When the assembly ended, the children returned to their routines in silence not sluggish, but sharpened. Something had changed.

  In the classrooms, chalk scraped more cleanly. Pages turned with purpose. Even the dazed ones seemed a little more present, as if the weight of the Arkmarschall’s words had settled into their spines. Not belief not for all. But motivation, of some kind. To survive. To be seen. To matter.

  The girl returned to her seat in the back of the classroom, the same battered desk with its softly glowing runic grooves. She opened her book again The Basics of Element and this time, she did not skim.

  She read with focus as if carving every words she read to her mind.

  Hours passed beneath the steady glow of the enchanted wards. The rustle of pages and scratch of quills filled the room like a low chant. The girl read, paused, reread. She watched the other test subjects, sometimes mimicking how they shaped their hands or whispered under their breath. Most ignored her. One or two glanced her way not unkindly, just curiously. Then came the final subject for the day.

  Mana control.

  A quiet shift rippled through the classroom, as if every spine straightened at once. This was no longer theory or history. This was personal. It was where the line between weak and strong became visible. Where failure could no longer hide behind silence. And the girl knew it.

  The Teacher a sharp-faced man with ink-stained cuffs entered and gestured curtly. He moved differently than the others: not warm, but not unfeeling either. There was a deliberate calm to him, the kind that measured rather than imposed.

  He extended his hand a rune flared to life in the air. From its light, he drew forth an iron weight, seventeen kyns heavy, and set it on the desk with a resonant thud.

  “Lift this to the roof, hold it for 10 seconds, and gently drop it back to the desk” he said not cold but not warm either.

  A murmur spread. That weight wasn’t just heavy it was well above what most test subjects around their age were expected to handle. The room tightened.

  Not in noise, but in breath held, caught, or subtly exhaled. A silence thickened, not from confusion, but pressure. Eyes darted to the weights. Then to each other.

  17 kyns.

  Almost 50 lems from the Teacher’s desk.

  * 8,5 Kg, 2,5 m

  That thought pulsed through the room like a second heartbeat unspoken, but unanimous. For most children their age, even lifting half that weight and height would be considered passable.

  This wasn’t a lesson. It was a measure.

  A few test subjects shifted in their seats. One rolled his shoulders back, already preparing his focus. Another blinked too quickly, knuckles whitening around the edge of her desk. Even the glowing of the chalkboards feels dimmed slightly, as if sensing the shift. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was worse. It was the kind of air where shame will be witnessed.

  One by one, the children stepped forward. The best among them managed to lift the iron weight to half the intended height around 25 lems and hold it steady before gently lowering it. A few others reached as high as 12 lems before their mana faltered. None reached the ceiling.

  The Teacher did not scold or praise. He only observed, silent, as though measuring variables in an unseen ledger. When each child finished, he simply gestured for the next. But as each child stepped back to their seat, he offered an advice brief a few words, low but direct.

  "Improve your breathing, not just your aim."

  "Don’t rush to the peak or you will lose focus halfway."

  "You hesitated at the lift. Next time, commit."

  Normal, measured, and specific. Tailored. As though he had been watching carefully all along. Even the silver-haired girl with the porcelain mask managed to lift it to about 20 lems before her arms trembled and she had to release it.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "Anchor better. You’ve got the strength not the balance."

  Then came the boy they called the class mutant a strange child with three arms and a faint glow flickering beneath his skin. He overdid it. The weight shot up like a cannonball, crashing into the ceiling with a loud clang. There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a few stifled laughs. Not mocking. Just sudden. Unintentional. The kind that escaped before control caught up. But for the girl for just a moment it felt… warmer. Not kind. Not safe. But felt particular. She had never been part of such sound.

  The Teacher closed his eyes for a moment. His jaw tightened barely.

  “Control,” he said quietly. Not cruelly. Not angrily. Just as if reminding them or perhaps himself.

  The boy scratched his head sheepishly. The class quickly stilled, shame tugging at the edges of their expressions. To the boy, the Teacher said,

  "If you want to impress me, land it quietly next time."

  Then it was her turn. She stepped forward when her subject number called. The iron weight sat cold on the pedestal 17 kyns. Even touching it made her arm strain. A few days ago, she couldn’t move half that. She closed her eyes. Focused. Poured every thread of mana she could gather into the base of her palm.

  Nothing.

  The weight didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. Her breath caught. For a second, it felt like the entire room grew still. Like every eye real or imagined was locked on her back. A pulse of heat rose up her neck. Not anger. Not embarrassment Dread.

  She pulled her hand back slowly, as if the failure might stain her fingers. The pedestal looked larger now. Heavier. Like it knew. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

  “Is it my fault? Have I done something wrong?” The thought curled in her chest like smoke. She clenched her jaw. Closed her eyes. This time, she didn’t just focus she pushed. Dug deeper. Desperate. Reckless. Every thread of mana she could reach, she dragged forward like frayed rope. She poured it into her palm, until it burned. Her hand trembled. The weight didn’t move. Not even a whisper of motion.

  Nothing.

  Her breath broke in her throat. The silence around her felt louder than a scream.

  Whispers stirred among the rows. A few test subjects exchanged glances, words forming on their lips. She heard them. She felt them. Eyes pressing into her back like weight she couldn’t lift. The line the one she thought had eroded, blurred by shared pain and quiet moments felt like it was redrawn.

  But then the Teacher looked at them. Just one glance. The murmuring stopped. Instantly. No laughter. No cruelty. Just silence, heavy and absolute.

  She returned to her seat, eyes down. Inside, her chest tightened, shame started to flow to her, a hollow throb felt beneath her ribs. The line that separated her from the rest felt like it had been redrawn.

  As she passed him, the Teacher’s voice came low, without turning:

  “Your focus was clear. Your body just isn’t ready yet. Keep the focus. The strength will follow.”

  She looked up to the teacher.

  For a brief moment, her steps slowed. It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t kindness. Just… suggestion. A reminder to try again. And it stirred something. Faint, but steady. Because this wasn’t new. This was failing and it always happened to her. Too slow. Too weak. Too late. Not enough. But still, she tried. Every time. Because that was the only thing she had ever known.

  Fall. Try again.

  Fail. Try again.

  And just as before “Endure.” She thinks. “Just like what I always did”

  As the bell rune chimed faintly through the ceiling, chairs scraped against the floor. The test subjects began to rise, stretching or chatting in hushed tones. A few filtered out, while others lingered by the chalkboard or near the glowing weight blocks.

  The girl remained seated for a moment. Then, clutching her notes tightly, she stood and made her way toward the front.

  The Teacher was already gathering his materials when he noticed her approach. He straightened

  "Yes?"

  She hesitated. Then met his eyes.

  “What should I do?” she asked softly, “to catch up to the rest of the class?”

  Her voice barely broke the silence. She held her notes tightly, crumpling the edge without realizing it. She was ashamed to ask. Afraid he’d dismiss her. Afraid he’d say she will never improve. Afraid that maybe everyone as right, that she was born broken. Unrepairable. But the dread of abandoning magic, of giving up was worse. So she asked because she had to. Because giving up had never been an option.

  The man studied her for a moment. His expression was not unkind, but unreadable the face of someone who is distant but not cruel He had seen that look before. That question. He’d heard it from dozens of Faintborn some trembling, some angry, most already tired. Each time, it landed the same, a small weight in the air. He had seen many fail. More than he cared to remember. But as long as someone still wanted to try. He would not dismiss them.

  "You’re… Subject N number 4, yes?" he asked, voice low.

  “The one from Reindorf Orphanage?”

  She nodded.

  “Hmm,”

  "I am Herr Halwen," he finally said, “and I’ll answer your question with a question: how long can you hold focus without wavering?"

  The girl blinked.

  "Until my mana breaks," she said.

  "Good answer." He gestured for her to follow him toward a set of shelves along the wall. There, he retrieved a slim booklet bound in cloth old but clearly maintained.

  "Read this." He leaned slightly forward. "Control is not found in strength. It is found in the space between failures."

  She nodded again not out of obedience, but understanding.

  As she turned to go, Halwen added:

  "And girl it’s not shameful to start below others. It is only shameful to stay there."