# Chapter 2: The Failure's Mark
Class F smelled like mildew and forgotten ambitions, which Zane supposed was appropriate for a room full of students the Academy had already given up on.
The "classroom" occupied what had clearly been a storage hall in some earlier century_ater stains mapped the ceiling like brown continents, the single mage-light flickered with the rhythm of failing enchantments, and fourteen mismatched desks sat in uneven rows across warped floorboards. Someone had half-heartedly painted "Class F" on the door in letters that already flaked away.
Zane counted twelve students present as he entered. Eight commoners clustered together near the back, their rough-spun uniforms marking them as scholarship cases or service-track admissions. Two minor nobles sat rigidly separate, their postures radiating shame at their placement_ne boy with the pale complexion of House Vertis, known for their "defective" wind affinity that could barely move paper, and a girl whose family crest Zane didn't recognize. Two more students wore the gray bands of pure service-track, here to learn groundskeeping and library organization rather than magic.
No one looked at him as he walked to a desk in the back corner. Perfect. He'd selected the position with care_ightlines to both the main door and the emergency exit that no one else seemed to have noticed, his back to the wall, seated where he could observe without being easily observed.
Two rows ahead, a girl with black hair tied in a practical braid sat reading a tome thick enough to serve as a weapon. She hadn't looked up when he entered, completely absorbed in whatever text held her attention. That one, Zane thought, noting the book's worn leather binding and the way her fingers traced the margins with the intensity of genuine scholarship rather than mere study.
Seraphina Lin, if his memory of the entrance ceremony's roster was correct. C-Rank Fire, a commoner who'd earned her admission through pure examination scores rather than family influence or affinity blessing. Her presence in Class F made no sense unless
The door banged open, interrupting his analysis.
A tired-looking woman in a professor's robe entered, her movements carrying the weight of decades spent teaching students who didn't want to learn. Her Academy insignia marked her as D-Rank Earth, respectable enough for a commoner instructor but nowhere near the power of the professors who taught the upper classes.
"Sit," she said without preamble, her voice flat with the exhaustion of repetition. "I'm Instructor Mira. I supervise Class F, which means I babysit the Academy's statistical failures until you either drop out or graduate into menial positions."
Several students flinched. The Vertis boy's face flushed red.
Instructor Mira dropped a stack of papers on her desk with a thud that echoed in the hollow room. "Let's establish reality. You are not here to become heroes. You are not here to join the Knight's Conclave or the Elemental Sanctum. You are here because the Academy's charter requires them to accept a certain number of low-affinity students to maintain their royal funding, and because even hero factories need someone to maintain the grounds and file the paperwork."
She began distributing schedules, slapping them onto desks as she walked the rows. "Your curriculum consists of mandatory basic courses that the Academy legally has to provide, and practical service training. That means you'll learn enough combat theory to not die immediately if a demon beast attacks the campus, and you'll spend the rest of your time doing actual work_ibrary assistance, groundskeeping, equipment maintenance, whatever keeps this place running while the real students train to save the world."
Zane accepted his schedule without looking at it. He'd already memorized the Academy's course catalog from stolen documents he'd reviewed in the slums. Basic Magical Theory, Elemental Fundamentals, Combat Awareness, History of the Purification War_ll the minimum requirements that would bore him to tears.
And at the bottom, in smaller text: Combat Fundamentals (Mandatory). Professor Kylus. The Culling Grounds.
His finger paused on that line. Kylus. The war veteran with the prosthetic arm and the hatred burning bright enough to see from across a battlefield. This would be interesting.
"Now for the part they don't put in the orientation materials," Instructor Mira continued, her voice taking on a bitter edge. "Any student from Class A through D can challenge you to sanctioned duels with administrative approval. They rarely get rejected. You are, functionally, practice targets for nobles who need to pad their combat records."
The room's temperature seemed to drop. One of the commoner girls made a small, distressed sound.
"Can we refuse?" the Vertis boy asked, his voice cracking.
"You can forfeit immediately and take the loss on your record, which will follow you for life and mark you as a coward. Or you can fight and probably lose badly enough to need healing, which the Academy provides but doesn't particularly prioritize for Class F students." Mira's expression suggested she'd given this speech too many times. "My advice? Learn to forfeit with dignity and avoid attracting attention from the upper classes. Stay invisible, graduate with your basic certifications, and find quiet lives somewhere that doesn't ask about your Academy rank."
Stay invisible. Zane suppressed a smile. That had been his plan exactly_ntil circumstances forced him to use blood magic at the entrance ceremony. Now he was marked as the "Mana-Null who cheated," which meant attention was inevitable.
The door opened again without a knock.
A mountain of muscle squeezed through the frame_asily six and a half feet tall, shoulders broad enough to block the flickering mage-light, arms thick as tree trunks. The boy wore the Knight's Conclave insignia on his uniform and carried himself with the entitled swagger of someone who'd never faced real consequences.
Garrick Stone. Zane recognized him from the entrance ceremony's upper-class roster. B-Rank Earth affinity, enrolled in the combat track, and from the way Alistair val-Corvus had clapped him on the shoulder, clearly part of the golden boy's entourage.
"Professor Kylus sends his regards," Garrick announced, his voice carrying the particular smugness of a messenger who knew his news would cause distress. "All first-years including Class F are required to attend tomorrow morning's Combat Fundamentals at the Culling Grounds. Eight AM sharp. He said to emphasize that attendance is mandatory even for students with 'vestigial' capabilities."
His eyes swept the room, cataloging failures with obvious contempt, until they landed on Zane.
"You." Garrick pointed with a finger thick as a dagger handle. "You're the Mana-Null who cheated the stone, right? The one who produced that pathetic little flame?"
Zane met his gaze with perfect calm, his expression as empty as still water. He said nothing.
"Professor Kylus is very interested in seeing what you can actually do in a combat scenario." Garrick's smile widened. "I think we're all curious about that. Especially after you somehow managed to trick a divine artifact."
The silence stretched. Several Class F students stared at their desks, clearly desperate to avoid association with someone drawing hostile attention. The Vertis boy shifted uncomfortably.
Zane continued to stare at Garrick with that same empty calm, his posture relaxed, his hands loose on the desk. He'd perfected this expression over centuries_he blank face that unnerved enemies because it showed no fear, no anger, nothing human they could read or predict.
For just a moment, something flickered across Garrick's face that might have been uncertainty. His smile faltered slightly.
Then he laughed, loud and deliberate, dispelling whatever instinct had whispered warning. "Guess the trash doesn't even talk back. Tomorrow morning, Mana-Null. Don't be late. Wouldn't want to miss your chance to entertain us."
He left without waiting for dismissal, the door banging shut behind him.
The room erupted in worried whispers. One of the commoner boys muttered something about "accidental injuries" and "those practice dummies that adapt to crush you." Another girl said she'd heard Class F students ended up in the infirmary for weeks after Kylus's training sessions.
"Settle down." Instructor Mira's voice cut through the rising panic. She looked at Zane with something that might have been pity. "The Culling Grounds live up to their name. They're designed to push students to their limits and break the ones who can't handle pressure. For most of you, tomorrow will be the worst day of your Academy lives."
She distributed the last of the schedules. "My advice stands: stay invisible, don't attract attention, and survive until graduation. Class dismissed. Get out of here and try to enjoy your last day before the real culling begins."
Students fled like rabbits from a wolf's den. Within seconds, only Zane and the black-haired girl remained.
She finally looked up from her book, turning in her seat to face him. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, the kind of gaze that saw more than it should.
"Are you actually suicidal or just ignorant?" she asked quietly. "Because challenging Garrick Stone's attention when you have no magic_hat's not bravery. That's just stupid."
"I didn't challenge anything," Zane replied, his voice level. "He challenged me."
"Same result. The Culling Grounds are going to eat you alive." She studied him for a moment longer. "I'm Seraphina. Since we're going to be classmates in what passes for this disaster, I figured I should at least know your name before you get yourself killed tomorrow."
"Zane."
"No family name?"
"No family."
Something flickered in her expression_ecognition, maybe, or sympathy. She gestured to the book she'd been reading. "I have some research materials on historical combat techniques that don't require high affinity. Pre-Compact era stuff, back when people had to actually think instead of just blasting everything with their blessed gifts. If you want to live through tomorrow, you might want to borrow them."
Zane glanced at the book's spine. Tactical Doctrines of the Purification War: A Revisionist Analysis.
His own war. His own tactics. Being analyzed by a seventeen-year-old commoner girl who thought she understood ancient warfare.
"I appreciate the offer," he said carefully. "I'm well-informed about the Academy's traditions."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed at his phrasing, at the formal cadence that didn't quite match a Class F commoner's expected speech patterns.
"You talk like a historian," she said.
"I read a lot."
"In the slums?"
"Used bookshops have the best forgotten knowledge. No one guards old books like they guard new ones."
She smiled slightly, apparently satisfied with that answer. "Then maybe you'll survive after all. Professor Kylus is brutal, but he respects tactical thinking over raw power. Show him you have a brain and he might not break you completely."
She gathered her materials and stood. "Good luck tomorrow, Zane-with-no-family-name. Try not to get your skull cracked open on your second day. I'd like to have at least one classmate worth talking to."
Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the failing mage-light's flicker.
Zane remained in his seat for several minutes after she left, thinking about the upcoming Combat Fundamentals trial and Professor Kylus's prosthetic arm.
That arm was a gift from Xylos's war_pecifically, from the Battle of Ash Ridge where Kylus had led a Holy Knight company against a War-Mage battalion. Zane remembered the battle with perfect clarity. Kylus had been competent, ruthlessly efficient, the kind of officer who understood that war was about logistics and terrain rather than heroic charges.
He'd also watched helplessly as Zane's forces systematically destroyed his command using runebreaking tactics that the Holy Knights had never encountered before.
Tomorrow should be very interesting indeed.
Zane stood, collected his schedule, and made his way back to his assigned dormitory_ converted servant's quarter with a narrow bed, a desk missing one leg, and a window overlooking the eastern wall.
He had work to do. Preparations to make. And a very specific demonstration to plan for a war veteran who thought he understood the Archfiend's combat doctrines.
After all, who better to teach the Culling Grounds about runebreaking than the man who'd invented the techniques?
**