"So," Martha asked, glancing over at him, "what level did they grade your gift?"
"Level four, Mom." Desmond tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn't hide the disappointment completely.
This wasn't just an act. As someone bound for the academy, he knew that the level of his gift would dictate his placement.
At best, a level-four ranking might land him in Class D. If he wasn't careful, his potential would be severely limited.
That would really suck, he thought grimly.
Martha glanced over at him, noticing the look on his face. "That's amazing, honey," she said, her voice warm and encouraging.
"Sure, combat rankings are often based on the level of your gift. But that's not everything. Physical strength, agility, and especially control over Celestial Fluid all play a big role too."
He took her words in, feeling a slight pang of gratitude.
There was truth in what she was saying; he'd read enough in Crown of Glory to know that the strongest fighters weren't always the ones with the highest-ranked gifts.
However, they were so rare that only a handful of nations had even one gifted individual of this caliber.
"I get it, Mom," he replied, glancing at her. "I'm just disappointed because I know that only the top classes get the best equipment and the best training."
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, wrestling with a mix of resentment and frustration.
He knew he'd have to push himself twice as hard to keep up with those in higher classes—and that his 'level-four' gift might keep him at the bottom, at least in the eyes of the academy.
Martha smiled knowingly. "It might be harder for you to get to the top, but from what I know about you, Des, you'll find a way to stand out."
Desmond nodded, her encouragement dulling his frustration for a moment. But inside, his determination only grew stronger.
If they were going to underestimate him because of his so-called "level four" ranking, he'd just have to show them he was capable of more than they ever expected.
As Martha pulled into the garage, the house's familiar warmth filled Desmond with a sense of comfort and relief. She turned off the engine and gave him an encouraging smile.
"I'll call the academy and let them know you'll be arriving tomorrow," she said. "Since your information is in their system now, they'll have everything ready to make your stay comfortable. Just prepare yourself, alright?"
"Okay, Mom," Desmond replied with a nod, mentally bracing for everything that awaited him.
Once inside, he headed to his room, hoping to unwind after the tense day.
But as he crossed the threshold, he heard an explosive bang right by his ear—loud, startling, and way too close for comfort. Desmond's heart leaped as he spun around, eyes wide.
"Surprise!" a familiar voice shouted, brimming with mischief.
"Dad! You freaked me out!" Desmond exclaimed, his initial shock melting into an exasperated grin.
There, standing in the doorway, was his father, Nathan.
With tousled blue hair hanging just over his forehead, silver eyes gleaming behind his glasses, and dressed casually in a blue shirt and white pants, he had that effortless charm Desmond knew too well—the kind that made him look more like a hotshot teacher than an engineer.
Nathan grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "What can I say? Had to make an entrance."
Then, his expression shifted, becoming firm and resolute. "But seriously, Desmond… my son, a gifted."
He placed a hand on Desmond's shoulder, his grip strong, his gaze intense. "I don't care what level they've classified you. I promise I'll dedicate myself to creating an armor and weapon that will put you at the top of the Nation."
Desmond's breath caught at the intensity in his father's eyes. The man was known for his relentless pursuit of excellence in engineering, but this promise felt deeply personal, even for Nathan.
Nathan's serious demeanor melted into a playful smile. "But before all that… let's celebrate!"
He pulled Desmond into a bear hug, his laughter filling the room and sweeping away the day's tension.
Desmond chuckled, the day's doubts fading, replaced by a sense of belonging and pride.
The next morning, Martha drove Desmond to the academy. The rising sun struggled to cast its golden glow over the sprawling campus, its light muted by thick clouds rolling across the sky.
As they pulled up to the entrance, she parked the car and turned to him, a gentle smile on her face.
"Alright, here we are," she said, her voice wavering just a bit. She opened her arms, and he stepped into a warm, tight hug.
"Don't stress yourself too much, okay?" she said, her hand resting gently on the back of his head.
"Focus in every class. And remember, you can always call me if you need anything." Her words held both pride and a mother's lingering worry.
Desmond chuckled, giving her an assuring squeeze before stepping back. "I will, Mom. I'll make you proud." He offered her a small, confident smile.
She surprised him with another hug, this one quick and fierce. "Good luck, Des," she whispered, letting him go.
Desmond nodded, adjusting his bag over his shoulder as he walked toward the academy gates.
His nerves were calm and steady, like the surface of still water, his mind honed in on the challenges awaiting him.
He barely noticed the drones flying around the campus, his eyes focused ahead until he saw a young woman standing by the gates, waiting with an air of calm authority.
As he approached, he guessed she was a few years older—perhaps twenty or twenty one—with a quiet confidence in her posture that reminded him of a seasoned fighter.
She smiled politely as he came to a stop beside her.
"Good morning," he greeted, offering a polite nod.
"Good morning, Desmond. Welcome to the academy," she replied, her tone both courteous and professional. "We're just waiting on a few more arrivals. It should only be a few minutes."
"Alright," Desmond replied, glancing around to see if any other new students were approaching.
His gaze wandered to the grand, imposing gates of the academy and the towering stone walls that stretched around the grounds.
He was lost in thought, absorbing the sheer scale of his new environment, when a sleek black car pulled up in front of the gates.
A boy stepped out, looking every bit as polished as the car he'd arrived in.
His black hair fell loosely over his forehead, and he wore a simple grey polo paired with matching grey jeans, casual yet somehow dignified.
Desmond knew immediately who it was.