The Celestial Awakening Hall pulsed with quiet energy, alive with anticipation. Carved stone pillars stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, glowing with faint runes that shimmered under the blue light of the floating Orb of Ascension. It hung motionless above the platform at the center of the room, casting silver reflections across the polished marble floor.
Rows of students stood shoulder to shoulder, silent except for the occasional sharp inhale or whispered prayer. Every eye watched the orb.
Leon stood at the back, his fists clenched inside his sleeves. Each time a name was called, cheers erupted. Magic filled the air—bright, searing, hopeful. The future being handed out like festival tokens.
A boy stepped forward. He barely touched the orb before a surge of red fire exploded outward.
[B-Rank Pyromancer]
The crowd cheered. A recruiter in a red-lined cloak stepped forward, hand outstretched, contract already written.
Moments later, a girl in a white ceremonial robe walked with barely a sound. When her palm met the orb, golden light burst upward in a pillar that reached the ceiling. The orb chimed like a divine bell.
[S-Rank Holy Paladin – Chosen by the Divine]
Even the Sanctuary Guild—silent until now—stood. They didn't clap. They bowed.
Leon's chest tightened. The orb wasn't just a test. It was judgment. And his turn was closing in.
His Best Friend Awakens First
"Damian Falken," the examiner announced.
Leon looked up.
Damian's stride up the stairs was steady, almost bored. His long coat rippled behind him as he stopped beneath the orb, eyes calm, expression unreadable. People shifted in place. Even the recruiters leaned forward.
He raised his hand.
A heartbeat passed. Nothing happened.
Then—
BOOM.
A golden shockwave ripped outward. Dust billowed. The air rippled with force.
Runes flared into life across Damian's forearms, etching themselves in lines of glowing molten fire. The orb pulsed like it had recognized him.
[A-Rank Warblade – Chosen by the Spirit of War]
The crowd erupted. Recruiters surged forward. Contracts. Guild emblems. Elite offers.
One from Stormbringer. Another from Ironfang. A third from the King's Vanguard.
They didn't ask questions. They competed.
Damian barely had time to nod before they surrounded him.
Leon's gaze met his through the crowd.
Damian smirked, lips moving silently: "Told you."
Leon smiled back. It didn't reach his eyes.
Leon's Turn: The Moment of Truth
"Leon Drayven Graves."
His name dropped like a stone in water.
The cheers faded. Even the hum of the runes seemed to dull.
Leon stepped forward.
Each stair felt higher than the last. The orb hung above him, silent. Watching.
He flexed his fingers to keep them from trembling.
Don't think. Don't hope. Just touch it.
He raised his hand.
The moment his palm met the orb, a cold jolt crawled up his spine—sharp, unnatural. The silver surface dimmed, and a deep hum resonated through his bones.
No fire. No light. No shockwave.
Just silence.
Then—
[Class Awakening Complete… Processing Result…]
A slow curl of gray mist spilled from the orb. It coiled around his wrist like smoke dragging itself through water.
The temperature dropped.
Students shifted uncomfortably. Someone coughed. A whisper.
"What's going on?"
"That doesn't look right…"
The fog grew thicker, clinging to his arms, cold and slow. The orb pulsed once. Then again. And then—
[F-Rank Class: Necromancer (Zombie Lord)]
Silence.
Then a snort. A chuckle.
It spread like rot.
"A Zombie Lord? Is that even a real class?"
"Even E-Rankers get offensive spells. What's he gonna do, throw bones?"
Leon stood still. The laughter felt distant, like it was echoing through glass.
He didn't look at Damian. He didn't look at the recruiters—none of whom moved. One even turned to speak with a scribe, already onto the next candidate.
The examiner cleared his throat.
"…Unfortunate."
Leon's chest felt hollow.
He turned from the orb.
The Fall From the Stage
He descended the stairs slower than he had climbed them.
Each step echoed louder than the last, the polished marble carrying the weight of his failure down to the farthest corners of the Celestial Awakening Hall. It wasn't the kind of silence that comforted—it was the kind that suffocated.
Around him, the air felt thinner. Eyes turned away too quickly, as if watching him would stain their luck. Others stared openly, not in curiosity—but in relief.
It wasn't me.
He passed students whispering into cupped hands. Some didn't bother whispering.
"That was brutal."
"Zombie Lord? Never heard of that trash tier."
At the foot of the stairs, Leon paused. Not by choice. His legs just… stopped.
Across the crowd, he caught Damian's expression—lips pressed in a flat line, arms folded tightly. There was no smirk now. No fire in his gaze. Just something muted. Pity, maybe. Or guilt.
Leon looked away.
He didn't need comfort.
Not from him. Not from anyone.
He turned and walked.
No one moved to make space, but the crowd parted anyway—just slightly. Enough that he didn't brush against anyone. Enough that he felt the invisible wall between them.
Not one recruiter looked at him.
Not one name was called to follow him.
No applause. No curiosity. No second glance.
His footsteps carried him to the edge of the hall, where the shadows of the pillars dulled the glow of the orb's reflection. He stopped there, half-hidden, as the ceremony resumed like he'd never existed.
The next name was called.
Another student stepped up. Another explosion of color.
Golden light. Crimson flame. Cries of awe.
Just like that, his moment was buried beneath someone else's brilliance.
The hall came alive again, but Leon felt nothing. No heat in his chest. No sting in his eyes. Just a stillness too sharp to be numbness.
He didn't speak. Didn't cry.
But inside, something curled in on itself.
A thought. Small. Cold. Relentless.
Was that it?
Was that all I was meant to be?
The question sank deeper, anchoring itself somewhere behind his ribs.
He watched the light dance across the chamber, refracting off weapons, armor, and eyes too full of fire to see him.
And for the first time in years, the dream that had carried him this far cracked.
Not loudly. Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to hurt.
Enough to whisper the truth no one else would say.
No one was coming for him.
And if he wanted to survive what came next…
He'd have to come for himself.