Ten long days passed in quiet, unbroken repetition inside the cramped confines of the small top-floor room.
Outside, the bustling metropolis hummed with endless activity, but inside the shadowy sanctuary, time seemed to slow down to the precise cadence of the boy’s breathing.
Rather than resting idly or succumbing to the nervous tension building across the capital, he dedicated every waking hour to a rigorous, painful process of physical and energetic refinement.
His primary focus was mastering the unique, lethal weapon sheathed securely against his left hip.
Through endless, solitary practice, he had discovered that his iron dagger was far more than a simple tool for cutting flesh.
The dark steel possessed a unique, almost unnatural conductivity, acting as an elemental sponge that could absorb, compress, and abruptly unleash his internal energy.
Under Mammon’s relentless and precise mental guidance, the boy spent hours sitting cross-legged on the cold wooden floor, practicing pushing tiny, concentrated threads of his power directly into the hilt.
He watched in silent fascination as the dark blade absorbed the invisible force, vibrating with a faint, dangerous hum that sent sharp tingles straight back into his palm.
The weapon, however, had a strict physical threshold.
If he flooded it with too much raw power too quickly, the steel would buckle under the pressure and shatter into worthless shrapnel.
The secret lay in control—forcing the energy to condense into a hyper-dense core at the very tip of the blade without letting it leak into the surrounding air.
He practiced holding that volatile, compressed charge right at the edge, learning the exact sensation of holding a contained explosion at his fingertips right before the moment of impact.
When released, that compressed energy wouldn’t merely cut; it would detonate outward, violently tearing through physical armor and disrupting the internal energy structures of anything it struck.
It was a technique born out of necessity, a bridge between pure martial combat and high-tier energy manipulation.
Through hundreds of exhausting attempts, his hands bled, his forearms cramped, and his mind throbbed with excruciating migraines from the sheer mental concentration required.
Yet, deep within his spiritual core, a profound shift was taking place.
A faint, brilliant pathway was slowly crystallizing within his consciousness, carving a permanent channel through his energy networks.
He could feel it clearly—the precursor to his very first true active skill, waiting just beyond the threshold of a real, high-stakes battle to fully unlock.
It was no longer an unpredictable, accidental outburst of survival instinct.
It was becoming a structured, repeatable formula of death, waiting for its official debut.
With only four days remaining until the Royal Academy’s open admissions, the countdown was entering its final, high-stakes stretch.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall, the boy adjusted his attire with slow, methodical care.
He smoothed down the fitted ash-grey vest, checked the high-collared jet-black shirt beneath, and let the tailored dark violet-blue coat fall perfectly over his shoulders.
The fine, durable fabric moved seamlessly with his lean frame, providing elegant protection while completely concealing the iron dagger nestled against his ribs beneath the inner lining.
Stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, he left the dingy alleys of the outer slums behind and navigated directly toward the grand thoroughfares leading to the inner district.
The transition between the two worlds was stark, almost absurd in its contrast.
As he crossed the heavy stone bridge separating the lower sectors from the noble grounds, the muddy dirt paths vanished, replaced by immaculate, polished white cobblestones that gleamed beneath the sunlight.
The air lost its bitter stench of coal smoke and cheap ale, replaced by the faint, cloying scents of imported perfumes, fresh pastries, and expensive aromatic teas.
Carriages painted in rich lacquers and bearing golden family crests rattled past on smooth iron wheels, drawn by pristine, thoroughbred steeds.
Guard patrols wearing polished plate armor stood at every major intersection, their sharp eyes scanning the crowds with open disdain for anyone who looked out of place.
Yet, as the boy walked among them, his posture was so naturally composed and his dark-hued attire so impeccably tailored that the guards’ eyes slid right over him without a second thought.
He didn’t look like a feral orphan crawling out of the woods; he looked like a quiet, brooding scion of a distant, lower-tier noble house.
He stepped quietly into a grand, three-story bookstore situated just a few blocks away from the massive, iron-reinforced gates of the Royal Central Academy.
The shop was an impressive monument to wealth in its own right, filled with towering rows of polished dark-oak bookshelves carrying rare historical archives, complex legal codices, and basic magical treatises.
Selecting a thick, leather-bound volume regarding the founding history and aristocratic lineages of the Kingdom, he moved toward a shaded alcove near a second-floor window.
He pulled up a plush leather armchair and opened the book, using the heavy pages as a perfect shield while his sharp eyes quietly observed the patrons moving through the store.
Groups of young noble candidates, dressed in extravagant silk robes embroidered with silver and gold thread, strolled through the wide aisles below.
They carried themselves with an insufferable, effortless arrogance, their voices ringing loudly through the quiet shop as they bragged about their private tutors, their family heirlooms, and their absolute certainty of acing the upcoming trials.
“The physical fitness portion is a joke designed to weed out the common trash,” one boy with slicked-back blonde hair sneered softly, casually tossing a book back onto a shelf.
“My father hired a retired knight commander to train me for six months.
None of those nameless peasants stand a chance.” The boy listened to every word, his mind acting like an uncompromising sponge, recording every detail.
He didn’t listen out of anger or insecurity; he analyzed them with the cold, detached precision of a surgeon dissecting a specimen.
He tracked the specific way they held their chins slightly elevated, the subtle aristocratic phrasing they used to dismiss inferiors, and the quiet, unshakeable belief that the world owed them everything.
He was constructing an unassailable mental blueprint of aristocratic behavior.
He understood very quickly that trying to force his way into their world through physical intimidation or crude deception would be a foolish, fatal mistake.
The upper-class society was an intricate web of hidden rules, subtle insults, and unspoken hierarchies.
To successfully infiltrate their ranks and claim the academy’s vast resources, he didn’t just need to pass the physical exams.
He needed to wear their arrogance like a second skin, blending into their ranks so naturally that no one would ever think to question his bloodline.
While his mind methodically mapped out the exact psychological levers needed to forge his new persona, Mammon’s presence suddenly stirred deep within the dark spaces of his thoughts.
The ancient entity’s voice, usually calm and detached, dropped into a low, sharp whisper that resonated right against his skull.
“Restrain your aura immediately, young one,” Mammon warned softly.
“Do not let your eyes linger on those pampered fools for too long.
Lower your gaze and slow your pulse.” The boy’s pupils contracted slightly, but his physical body remained completely unbothered.
Not a single muscle in his face twitched, and his pale fingers casually turned a heavy, yellowed page of the history book in his lap.
“What did you notice?” He asked silently in his mind, keeping his internal voice perfectly calm.
“Look toward the far balcony on the third floor,” Mammon guided smoothly, his tone laced with dark caution.
“Sitting alone near the brass balustrade.
The old man in the faded green scholar’s robe.” Without tilting his head or drawing the slightest attention to himself, the boy used his sharp peripheral vision to scan the upper floor.
Seated at a small round table was a frail-looking old man with thin silver hair, holding a warm porcelain cup of tea.
He looked entirely harmless—like a retired, sleepy librarian napping over a stack of dry, dusty tax records.
“Look past his physical appearance,” Mammon instructed coldly.
“Observe the air surrounding his frame.
His internal energy signature is compressed so tight that it creates a localized vacuum in the mana flowing around him.
That old man is a high-tier conduit—a monster wearing the skin of a scholar.” As if proving Mammon’s words, a young noble scion walking past the old man’s table accidentally bumped his elbow against the chair.
The arrogant youth turned around, opening his mouth to utter a harsh curse, but the moment his eyes met the old scholar’s sleepy gaze, the noble froze dead in his tracks.
The young noble’s face turned completely pale, sweat breaking out across his forehead as he instinctively swallowed his words, bowed meekly, and hurried away like a frightened rabbit.
“He is an examiner from the Royal Academy,” Mammon confirmed, a faint, dark chuckle echoing in the boy’s mind.
“He is not here to enjoy tea.
He is actively stationed here to observe the attitude, instinct, and hidden power of the prospective candidates flooding the city.
If you display an unnatural surge of unrefined energy or drop your guard for a single second, he will read you like an open book.” A cold, thrilling spark of excitement flared deep within the boy’s chest, sending a surge of adrenaline through his blood.
Yet, on the outside, his surface demeanor remained as calm and unreadable as a frozen lake.
The true scale of the battlefield was finally revealing itself to him: this upcoming admission trial was not going to be a simple contest of raw strength or basic magical talent.
It was a treacherous, high-stakes chessboard filled with hidden observers, political traps, and lethal power plays orchestrating behind the scenes.
He slowly, deliberately closed the heavy history book, feeling the thick leather cover click shut beneath his hand.
He stood up smoothly, placed the volume back into its exact position on the dark oak shelf, and gave a brief, perfectly polite nod to the shopkeeper as he passed the front desk.
Stepping out of the bookstore, he was greeted by the cool, refreshing evening breeze sweeping through the wide cobblestone avenue.
He pulled his dark violet-blue coat slightly tighter around his frame, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto the towering, gilded spires of the Royal Academy rising high into the twilight sky.
The iron dagger against his ribs felt reassuringly solid, its compressed energy humming softly beneath his skin, ready to unleash his first true skill when the right moment arrived.
Four days left.
He had mapped out his environment, studied his targets, and identified the dangerous eyes watching from the shadows.
It was finally time to place his first piece onto the board.