and shop dust. My lungs expanded and contracted in controlled bursts. I could not afford to look panicked. Running with purpose is normal. Running like prey is not.

  Next step.

  The results.

  They should have been released last night, distributed after the bestowal ceremony concluded. That ceremony determined everything. Your potential. Your affinity. Your path. It was the moment where dreams either solidified into possibility or shattered into mediocrity.

  And those results would be located at the Dungeon Lobby.

  Calling it a lobby was almost insulting.

  You could basically consider it its own city. The structure dominated a massive quadrant of the Central Region, built of layered stone and reinforced with magical barriers that shimmered faintly along its walls. The entrance alone resembled a palace gate, wide enough to accommodate entire adventuring parties entering and exiting simultaneously.

  Inside, it was chaos structured into order.

  Shop vendors lined entire corridors, selling potions, enchanted trinkets, weapons, armor, maps, charms, and all kinds of questionable artifacts. There were boards plastered with team recruitment notices, sheets of parchment pinned in chaotic rows, offering dungeon expeditions with varying ranks and rewards. Offices filled entire wings of the complex, handling registrations, dungeon clear records, injury claims, magical disputes, artifact appraisals, and everything remotely related to mages.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The air there never truly quieted. It buzzed with ambition, greed, fear, desperation, and the metallic scent of coin.

  All of this information came from that one book I read obsessively when I was a young kid. I must have reread those chapters dozens of times. The author described the Dungeon Lobby as the epicenter of power progression. Where the weak tried to climb and the strong cemented their dominance.

  Back then, I would imagine myself walking through those halls. Now I actually was.

  I kept running until my breath began to thin out, my lungs tightening slightly from the continuous pace. Sweat gathered at my temples and slid down my jaw. My legs ached faintly, but the massive stone structure rising ahead erased the discomfort.

  I had reached it.

  The Dungeon Lobby loomed like a fortress carved from history itself. The engraved insignia of the kingdom was embedded above the entrance, framed by towering pillars etched with glowing runes. People flowed in and out constantly. Adventurers in leather and steel. Young hopefuls with nervous expressions. Veterans scarred and silent.

  I slowed to a brisk walk as I entered.

  The temperature shifted instantly. Cooler inside. Controlled. The echo of footsteps layered over murmured conversations and the occasional burst of laughter from some reckless group boasting about their latest clear.

  I moved with purpose toward the administrative wing. That was where you could find almost anything related to mages. Registration. Ranking updates. Ceremony documentation. Results.

  The office itself was structured neatly. Long counters of polished wood separated clerks from the public. Shelves behind them were stacked high with organized folders, each labeled meticulously. The smell of ink and parchment hung thick in the air.

  “Hello, mister.” I raised my hand slightly to get the attention of the man sitting behind the desk.

  He looked up from his paperwork.

  “Ah, good morning, kid. What brings you here?”

  He had a calm, professional demeanor. Brown hair combed neatly back. Thin spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. His posture was straight but relaxed, like someone who had seen thousands of nervous applicants pass through this exact spot.

  I looked up at him. He was quite tall, maybe a few inches higher than me even while seated, his frame lean but not fragile.

  “Uhm. I need my results from the bestowal ceremony.”

  “Sure!” His tone remained bright and efficient. “I just need your name and date o—”

  “No need for the date of birth,” I interrupted casually. “There’s only one of me in the kingdom.”

  For a brief moment, he paused.

  Then he shrugged. “Oh, okay.”

  He grabbed a quill pen, dipping it into a small ink bottle with practiced ease. The scratching sound of feather against parchment filled the space between us as I told him my name. He wrote it down carefully, then turned to a colleague seated behind him.

  “Can you check the archives for this one?”

  His partner, a slightly older man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, nodded and disappeared into the towering rows of folders. He scanned labels quickly, fingers moving with familiarity across dozens of neatly arranged files.

  Minutes stretched longer than they should have.

  My pulse picked up.

  This was it. The culmination of years.

  “Found it!” his partner called out.

  He pulled a thin folder free from the shelf and passed it forward.

  The folder slid across the counter toward me.

  My name was written clearly across the front.

  The folder’s weight felt heavier than paper should.

  I flipped the folder open.

  The parchment inside was thick and official, stamped with the crest of the kingdom in dark ink. My name was written in precise calligraphy across the top, followed by lines and lines of formal phrasing.

  Results:

  Bestowal Ceremony…

  Blah blah blah…

  According to the statistics.

  My eyes skimmed faster.

  I kept reading.

  Blah blah bla—

  Wait a minute.

  My gaze snapped back to the ranking line.

  This mage has been officially ranked C.

  For a split second, my brain refused to process it.

  Then it hit.

  Holy shit!

  C rank.

  C rank was insane compared to my old rank. Before, I was barely scraping the bottom of relevance. Now? I was officially recognized as competent. As dangerous. As someone with potential worth investing in.

  I jumped.

  When I say jumped, I mean like literally jump in the air like those you see from a dramatic reaction..

  My boots left the polished floor of the Dungeon Lobby as a burst of laughter tore out of me. A few nearby adventurers glanced over, confused, but I did not care.

  C rank. I actually fucking did it.

  The years of obsession. The endless training. The self doubt. It had not been for nothing.

  But the excitement cooled just a fraction as logic crept back in.

  Calm down. C rank is good. But Central Academy does not settle for just good.

  Central Academy accepted elites. Prodigies. Influential heirs. C rank was impressive, yes, especially for someone like me. But impressive did not equal guarantee.

  This might not be enough to secure the application.

  I exhaled slowly, forcing my heart to settle.

  I will need extracurricular achievements. Dungeon clears. Team contributions. Maybe a recorded subjugation. Something flashy. Something undeniable.

  I closed the folder carefully, almost reverently.

  “Thank you,” I said to the clerks, my tone steadier now.

  They nodded politely, already moving on to the next applicant.

  I stepped away from the counter and reentered the main corridor of the Dungeon Lobby. The noise crashed over me again. Clashing metal. Negotiations. Laughter. Arguments about loot distribution.

  Then the blue panel appeared once more.

  [Soul consumption was successful! Jip-chak, Rank B & Elite Grade has been added to your team!]

  [You have unlocked the Elite Grade, the next grade after Soldier Grade!]

  [The souls of Elf archer and Elf knight had perished because they were not recovered in time!]

  “Well shit,” I muttered under my breath.

  The irony was almost poetic.

  I gained a stronger unit but lost two of my original ones.

  The elf archer and elf knight were gone. Permanently. The system did not forgive negligence.

  That means I cannot rely on numbers. I need quality.

  At least I still had the brute. And now this new Elite Grade unit.

  The panel shifted again.

  [Do you want to rename him?]

  “Sure.”

  I slowed my pace, weaving through clusters of adventurers as I thought.

  The lobby opened into a wider hall where most mages gathered before entering gates. The atmosphere here was sharper. More focused. People adjusted armor straps, checked weapon edges, whispered strategies.

  I needed a name that reflected what he was.

  Greedy. Ruthless. Self serving.

  I thought for a while. Long enough to reach the other side of the hall where the dungeon gates stood in a controlled row, each one radiating faint magical distortion.

  “Name him… Greed.”

  [Named successfully]

  The confirmation glowed briefly before fading.

  Greed. Fitting. Let that hunger serve me now.

  I approached one of the royal guards stationed before the dungeon gates. His armor gleamed under the overhead light, polished and intimidating. A halberd rested firmly in his grasp, its blade etched with protective runes.

  “I’m Corvian Vale.” I handed him my paperwork, the results included, and stated my intent clearly.

  He scanned the documents with a quick, practiced eye. His gaze lingered on the C rank mark for half a second before he nodded.

  “Good luck, kid.” He stepped aside and waved me through.

  No ceremony. No warning. Just a simple blessing.

  I walked past him and into the open area beyond the main hall where the dungeon gates were arranged like ominous doorways to separate worlds.

  Each gate shimmered differently. Some pulsed violently with unstable mana. Others glowed calmly, almost deceptively inviting.

  I stopped before one that was already marked by another mage.

  C rank.

  A small insignia hovered above it, confirming the difficulty classification.

  I can probably clear this.

  My fingers tightened around the Enchanted Branch of Nature. The green veins along its surface pulsed faintly in response to my grip.

  Just before stepping forward, I closed my eyes briefly.

  Let this go smoothly.

  Please do not let the system interfere this time.

  The memory of unexpected twists and forced events lingered unpleasantly in my mind.

  I raised the branch into an attacking stance, body angled, weight balanced across the balls of my feet. Every muscle was ready to react.

  The air near the gate distorted like heat rising from stone. Mana flowed around it in slow, swirling currents.

  And finally, I stepped through.

  The light swallowed me whole.

  I was prepared for whatever waited on the other side.