I spent nearly ten minutes staring at the technician offer.
Then another five.
The contents stubbornly refused to improve.
There wasn't even an attempt to disguise what it was. No inspirational slogans. No promises of limitless opportunity. No smiling graduates standing triumphantly beneath university banners.
Just a straightforward offer to enroll in a three-year apprenticeship program administered by the School of Magic Technology.
A practical career.
A stable income.
Guaranteed employment.
The sort of opportunity sensible people appreciated.
Unfortunately, I had never been particularly sensible.
I folded the document and slipped it back into the envelope. Around me, the examination grounds were gradually emptying as students collected their results and moved on with their lives. Some walked away celebrating with friends and family. Others left quietly, carrying their disappointment with as much dignity as possible.
A few looked completely numb.
I suspected I belonged in the last category.
As I made my way toward the exit, someone called my name.
"Neal!"
For a brief moment, I considered pretending not to hear him. Then I recognized the voice.
Raudra.
Of course.
Apparently fate wasn't finished with me yet.
I slowed down and turned around. The blond prodigy weaved through the crowd toward me, looking far more enthusiastic than anybody with an 8.24 MCass output had any right to be.
"I've been looking for you," he said.
That made one of us.
I hadn't been looking for anybody.
"If you're here to brag, save it," I said. "I've already seen the score."
His ears turned slightly red.
Interesting.
Embarrassment.
The rich really were just like normal people.
"I wasn't bragging."
"Then congratulations anyway."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"Thanks."
The conversation stalled for a moment before he asked the question that had clearly been bothering him.
"So... which dormitory are you aiming for?"
I blinked.
Then the meaning registered.
University.
He was talking about university.
For several long seconds, neither of us said anything.
I watched understanding dawn on his face.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Like someone realizing they'd just stepped onto very thin ice.
"...you didn't pass?"
I laughed.
Mostly because every other response seemed unhealthy.
"Nope."
"But your control score..."
"Ninety-nine point one."
"And your stability..."
"Ninety-nine point eight."
"Then how?"
I shrugged.
The motion felt heavier than it should have.
"Three point nine eight."
The number seemed to hit him physically.
"Oh."
That one word contained more sympathy than most speeches.
And somehow that made it hurt worse.
Because the truth was simple.
The difference between us had never been effort.
The difference had always been talent.
For the first time since we'd met, Raudra looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry."
I shrugged again.
"What for?"
"It feels unfair."
I considered that.
A few years ago I would've launched into a lengthy rant about educational systems, magical discrimination, and society's unhealthy obsession with arbitrary numbers.
Today I was too tired.
"Life's rude like that."
Raudra didn't know how to respond.
Neither did I.
So we simply walked.
The streets leading away from the examination complex were packed with students and parents. Some candidates were already calling relatives to share the news. Others sat on benches staring blankly at their portals.
At one intersection, a large crowd had gathered around a public projection screen.
The moment I heard cheering, I recognized what was happening.
Gliball.
Naturally.
Apparently the world had decided my personal tragedy wasn't enough entertainment for one day.
As we passed, a commentator's voice echoed through the street.
"...and that's a beautiful recovery by the Umria Stormhawks! Three points down entering the final quarter and they're still fighting!"
The crowd erupted.
A man wearing a Stormhawks jersey nearly spilled his drink while celebrating.
I would've kept walking if not for the elderly vendor standing nearby.
"Hey!"
He pointed at us.
"You two look miserable."
"What gave it away?" I asked.
The vendor ignored me completely.
"Watch the game."
"I'm good."
"You'll feel better."
"I sincerely doubt that."
The old man shook his head.
"Kids these days."
For reasons I still don't fully understand, we ended up standing there.
For nearly fifteen minutes.
Watching Gliball.
I still didn't fully understand the rules.
Apparently giant armored idiots ran into each other at high speeds while trying to control a glowing sphere powered by mana.
People called it strategy.
The crowd called it art.
The commentators sounded one successful tackle away from a religious experience.
Yet as I stood there listening to thousands of strangers cheer together, I found myself remembering Old Man Jin.
"For five or six hours every day, Tocho let Mythilia forget there was a war."
Back then, I hadn't understood.
Now I thought I did.
The game wasn't really about the game.
It was about forgetting everything else.
Just for a little while.
The bills.
The failures.
The pressures.
The fear.
For a few precious hours, none of those things existed.
Only the match.
The Stormhawks eventually scored.
The crowd exploded.
People hugged complete strangers.
One man actually started crying.
I glanced at Raudra.
To my surprise, he was smiling.
A genuine smile.
No calculations.
No ambition.
No expectations.
Just happiness.
"You follow Gliball?" I asked.
"A little."
"A little?"
"You should see his room."
Raudra turned.
Neither of us had noticed his father approaching.
The patrol officer looked amused.
"He tracks player statistics."
"Father."
"He built a ranking spreadsheet."
"Father."
"He predicted sixty-eight percent of last season's matches."
I looked at Raudra.
Then at his father.
Then back at Raudra.
"That's somehow the least surprising thing I've heard all week."
His father laughed.
Raudra looked as though he'd rather fight another practical examination.
Eventually we parted ways.
His father had brought the patrol bike.
I had my feet.
The disparity felt symbolic somehow.
Before leaving, Raudra hesitated.
"Whatever you decide," he said, glancing at the envelope in my hand, "I hope it works out."
I stared at him.
"You're incredibly bad at motivational speeches."
For a second he looked horrified.
Then I laughed.
Maybe we'd been friends in another life.
---
The sun was setting by then, painting the streets of Umria in shades of orange and gold. Shopkeepers were pulling down shutters. Merchants were counting the day's earnings. The smell of grilled fish drifted through the air from a nearby stall.
For the first time since receiving my results, I slowed down.
I had nowhere to be.
No classes to attend.
No preparations to make.
No future to chase.
Just an envelope in my bag and a decision to make.
A surprisingly easy one.
By the time darkness settled over the city, I found myself near the harbor.
The docks had always been my favorite place in Umria.
Ships came from all over the continent. Merchants spoke strange languages. Sailors carried stories from distant lands. Every vessel represented possibility.
A life different from the one you already had.
For years, I had secretly imagined stepping aboard one of them.
Not as cargo.
Not as a passenger.
As a free man.
I sat at the edge of the pier and watched the lights reflecting on the water.
The next ship heading south would depart in four days.
Past the Nico Islands.
Past the trade routes.
Past the territories controlled by Mythilia and Xenria.
Toward the Wastelands.
Most people in Mythilia spoke about the Wastelands with pity.
Or fear.
Or both.
To me, they represented something else.
A place where nobody cared about MCass.
A place where nobody asked why I looked different.
A place where nobody expected anything from me.
The more I thought about it, the better it sounded.
The idea wasn't new.
I'd been thinking about leaving for months.
Every failed experiment.
Every disappointing score.
Every sideways glance from strangers.
Each one had pushed me a little closer.
The practical examination had merely finished the job.
Three point nine eight.
I laughed quietly.
The number almost seemed absurd now.
How much of a person's life could be decided by two hundredths of a unit?
Apparently all of it.
I pulled the technician offer from my bag and read it one last time.
Housing.
Training.
Employment.
Security.
Everything a reasonable person should want.
I folded it carefully.
Then tucked it away.
Maybe another version of me would've accepted.
Not this one.
Not yet.
A cargo ship was currently being unloaded nearby.
Workers moved crates between the vessel and the dock while a foreman shouted instructions.
Watching them reminded me of Uncle Hess.
He would've told me the Wastelands were a terrible idea.
Then he would've helped me pack.
That was just the kind of man he was.
For a brief moment, I found myself wishing he were still alive.
Not because he'd solve my problems.
Because he'd know what to say.
I rarely did.
The decision was made before I consciously realized I'd made it.
I stood up.
Looked across the harbor.
And nodded to myself.
Four days.
In four days I would leave Mythilia.
No dramatic farewell.
No final attempt.
No desperate gamble.
Just a ship heading south and a chance to start over.
For the first time in years, I felt something I hadn't expected.
Relief.
Real relief.
The dream was gone.
And the world hadn't ended.
Maybe that was enough.
***
The only people who contacted me regularly were merchants from the forums and the occasional scammer claiming I'd inherited enormous wealth from a distant relative. That's why I had ignored all the notifications.
After the intern stopped me, I pulled the device out and checked them.
Twenty-three unread messages.
Half of them were from moped629.
Naturally.
I opened those first.
moped629: HOW DO I OPEN PDF
moped629: hello
moped629: are you there
moped629: I think I broke it
moped629: nevermind
moped629: wait
moped629: no I definitely broke it
I sighed.
Somewhere out there was a postgraduate student from the National Institute of Magic.
A future researcher.
A future intellectual.
A future contributor to human knowledge.
And he had somehow lost a fight against a document.
I scrolled further.
The newer messages were from forum users discussing the blocker thread.
One was convinced Armeda was secretly sabotaging their own products.
Another had accused three different users of being Defentec employees.
The situation appeared to be progressing beautifully.
Then I noticed an unfamiliar sender.
Government Education Authority
Notification: Assignment Update
I frowned.
That couldn't be right.
The government never contacted me.
Not voluntarily.
My immediate assumption was that somebody wanted money.
The government loved money.
Carefully, I opened the notification.
For several seconds, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.
Then I read it again.
And then a third time.
The result remained unchanged.
Candidate: Neal
National Entrance Examination ID: 701223
Institution Assignment Available
My pulse quickened.
"Can I see that?"
The intern immediately leaned closer.
I hadn't realized I'd spoken those words out loud.
The projection rotated slightly toward me.
The information matched perfectly.
Slowly, I opened the attached document on my device.
A familiar crest appeared at the top of the screen.
One I had spent years staring at.
One I knew better than my own reflection.
B.R. TUFFEL SCHOOL OF MAGIC TECHNOLOGY
My mouth went dry.
There had to be a mistake.
A clerical error.
A system malfunction.
Some poor administrator accidentally clicking the wrong button.
Something.
Anything.
Then the next line loaded.
Grade B Reserve Admission Offer
The world seemed strangely quiet.
I could still hear people talking around me.
I could still hear the waves striking the side of the ship.
I could still hear cargo being moved on the deck above.
Yet all of those sounds felt distant.
Unimportant.
Because four days ago, I had made a decision.
Three years of failure.
Three years of studying.
Three years of chasing a dream that clearly wanted nothing to do with me.
Enough.
I was done.
When the practical results came back, I had finally accepted reality.
I wasn't going to become a magician.
I was going to leave.
The Wastelands weren't glamorous. They weren't prosperous. They certainly weren't safe. But they were free.
No entrance examinations.
No MCass requirements.
No professors telling you your future based on a number.
Just people trying to survive.
And somehow that seemed appealing.
I had already picked the ship.
Already researched the route.
Already convinced myself it was the right choice.
Then the universe had decided to play a joke.
I looked down at the acceptance letter again.
Then at the projection.
Then back at the acceptance letter.
Still there.
Still real.
Still impossible.
The intern cleared his throat.
"Congratulations."
I turned toward him.
He looked genuinely happy for me.
The bastard.
"Thanks."
"Most people would be excited."
"I was."
"What happened?"
I stared at him.
For a moment, I considered explaining.
The years.
The failures.
The practical examination.
The technician offer.
The dreams I'd already buried.
Instead I just shook my head.
"It's complicated."
The intern nodded sympathetically.
Which somehow made everything worse.
I folded my device shut.
Outside the porthole, the sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
On one side waited the university I'd dreamed about for years.
On the other waited the life I'd already chosen.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure which one I wanted more.