It was 9 o'clock in the morning, and the cobbled streets of Auraline were starting to stir. Business owners unlocked their doors and flipped signs to OPEN. The hum of the kingdom waking up was a steady rhythm: children trudging to school, cloaked officials heading toward the Parliament Dome, soldiers patrolling in pairs with armour that clinked softly as they moved.
Amidst the rising hum of city life, tucked into a corner of East Fenridge, stood a small but proud establishment: Tim's Hearthstone Pizza. The scent of bubbling tomato sauce and freshly baked dough spilt into the street, a comforting cloud that made passersby glance over and linger. The warmth from the ovens was inviting to customers, nostalgic even.
But for Winter Williamson, it was just the smell of routine. It was the scent of days on loop, of flour under his nails and tomato on his sleeves. It lingered on his skin, in his clothes, in his memory—like a life that never changed.
Winter leapt up from bed, groaning as he reached to silence the shrill alarm. It blinked 8:59 AM in glowing runes before going still.
Outside his door, his aunt's voice struck like a war horn.
"Look at yourself!" Aunt April hissed at winter as she stepped into the hallway, sweeping the floor with her age-old broomstick.
She stopped at my room's entryway, stood with her arms crossed, hair in a messy bun, wielding the broom like a weapon of judgment. "You look like a complete mess. It'll be 9:30 soon. Get ready and help your uncle with the store. You're cleaning it up."
"There was a birthday party last night.", Winter remembered. It will be a cesspool of balloons, spilt drinks, and melted cake.
"Okay, Aunt April..." Winter yawned, already dragging his feet toward the bathroom.
The knob twisted with a soft click, and a moment later, warm water engulfed his body. Steam clouded the mirror as Winter leaned against the tile, letting the water drown his thoughts.
Yes, Winter Williamson. You are seventeen years old. You live above a pizza place. And in two days, you're supposed to take the most important test in the kingdom.
The Valurin Exam.
And you're not ready. You're not even fit to face today.
Hopeful Aunt April. Disappointed Uncle Tim. And your usual descent into quiet darkness.
Winter dressed quickly after the shower, pulling on the same work shirt from yesterday, still smelling faintly of dough and sweat. He glanced at the mirror on the wall. Messed-up, unkempt orange hair. Green eyes that looked like they'd seen too much night and not enough day. A thin frame, barely held up by willpower and coffee.
"Nothing interesting to look at, Pathetic," he told himself. and steps downstairs.
He grabbed the mop and got to work. clearing the mess in the hallway. Sticky spots of soda. Confetti bits jammed between tiles. Empty plates with half-eaten crusts. He scrubbed like a man condemned, not driven.
When he finally finished, he surveyed the dining area: wide, clean, with tables placed near the window to let customers enjoy the view of the busy street without being overwhelmed by its noise. a slice of peace in the city's chaos.
As Winter finished cleaning, the door jingled open.
An old man with a large, comical moustache peeked inside. "Is it open?"
Winter didn't answer. He just glanced at the mop, still dripping slightly in his hand.
"Yes, oh yes—it is," said Uncle Tim, emerging from the back. His voice was booming, filled with the confident warmth of someone who'd once commanded soldiers.
"Wiiinter!" he called, his tone sharp but not unkind. The look in his eyes said everything: Drop the mop. Put on your mask. Serve the customer. Be quick.
Winter obeyed. Without a word, he served water, cleared plates, and brought menus. All robotic. His body moved out of habit; his mind never once caught up.
Only a few customers had arrived so far. The breakfast crowd was light, giving way to the late-morning lull. But Uncle Tim moved like it was a dinner rush.
"Winter, tables five and seven need clearing!" he barked from the kitchen, voice echoing like a command on a battlefield.
A former Royal Guard, Uncle Tim still carried himself like he was protecting the palace. Built like a brick oven, arms thick from kneading dough and swinging swords, he moved with purpose. His apron was always dusted in flour, his shirt always tucked military-tight. His expectations were high, but never cruel. He believed discipline made men, and he wanted Winter to become one.
Winter didn't argue. He nodded, not because he wasn't listening, but because he'd stopped having that feeling to reply. They knew each other's rhythms by now.
His thoughts drifted once more.
The Valurin Exam. Not a mere school test—it was the filter of fate. If you passed, one of the Big Eight Houses picked you up. Nobility. Wealth. Power. Influence. A future carved in gold.
If you failed?
You were sent to forgotten academies, trade schools, or worse—lifelong labour. Farm work. City cleanup crews. Golem maintenance. Forever scraping at society's edge.
Winter sometimes wondered if he was special. After all, he had this ability—Adventurer Summoning. It was rare, respected, and technically high-tier magic. In the worst-case scenario, it meant he wouldn't starve; he could always land a spot in the summoning guild if he actually got good at it. A steady position, maybe even some status.
But honestly? He hated it.
Summoning people from other worlds—foreigners who didn't belong here—every single day, just to test them, sort them, and send them off to fight battles? That wasn't magic. That was the administration. A factory job disguised in runes and circles.
I don't want to be some glorified court dog. A hero-summoning machine. That's what they see me as.
But I want more than that. I want adventure.
The kingdom of Eldrasur is always on edge—our borders are wrapped in Forgotten Lands, and demons crawl there like they own it. Our neighbouring countries are just as bad. Always watching, always waiting to carve off a piece of us when we're weakest.
No one even knows where the demons came from. We just fight them. We throw adventurers at them—either the ones born here or the ones dragged in from other worlds.
And I'm supposed to be the guy who summons them. Opens the gate. Watches strangers go off to die while I stand behind some velvet rope and fill out paperwork.
As he wiped crumbs off the tabletop, Winter pressed a little too hard, the rag nearly tearing. He looked up, catching his reflection in the window—someone going through motions, not living them.
Uncle Tim's voice broke his thoughts again.
"Hey, Win! You're still wearing your waiter clothes. It's about 11:30. School's at 12:30. What're you waiting for? Get moving!"
Winter didn't answer. He just vanished into his room upstairs.
It's a small bed, a desk, a cracked mirror, and the faint hum of mana lines embedded in the walls. I swap my pizza-stained clothes for the formal navy-and-gold school uniform. Shirt tucked in, jacket tight. It feels like a costume for a role I've already failed to get.
My power level's 200. I might as well be a broomstick with a mana leak.
The average candidate who makes it into the Houses scores above 800, with sharp spells, honed muscles, or genius-level intellect. I'm not any of those things. I'm not a scholar. I'm not a fighter. I'm not a genius.
As I leave the house,
A familiar pigeon flutters down and lands right in front of me, dropping a folded slip of paper like it's delivering some grand prophecy. I recognise the handwriting immediately.
"Hey Winter—come meet us at the park before school."
No signature. They never sign.
I pocket the note, but I don't change course. Not yet. There's something I need to check first.
I veer off the main road and duck into a narrow alley that opens up to the Test Club—a run-down, pay-to-train centre squeezed between a flashy broadsword showroom and an herbalist who swears their "focus-enhancing" tea is brewed by mountain monks. Yeah, right.
The gym inside hits me with the usual stench of sweat, rubber mats, and cheap disinfectant. Sparring dummies sag against the walls like exhausted soldiers. Their foam padding is torn in places, the skin of too many failed ambitions. In the back, a couple of older boys are working on enchantment loops, muttering spell-phrases under their breath, completely ignoring me. Which is fine. I didn't come here to be seen.
I walk straight to the power sphere.
It hovers in its glass chamber, dull and unassuming unless you know what it is—a Royal Grade Evaluation Core embedded inside, capable of measuring your magical essence and translating your entire worth into a glowing number.
That number defines your life.
I take a slow breath and raise my hand. Not touching—just hovering. That's all it needs.
The sphere flickers to life, its veins glowing faint blue. A soft hum builds in the air. For a moment, I let myself hope. Maybe this time. Maybe something's changed. Maybe I finally—
200.
The number flashes up on the tiny arcane screen.
Still 200.
The hum fades. The light dies. And in my chest, that same hollow feeling opens again. Like the floor's vanished under me, but I never actually fall. Just hang there. Weightless. Powerless.
No gain. No secret power surge. No dramatic awakening. All this time—nothing.
I let my hand fall and stare at the orb like it personally betrayed me.
Why did I even bother?
I hate this society. I hate how it values nothing but strength, intellect, and usefulness. How it churns kids into machines for the state. It tries to assign your entire life before you've even figured out who you are.
But there's one thing. One small, stupid, ridiculous thing that I find fun in ever since I was a kid—Beetle Battles.
It's not noble. It's not powerful. But it's mine. And when I'm in the park, watching two enchanted beetles collide in a ring of dirt and arcane sparks, my heart actually races. I feel alive. Like I matter. Like maybe, just maybe, I'm more than 200 points.
And last week at the science exhibition, I got something that the others don't know about.
Winter reached into his bag and pulled out a transparent case. Inside, a red beetle—TANK. I haven't lost a single match since Tank came into my life.
Let's go, buddy.
Tank brrrss.