The morning sun filtered through the high windows of Noble Academy's entrance hall, casting a golden light on the assembled students. Tyrion stood among them, dressed in the academy's pristine white-and-blue uniform, which hung loosely on his thin frame. His heart pounded as he gazed around, surrounded by the sons and daughters of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the kingdom. They were all here for one purpose: to hone their abilities and master the weapons bound to their souls.
For Tyrion, this was not just an opportunity to learn—it was a test. Noble Academy was where reputations were made or broken. Success here would elevate a student to the highest ranks of society, while failure meant disgrace. Tyrion knew what most people expected of him. His lack of a visible weapon had already branded him as an outcast before he had even set foot inside.
"Hey, look," a voice sneered from behind him. "It's the Ashford disgrace."
Tyrion didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Gerard Blackthorne. His voice was always unmistakable, carrying the same venom as his father, a rival to Tyrion's own family. The Blackthorne House prided itself on producing legendary warriors, and Gerard had already shown his prowess by wielding a massive greatsword that gleamed with magical runes.
"Still pretending to be a noble, Tyrion?" Gerard continued, his voice loud enough for others to hear. A few students snickered. "You're not fooling anyone. Even if your family didn't kick you out, everyone knows you're a joke."
Tyrion's hands clenched at his sides, but he kept his gaze straight ahead, refusing to react. Years of being belittled had taught him that fighting back would only make things worse. But it still burned inside him, the desire to prove them wrong, to show them that he wasn't just a weak, talentless noble.
"Ignore him," a soft voice whispered beside him.
Tyrion glanced to his left and saw Elara Valen, a fellow first-year student, standing beside him. She gave him a small, sympathetic smile. Unlike most of the others, Elara wasn't from a noble family. Her parents were merchants, and while she had awakened a magical staff, her background made her a target for bullies like Gerard as well.
"Thanks," Tyrion murmured. Elara was one of the few people at the academy who didn't treat him like a nobody, and he appreciated that more than he could express.
Before they could continue their conversation, the academy's headmaster, an elderly man with a long gray beard and piercing eyes, stepped forward. His presence immediately commanded the attention of the entire hall.
"Welcome, students," the headmaster began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. "You have all been chosen to attend Noble Academy because of your potential. Here, you will be trained to master the weapons bound to your souls and hone the skills that will shape your futures. But remember this: potential is nothing without hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. Your path will not be easy, but those who persevere will emerge as the future leaders of our world."
Tyrion's heart raced as the headmaster's words sank in. He knew his path wouldn't be easy—*it never had been*. But hearing it now, in this grand hall filled with hopeful young warriors, only made it feel more daunting.
The headmaster continued. "In a few moments, you will be led to the training grounds, where your instructors will evaluate your current abilities. This evaluation will determine the course of your training and your place in the academy's hierarchy. Do your best, for your performance here will define your future."
Tyrion's stomach twisted into knots. This was it. The first test. The moment when his supposed lack of talent would be on full display for everyone to see. He felt the familiar weight of dread pressing down on him.
As the students began to shuffle towards the training grounds, Elara touched his arm lightly. "You'll be fine," she said. "Just do your best."
Tyrion forced a small smile. "Thanks, Elara. I'll try."
But as he followed the others out of the hall, he couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. How could he prove himself when the very essence of his power was locked away? Even though his grandfather had trained him in secret, teaching him swordsmanship and magic, Tyrion knew that without his true weapon, his abilities would seem unimpressive.
When they reached the training grounds, the instructors—seasoned warriors with years of experience—were already waiting. Their eyes swept over the students, assessing them silently as they gathered into small groups.
One by one, the students were called forward to demonstrate their abilities. Gerard was among the first, his massive greatsword cleaving through training dummies with ease, earning nods of approval from the instructors and gasps of admiration from his peers. Elara went next, summoning shimmering shields of light and casting precise magical attacks that left the instructors impressed.
Then, it was Tyrion's turn.
He stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. The instructor, a grizzled man with a stern expression, glanced at him briefly before looking down at his clipboard.
"Tyrion Ashford, is it?" the instructor said, raising an eyebrow. "No weapon visible. Interesting."
Tyrion swallowed hard and nodded.
The instructor's eyes narrowed. "Well, let's see what you can do."
Tyrion raised his practice sword, trying to steady his shaking hands. He focused on his training, the lessons his grandfather had drilled into him, and began moving through the forms. His strikes were deliberate but lacked the flair or power that others had displayed. The check-in system had boosted his strength over the years, but with his sword sealed, his performance was average at best.
When he finished, the silence that followed was deafening. The instructor looked unimpressed, his gaze hard and unyielding.
"Serviceable," the instructor said at last, his tone flat. "But nothing remarkable. You'll need a lot of work if you want to keep up with the others."
A few students snickered in the background, but Tyrion ignored them. He knew this would happen. Still, hearing it out loud was like a punch to the gut.
"Next," the instructor called, already moving on to the next student.
Tyrion walked back to his place in line, feeling the weight of disappointment settle on his shoulders. He had done his best, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough as long as his true power remained locked away.
Elara shot him a sympathetic look as he rejoined the group, but Tyrion couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. His mind was already spinning, filled with thoughts of how he could get stronger—how he could prove them all wrong.