The corridor stretched endlessly ahead.

  Notch followed Roger's graceful stride, each footstep echoing off stone walls. The nobleman moved with practiced ease—shoulders relaxed, pace unhurried, like a man who'd never questioned his right to command space.

  They walked deeper into the hostel, past dormitories and common areas, until the sounds of children faded to nothing. The hallway narrowed. Ended at a door that didn't belong.

  Grandeur in a building designed for function. Intricate god carvings adorned the frame—ancient deities rendered in exquisite detail, their faces serene or wrathful depending on which angle caught the light. The door itself was marble slate, veined with gold, heavy enough to require real effort to open.

  "Come in." Roger's smile was warm, inviting, and somehow made Notch more nervous than if he'd been scowling.

  Notch stepped through cautiously.

  The office was small but expensive—every surface screaming wealth in the way only quality materials could. High-grade wooden desk, probably imported oak, polished to mirror sheen. A sofa-like chair positioned by the window, upholstered in deep burgundy fabric. Two chairs facing one larger chair across the luxury table—the power dynamic made physically manifest.

  But none of that registered immediately.

  Because Aelira was already there.

  She sat in one of the two chairs opposite the main seat, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Her auburn hair had been cleaned since the ambush, no longer wild but pulled back in a practical braid. She looked at Notch with an expression that cycled through surprise, recognition, then settled on something approaching disdain.

  Notch felt heat rise in his cheeks. Embarrassment warred with irritation—why did she get to look at him like that? They'd both killed people today.

  "You two are the most promising of all the trainees."

  Roger went straight to the point, moving around the desk to claim his chair. No preamble, no social niceties. Just blunt assessment delivered like someone announcing the weather.

  Notch glanced at Aelira as he settled into the remaining chair. She'd already forgotten he existed, attention fixed on Roger with laser focus. Her face remained stoic—the same expression she'd worn at Bandit's Creak, standing among corpses. She never laughed. Never spoke unless spoken to. Just existed in this state of controlled intensity.

  "B-but Aelira is high grade, and I'm barely medium." Notch forced the words out, trying desperately to redirect Roger's attention away from uncomfortable truths.

  "Oh yeah?"

  Roger's tone dripped mockery. He stood, moved around the desk with deliberate slowness, and leaned close to Notch's ear. His voice dropped to a whisper—stage whisper, really, loud enough for Aelira to hear every syllable.

  "Then why's there something blocking your core?"

  Notch swallowed hard. His eyes fixed on the desk surface, tracing the wood grain, anywhere but Roger's knowing gaze.

  Aelira's attention snapped to him immediately. Interest sparked in her cold eyes—genuine curiosity mixed with calculation. Her right hand curled almost imperceptibly around the chair arm.

  "W-well..." Notch stuttered, mind racing for explanations that wouldn't damn him further.

  Roger moved back, satisfied with the reaction he'd provoked, and dropped into his chair with theatrical finality. He sighed, the sound carrying equal parts amusement and exasperation.

  "You couldn't possibly know. Even Vellora doesn't, not really." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled.

  "Vellora said something rarer than a rumor — that your raw mana output likely exceeds what your core can safely hold." He paused, letting the weight of that thought settle between them.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "It's not just a curiosity. It's a condition that rewrites a child's path. Your body literally can't handle the amount of mana you're producing, so it's created an internal bottleneck to prevent catastrophic failure."

  He shifted, the conversation turning from observation to consequence. "Vellora's seen it maybe twice in her entire career. Children born with mana capacity far exceeding their physical development. Usually they die young—cores shatter from internal pressure before they're old enough to learn control. But you?" Roger pointed directly at Notch. "You survived. Not only survived, but learned to use magic despite the restriction. That takes instinct. Natural talent. The kind of raw ability that can't be taught."

  "Do you know what that means?"

  Notch thought for a second. Roger wasn't asking if he understood the sentence—that was obvious enough. He was asking about implications. Consequences. What it meant for Notch's future, his training, his value to people who collected dangerous children.

  "Not really," Notch finally admitted.

  Roger's grin widened, taking on an almost wicked quality—the expression of someone who'd just won a bet they'd never doubted.

  "High grade," he said softly, as if pronouncing a sentence. "You are high grade, Notch."

  The words hung in the air like a pronouncement of sentence.

  Aelira's stoic mask cracked slightly—eyes widening a fraction, lips parting in surprise. She recovered quickly, but not before Notch saw the competitive fire ignite behind her carefully maintained composure.

  "The restriction on your core?" Roger continued, clearly enjoying this. "It's not artificial. It's natural. Your body literally can't handle the amount of mana you're producing, so it's created an internal bottleneck to prevent catastrophic failure."

  He gestured expansively, warming to his subject.

  "Vellora's seen it maybe twice in her entire career. Children born with mana capacity far exceeding their physical development. Usually they die young—cores shatter from internal pressure before they're old enough to learn control. But you?" Roger pointed directly at Notch. "You survived. Not only survived, but learned to use magic despite the restriction. That takes instinct. Natural talent. The kind of raw ability that can't be taught."

  "Of course," Roger added, tone shifting to something more businesslike, "this changes your training trajectory considerably. High grades don't go to the standard academy. They're fast-tracked to specialized programs. Combat, advanced theory, tactical deployment—the things that make heroes or monsters, depending on perspective."

  He looked between Notch and Aelira, smile never wavering.

  "I'll be sending updated reports to the capital. Both of you will receive new assignments upon arrival." His gaze settled on Notch specifically. "And I'll be recommending they pay very close attention to your development. Children with your potential are... valuable."

  The way he said 'valuable' made it sound like a threat and a promise combined.

  Notch sat frozen, Sly coiled around his neck sensing his tension, and wondered how badly he'd miscalculated by trying to hide in plain sight.

  Turns out, being mediocre was impossible when your body literally couldn't contain the power you'd been cursed—or blessed—with.

  Roger was still smiling, clearly delighted by the complications he'd just introduced to two children's lives.

  "Any questions?"

  Notch couldn't muster a voice; the room had folded into a new shape around him—smaller, sharper, irrevocable.

  "That's not fair!"

  Aelira's stoic attitude shattered like glass.

  She stood abruptly, chair scraping against stone, hands clenched into fists at her sides. The careful control she'd maintained since Bandit's Creak evaporated in an instant, replaced by raw indignation.

  "You're making him high grade based on speculation!"

  Notch simply stared, mind reeling. All his attempts at mediocrity—the careful restriction, the deliberate underperformance, the practiced incompetence—cruelly laughed at by biology itself. His own body had betrayed him, created evidence of power he'd tried desperately to hide.

  "I understand you're feeling a bit..." Roger paused, choosing his word with visible care. "Jealous. At the fact you aren't the only high grade now."

  "Why would I be jealous of him of all people?"

  Aelira's retort came sharp and immediate, the stoic facade totally evaporated. Her voice pitched higher, fighting visible urge to scream. Color rose in her cheeks—anger and wounded pride warring for dominance.

  Notch felt a stab of offense despite himself. Him of all people? What was that supposed to mean?

  "He's not even a good fighter." She gestured dismissively in his direction without looking at him. "He'd probably be beaten up by a poor grade."

  She hadn't been in the dormitory when Notch demolished Rennik. Hadn't seen the methodical brutality, the factory-floor efficiency, the way Viktor's experience translated through a child's body. Her assessment was based on appearances—a quiet boy who kept to himself, showed no bravado, made no claims.

  She had no idea.

  And Rennik was easily the strongest poor grade—stronger than the medium grades in everything except mana capacity. His physical prowess was exceptional, wasted on a body that couldn't channel magic effectively.

  Roger's smile widened. He rolled his eyes back slightly, expression shifting to something anticipatory.

  "Why don't we find out just how strong everyone is?"

  He ran his hand through his blonde hair, pushing it back as he turned to look out the window behind his chair. The mansion dominated the view—white stone catching the evening glow, windows beginning to light from within as servants prepared for nightfall.

  "The Friverr mansion should be a decent enough place for this." He looked back at them, gaze moving from Notch to Sly coiled around his shoulders, then finally settling on Aelira. "Tomorrow's going to be a fun day for all of us."

  His grin was unsettling as ever—the expression of someone who'd just arranged entertainment at others' expense and was already savoring the outcome.

  Notch's stomach tightened.

  A test. A public demonstration. Roger was going to make them fight, prove themselves, display their capabilities for... what? Evaluation? Entertainment? Political maneuvering?

  All of the above, probably.

  Aelira had gone quiet again, but her breathing remained elevated. She'd composed her expression, but fury still simmered beneath the surface—directed at Notch for threatening her status, at Roger for undermining her achievement, at the universe for daring to suggest she wasn't exceptional.

  "You're dismissed," Roger said with a casual wave. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be... demanding."

  Notch stood on unsteady legs. Sly tightened reassuringly around his neck.

  Aelira was already moving toward the door, spine rigid with barely contained anger. She didn't look back, didn't acknowledge Notch's existence as she swept into the corridor.

  Notch followed more slowly, mind churning through implications.

  Tomorrow, he'd have to fight. Publicly. With Roger watching, evaluating, measuring. With Aelira determined to prove her superiority. With all the other trainees as witnesses.

  And he'd have to decide—how much power to show? How much to hide? Was hiding even possible anymore, with Roger's attention fixed on him like a spotlight?

  The corridor seemed longer on the return journey, each step carrying him closer to a confrontation he couldn't avoid.

  Behind them, through the still-open door, Roger's laughter echoed—soft, genuinely amused, the sound of someone who'd engineered chaos and was already enjoying the results.

  Notch walked back toward the dormitory, where Crystal and the others waited, and wondered how badly tomorrow was going to change everything.