Mingma leaned against the chill of the stone wall in his dormitory, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above. The distant sounds of life outside reminded him that activities at the Royal Academy had commenced, yet his thoughts were still ensnared in the memories of the trials he had faced. Three trials—each designed to sift through the weak and unveil those capable of making an impact on the world.
He clenched his fist, his mind racing. The theoretical exam had been simple for him, owing to his understanding from Earth. However, in retrospect, he understood its real aim. It was not merely about solving equations or drafting essays—it was intended to pinpoint those with a solid grasp of magical principles, the individuals who could innovate and adapt. It had distinguished those with a strong foundation from those who depended solely on instinct or raw power.
The second trial, the affinity assessment, had starkly highlighted the bloodline hierarchy. Mingma's dual affinity for fire and gold allowed him to pass, yet it was insignificant compared to others with ancient, powerful lineages. Those students didn't merely pass—they excelled. Their magic flowed effortlessly, reflecting the advantage of their heritage. The test was not just about unveiling potential; it was about establishing an unspoken class system within the academy, separating those guaranteed to succeed from the rest.
Then came the third trial—the jungle. Mingma shut his eyes, reliving the chaotic moments in his mind. It was a battleground of intelligence, collaboration, and sheer power, with luck looming over every decision. He couldn't deny that their team's victory had relied on a blend of strategy, Tashi's quick thinking, and sheer happenstance. Luck was a component of strength in this world, he recognized—something the strong appeared to have in excess, as if it gravitated toward them.
His lips pressed together as Zilong's memory surfaced. Twelve thousand points. Mingma still struggled to comprehend how anyone could reach that number. The trials had demonstrated one crucial truth: the chasm between him and individuals like Zilong was immense, nearly impossible to bridge.
"Luck, talent, bloodline… strength," he murmured softly to himself. "The academy doesn't merely assess talent. It ranks it, showcases it, and reminds everyone precisely where they belong."
Mingma glanced at the faint mark of the curse on his wrist, the eye-shaped tattoo that seemed to taunt him during moments like this. His bloodline had given him an advantage, yes—but not sufficiently. The curse, while a source of potential, also served as a chain that held him back. It was a bitter irony, one he could not afford to linger on for too long.
He took a deep breath, pushing himself away from the wall. The trials had served as a wake-up call, a harsh reminder of the path that lay ahead. Surviving at the Royal Academy wasn't assured, and flourishing here would necessitate more than simply passing a handful of tests. He required strength—real, undeniable strength. The kind that could not be overlooked.
And for that, he would need to leverage every advantage he possessed: his bloodline, his knowledge from Earth, his curse. He would have to train more diligently, push harder, and learn more rapidly than anyone else. Because while the academy had its social structures, Mingma was determined not to remain at the bottom.
He turned to the small desk in his room, where the academy's handbook lay open. The words on the page appeared to blur as his determination solidified.
"The trials were merely the beginning," he whispered. "Now the true test commences."