The gates of the prestigious Karasuma Academy loomed before me, their intricate design etched with symbols that seemed to taunt me with promises of triumph—or failure. This wasn't just any school. It was a world where power wasn't handed out; it was taken, earned, and sometimes stolen. And I intended to take my share.

I adjusted my tie, taking in the sight of students streaming through the gates, each one wearing the same uniform but radiating wildly different auras. Some strutted with confidence, their steps bold, their gazes sharp. Others lingered at the edges, their movements cautious, as if afraid they'd already fallen behind.

I stepped forward, blending into the crowd. My goal wasn't to stand out—at least, not yet. Attention was a double-edged sword, and I had no intention of cutting myself on it. Not here. Not now.

The orientation hall was massive, its walls lined with banners that displayed the academy's motto: "Strength through strategy, victory through resilience." A fitting sentiment for a place like this. The room buzzed with murmurs as students took their seats, the air thick with anticipation.

I slid into a chair near the middle, neither too close to the front nor hidden in the back. From here, I could observe everything—the nervous tics, the whispered speculations, the subtle glances exchanged between strangers who would soon be rivals. This was where the game began.

A tall man with a commanding presence stepped onto the stage, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. He was the headmaster—Maxwell. The murmurs died instantly as he raised a hand.

"Welcome to Karasuma Academy," he began, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You are here because you possess potential. Potential that will be tested, challenged, and, for many of you, crushed."

The tension in the room tightened, like a rope being pulled too taut. I could almost hear the collective intake of breath.

"At this academy," Maxwell continued, "your success is not guaranteed. It is not given. It is earned. Every choice you make, every action you take, will determine your place here. And make no mistake—this is a competition. Only the strongest will thrive."

I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my lips. A competition. That was fine by me. I'd never been afraid of playing games, especially when the stakes were high.

The headmaster gestured to a screen behind him, where a list of names began to appear. "These are your initial rankings," he announced. "They are based on your entrance exam scores and extracurricular achievements. But remember—rankings can change. They will change."

I scanned the list until I found my name: Ryuto Kurogane. Rank 47 out of 120. Not bad. Not exceptional either, but that was fine. It was better to start in the middle—less attention, more room to maneuver.

The headmaster's gaze swept over the room. "Your first challenge begins now. Beyond these walls lies the academy's labyrinth—a maze designed to test your problem-solving, endurance, and teamwork. You have two hours to navigate it. Succeed, and you will gain an advantage. Fail, and you will face the consequences."

The screen switched to a map of the campus, highlighting the entrance to the labyrinth. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd, but I kept my expression neutral. A labyrinth. Interesting. It wasn't just about finding the exit—it was about how you handled the journey. Who would panic? Who would lead? Who would crack under the pressure?

The headmaster's voice was sharp as he concluded, "The labyrinth begins now. Dismissed."

Students surged to their feet, the room erupting into chaos as everyone rushed toward the doors. I took my time, letting the frenzy pass me by. Rushing was for amateurs. The labyrinth wasn't going anywhere, and neither was I.

As I stepped outside, the cool breeze hit my face, carrying with it the murmur of nervous voices. Groups were already forming—students clinging to the safety of numbers, desperate for allies. I watched as a boy with sharp features and a loud voice took charge of a small group, barking out orders like a general.

"Stick together!" he said. "If we split up, we'll get lost. Follow my lead!"

I almost laughed. Leadership wasn't about shouting the loudest. It was about knowing when to speak—and when to stay silent. That boy would burn out quickly, his bravado masking a lack of real strategy.

I turned away from the groups and headed toward the labyrinth entrance. The stone archway was imposing, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift under the sunlight. A chill ran down my spine as I stepped inside, the shadows swallowing me whole.

The air was cooler here, damp and heavy. The walls were high, the pathways narrow, and the silence was almost oppressive. I let my footsteps echo softly as I walked, my mind already analyzing the maze's structure.

It wasn't long before I heard the distant sound of voices—a group arguing over which path to take. I didn't approach. Instead, I lingered just out of sight, listening. Their indecision was palpable, their frustration growing with each passing second.

"Left is the only logical choice!" one of them insisted. "The other path is a dead end!"

"And how do you know that?" another shot back. "You're just guessing!"

I shook my head. They were wasting time, letting fear and doubt cloud their judgment. This was the kind of weakness I couldn't afford. I moved on, leaving their bickering behind.

As I navigated the maze, I encountered more students—some moving with determination, others frozen with uncertainty. Each one was a piece on the board, a potential ally or obstacle. I didn't need to make my move yet. The key to winning wasn't just knowing when to act—it was knowing when to wait.

By the time I reached a clearing in the center of the labyrinth, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the stone floor. A few other students had made it here too, their expressions a mix of relief and wariness. They didn't trust each other. That was smart. Trust was a luxury we couldn't afford here.

I leaned against the wall, watching as more students trickled in. The labyrinth wasn't just testing our ability to navigate—it was testing our ability to adapt, to survive. And if this was only the beginning, I couldn't wait to see what the academy had in store.