The academy gates towered high, shaped from blacksteel and etched with the crests of hundreds of registered genres. The sky above shimmered faintly with floating platforms, mechanical birds, and ambient mana constructs drifting lazily on unseen currents. It was a strange blend of medieval architecture and futuristic invention — the hallmark of Creation Magic.
Corven stood before them in a freshly issued academy coat, the color dull gray — a neutral hue reserved for undeclared potential or... disappointing mana.
"Blackfeather?" the registrar blinked as he checked the list. "As in House Blackfeather?"
Corven gave a tired nod.
The registrar glanced him over, clearly unimpressed. "Genre?"
"Anime Creation," he replied, calm.
A beat of silence. Then, a quiet snort. "Right... You're the one."
Within moments of stepping into the courtyard, whispers began swirling around him.
"That's the Blackfeather loser.""He picked anime. Is that even officially recognized?""Maybe he'll summon a talking turnip next."
Corven ignored them. He had expected worse. What stung was how familiar this felt — just like home, only with more laughter behind his back.
He was led to Class C-9, the lowest-ranked class in the academy, where most students had weak mana or unpopular genres. The classroom was small, the walls slightly cracked, and the atmosphere far from prestigious.
But as he took his seat, he couldn't help but smile slightly.
Low expectations meant more room to surprise them.
The towering gates loomed before him, blacksteel and gold shimmering with protective runes. Above them, in bold engraved glyphs, was the name of the institution:
"Imperial Academy of Makers – Central Branch."
Corven exhaled slowly.
This is it. The heart of the kingdom's future. The place where legends are built... and broken.
The Academy of Makers wasn't just a school — it was the school. The most elite institution in the kingdom, where every awakened individual came to study their chosen genre. Nobles, merchants, even commoners who awakened with high mana or rare genres — all of them gathered here.
Everyone here was a Maker — the title given to anyone who had awakened and chosen their genre. A "Maker" wasn't just a magician. They were architects of reality, bending mana and knowledge to bring creations into existence.
Food Makers crafted feasts from raw ingredients and fire.Tool Makers forged weapons, devices, even vehicles.Life Makers healed, grew forests, and even shaped beasts.And then there were rarer genres… like Sound, Architecture, Myth, or Emotion.
You were judged by your genre, your mastery, and your mana. And I've already lost on two of those.
Corven adjusted his collar, the rough gray coat of the low-tier students itching at his neck. He glanced up at the floating platforms above the academy — some shaped like miniature gardens, others like roaming observatories. All of them made by students. All of them proof that Creation Magic could touch even the skies.
This was where nobles forged their legacies.Where commoners rose through genius.Where future archdukes and court Makers were born.
And Corven Blackfeather had just walked in… as the joke no one wanted.
He followed the registrar down a quiet, worn hallway. The deeper they went, the less polished everything became—fewer glowing glyphs, older floor tiles, and dusty windows. Finally, they stopped at a plain wooden door marked C-9.
"This is your class," the registrar said with a shrug. "Good luck."
The door creaked open, revealing a classroom of about twenty students. Some looked half-asleep. Others, disinterested. A few turned to glance at him—but only one or two bothered to react.
Corven stepped inside and took a seat near the back.
Let me make one thing clear.
My name is Corven Blackfeather. Second son of House Blackfeather. Archducal blood, yes—but a disappointment from the moment I was born.
I have little mana. Barely enough to spark a candle, let alone build something legendary. So, naturally, everyone expected me to follow the family line and at least choose the safe genre: Bird Mythology Creation.
Instead… I chose something no one here has ever heard of.
The other students mumbled about their own genres: "Stonework," "Sweet Food," "Wind Tools." None of them looked particularly impressed to be here.
Anime Creation.
You probably understand what that means. But in this world? They don't. There's no anime here. No manga. No pop culture. Just scrolls, myths, and ancient texts.
To them, I picked a blank genre. A joke. A failure.
But to me? It's a library of heroes. A language of emotion. A world filled with things this world has never even dreamed of.
He pulled out a small leather-bound notebook—empty for now—but in his mind, images from the unknown man's memories flickered constantly. Swords glowing with spirit energy. Ninjas leaping through trees. A spiky-haired boy shouting about ramen and never giving up.
They don't know what anime is… but they will.