Several newly registered participants were welcomed with warmth. Prominent names were greeted with formal smiles and ceremonial embraces. The officials recorded their names with deep respect, granting them seats at the front—some even bowed low, signifying the immense influence their families held within the kingdom.
Those names stirred awe. They were the sons and daughters of high-ranking officials, generals, and guild elders. Even before they spoke a single word, the world had already anointed them as top contenders. Light seemed to herald their every step.
But not for Raka.
He stood among the crowd—nameless, titleless, and utterly unacknowledged.
His body was thin, his clothes plain. No family emblem, no Éra ornaments, not even a single letter of recommendation in hand. He brought nothing but himself—and a surname the world had long spat upon: Wirabumi.
One official squinted at the list, noticing Raka's name.
"Your surname... Wirabumi?" His voice rose slightly, as if he'd found the perfect punchline. "That traitorous family still dares send a child to the Academy?"
A few participants turned to look. Quiet chuckles rippled through the hall. One voice even whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear:
"Son of a turncoat. He shouldn't even be allowed to set foot here."
Another official sneered in disgust. "Go crawl back into your rat hole."
Laughter erupted. One participant mimicked a rat's scurry in mockery, provoking more laughter and pointing.
But Raka said nothing. He didn't respond. He simply stood—upright. His eyes didn't lower, but stared straight ahead. Though his body trembled slightly, his jaw was locked tight. He had endured worse humiliation than this. This was not the first. And certainly not the last.
What they didn't know was that behind his silence, Raka was counting.
Counting who spoke first. Who laughed the loudest. Who bore a grudge—and who merely followed the tide.
He noted their footsteps, their positions in the line, even the weight in their voices when they mocked him.
In his mind, he was piecing together a map: who would be a threat, who could be used, and who was merely a shadow.
Because Raka knew: to survive in a world that wanted to destroy him, strength alone would never be enough.
He had to be clever. More clever than anyone.
Before he could reply or take a step forward, someone emerged from the crowd.
The figure seemed to appear out of thin air. No one noticed when he arrived or from which direction he came. His outline was as blurred as mist, but with each step he took, the air subtly trembled. A man clad in dark clothes, with a tattered Éra cloak devoid of symbols. No ornaments. No insignia of honor.
Yet his presence... pressed upon the room like a heavy, cold blanket.
"I'm... his recommender."
His voice was flat, yet it echoed to the stone pillars.
All eyes turned instantly. Whispers spread. Some faces paled. Others held their breath.
"Rasi... Gantarajaya?"
The name was spoken so softly it barely registered—yet it triggered a quiet panic.
Few knew that name. But among the shadowed corners of Maheswara's underworld, Gantarajaya was spoken almost like a curse. A phantom figure. Once a secret protector of the royal family, who vanished after a blood-soaked incident in Wateskala Utama twenty years ago. His name was unrecorded. No official title. But in a world built on secrets, his name alone was enough to quell ill intent.
The room that had echoed with laughter now sank into suffocating silence.
The officials exchanged glances. None dared to question further. The one brave enough to speak earlier now lowered his head, pretending to write.
Raka kept his head bowed. But this time, it wasn't out of shame.
His hands clenched into fists. Something swelled inside him—not rage. But awareness. Of how deep the pit he had climbed from was. And how far the road ahead stretched.
He had no grand name. No shield of protection. But today, he had one advantage:
They underestimated him.
And that was the most dangerous weapon someone like Raka could possess.
From the edge of the hall, Laras stood in silence, watching him. Not with pride. Not with admiration. But something far more subtle: belief. Not in Raka's strength. But in the fire that flickered within him. The same fire she felt within herself.
"This is just the beginning," Laras murmured quietly.
The skies above Madya Nagara began to dim. The last light of the sun fell upon the two youths, casting long shadows across the stone floor of the hall.
Among the heirs of great names and shining prodigies, those two shadows stood still.
But in their hearts, a vow had already been made:
If the world refuses to give us a place, then we will take it.
For in Maheswara, there are only two paths for the nameless:
To burn the world bright — or to be burned by it.
From the farthest corner of the hall, a small group of participants watched them. One of them spoke softly:
"Let them be. They won't survive the trial anyway."
But their eyes held more than disdain. There was a plan forming. Quiet moves set to shake the two children from the abyss.
But Raka... he already knew.
And in silence, he was laying out his counterplay.
With a faint smile no one could see, he understood one thing:
They had already made their first mistake.
They thought he couldn't think.
But the most dangerous ones…
Are never the strongest.
They're the ones no one sees—
Until it's far too late.