Silas Fulgur erupted in glee.
Jagged arcs of cerulean electricity danced across his skin, snapping against the silver trim of the couch and the floor nearby with a sound like breaking glass. Above his head, the monitoring crystal blazed with the gold it had been promising since the resonance reading on the balcony.
S-rank: [Lightning Spear].
The Inquisitors near his section were already documenting with the focused urgency of people recording something they would be citing for the rest of their careers.
"Did you see that?!" Silas roared. He stood, hair standing on end from the static discharge, and turned toward Isaac—who was still looking at the display beside his couch with the expression of someone reading a result they had anticipated.
"A spear for a king! S-rank: [Lightning Spear]!"
Silas's burst into laughter.
"And a puddle for a peasant! Look where the decade of his useless efforts led him to! Isaac, I'd offer to shake your hand but I'd vaporize whatever mist you've barely managed to produce!"
Isaac didn't respond. He was busy running the first calculation that [Condensation] as an F-rank result opened: the specific atmospheric conditions of the Sleep Room, the distribution of available moisture, the pressure and temperature parameters required to move the bead from its current state toward something more interesting.
Silas's grin faltered. He crossed the room and stopped in front of Isaac, close enough that the static discharge from his still-settling [Lightning Spear] was visible to Isaac.
"What's the matter? The 'hard worker' forgot how to speak? Or are you calculating how many centuries that drip will take to fill a cup?"
Isaac's eyes moved from the display to Silas's left heel.
Now, he could see it all.
What was previously registered as the ambient pressure that Silas had around him, wasn't the ambient pressure at all. Rather, it was that of the mana leaking wastefully.
"Why, congratulations, Silas," Isaac said. "You have officially become the third S-rank skill owner in the current Academy. Isn't that fun?"
There was no sincerity in Isaac's tone. Silas recognized Isaac's disinterest. Silas's face moved through several expressions before settling on rage. "You…"
The violet arc of lightning crackled from his palm as he growled—the forming silhouette of a discharge, S-rank output finding its shape in the specific geometry of S-rank: [Lightning Spear].
0.3 seconds.
Isaac timed specific seconds that Silas took to manifest electricity.
"ENOUGH."
Immediately after, the three Senior Inquisitors appeared, ready to interrupt.
Seeing their appearance, Silas lowered his hand. The discharge dissipated into harmless sparks against the nearest containment field.
"Silas Fulgur. S-rank discharge in the Sleep Room is a grade-one violation." The lead Inquisitor's voice carried that of absolute seriousness, for he knew the destructiveness of S-rank skill. "Sit down."
Silas's breathing was ragged, his eyes still fixed on Isaac with the specific intensity of something that hadn't resolved. "This isn't over," he growled. "Not by a long shot."
Isaac said nothing. He had already returned to the calculation.
...
The fall from grace was not a slow process.
Within an hour of the Rite's conclusion, a junior registrar intercepted Isaac near the exit—a low-level clerk whose eyes darted to the side and refused to land on Isaac's face. It was the look of someone delivering news they had been handed and would not be held responsible for.
"Isaac... formerly of House Valerius."
He offered a scroll, sealed with a thumb-sized dollop of brown wax. The mark of the Residue.
In all, being registered as the Residue meant that the lowest grade dormitory would be provided. There were four grades of classification in the dormitory designation: the Residue, the Standard, the Upper, and the Core.
The higher the grade, the higher the cost requirement. Thus, anything above the Standard was usually reserved for nobles and merchants—although even in the first-year, Isaac was in the Standard stream.
By the time Isaac reached the Valerius estate, the transformation was complete. His life as a noble had been compressed into three burlap sacks left on the gravel path outside the service gate, as if the packing itself had been completed before the result was announced.
For some reason, he felt no attachment to the estate. It was as if his emotion ran dry.
Any previous hopes and desperations that he held for his father died here. He supposed that it was to be expected, given how he drew F-rank skill of all things.
He picked up the bags. The iron charm clinked against the strap.
He began the three-mile walk south.
...
The Hollows was the official name of the dorm that Isaac, as the Residue, was assigned to.
The area was the cluster of soot-stained brick buildings huddled in the permanent shadow of the furnaces.
The district felt less like part of the Academy and more like the district meant to house the leftovers. The air tasted of coal smoke and was accompanied by the constant rhythmic thumping of the water filtration system.
Iconic, thought Isaac.
Dormitory G of the Hollows was a crumbling structure of damp stone. His room was a cellar—grey brick, a laundry machine on one side, a sweating water main on the other, and a small bed that had clearly been chosen for function rather than comfort.
Isaac set the bags down. Stood in the quiet.
The first thing he noticed was that the water main was running at slightly higher pressure than the standard residential specification. The second thing he noticed was that the moisture level in the air was significantly elevated compared to the Sleep Room; the combination of the filtration system, the laundry machine, and the lack of ventilation had created a humidity that would was high enough to interrupt one's sleep.
The cellar was, by any reasonable assessment, a poor living space.
However, none of that mattered. What mattered was that he had a place to stay, free from the eyes of the others.
He sat on a chair. Closed his eyes and reached inward.
SSS-rank: [The Prism].
The lens was still there. It wasn't something he activated or exerted, but rather, the tool of perception that has embedded itself into his very senses already. It enabled him to perceive far beyond what a normal human could.
He held out his palm.
A bead of water formed from the cellar's saturated air. Instantly. Cleanly.
Why, and how? F-rank: [Condensation] wasn't supposed to have speed of this extent.
The answer was in [The Prism]'s perception over [Condensation]. It didn't just view [Condensation] as what it literally was. Rather, it broke down [Condensation] into two primary components—pressure and temperature.
Yes, Isaac was no longer just performing the standard [Condensation]. He was manipulating pressure and temperature in the finest manner, to reach this level of speed.
And that wasn't it.
He compressed the waterdrop. It was only possible because he perceived the pressure manipulation in [Condensation].
The waterdrop's density escalated as its spheric volume decreased by at least half. It indicated that the molecular structure tightened under the precise pressure of the mana thread.
The water bead turned a deep, unnatural indigo at full compression—the color of something that had been forced beyond the geometry its surface tension preferred.
To anyone watching, it was a tiny-marble-sized drop of water.
However, Isaac felt its mass as it threatened to fall from his fingertip. An abnormal magnitude of mass was packed into eight millimeters.
It wasn't just a drip. It was a lethal weapon.
Aware of this, he quickly released the compression before it could demonstrate anything, just before the waterdrop fell and crushed the floor.
As the decompressed drop plopped on the floor, a soft knock was heard by the door—careful and hesitant. His analysis of his skills had to halt.
Reaching for the door, Isaac opened it.
"…Isaac."
Elara stood in the dim corridor. Her expression appeared dark, making him wonder if something happened.
"They really did it to you, didn't they," she said quietly. "How can they be this heartless?"
"You are upset for me. Thanks," Isaac said, learning that her gloomy demeanor was made for his sake. "But no need to worry about me." He stepped back to let her in. "How did you do?"
"…B-rank: [Healing Bloom]. I know, it's crazy. But I am not trying to brag or anything. I just… don't want to hide it from you." She said in that of disbelief and cautiousness, not wanting to hurt Isaac's feelings.
Then, there was a pause. Her face darkened by several degrees more, as if having remembered something very alarming.
"Isaac. Silas is telling everyone that he's going to use you to demonstrate what S-rank: [Lightning Spear] does to F-rank [Condensation]. He wants a public execution."
"Is that so," Isaac said.
"I am not joking. He was dead serious, as if he was waiting for this moment for a long time. Did you two, by any chance, have past grievances?"
Before Isaac could reply, another voice came from the doorway, "At last, this room receives its new tenant."
A lanky fourth-year with unruly red hair and faint burn scars along both forearms, holding a half-eaten apple with the ease of someone entirely at home, walked his way in, casually.
"Marcus Bale. Fourth year. Same year as your former brother, as it happens." He glanced at the water main with the practiced attention of someone who had seen it for quite some time. "Fire marshal of this section. Meaning I keep the pipes running and nobody asks too many questions."
Isaac looked at the faint steam rising where Marcus's fingers contacted the apple. He looked at the water main.
"You're the thermal source for the dorm's water supply," Isaac said. "Manual induction."
Marcus's grin faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked at his own hands, then back at the F-rank freshman. "Sharp. Yeah. D-rank: [Cinder]. I can boil a kettle. Can't throw a fireball. Academy classifies it as a utility failure. I classify it as permanent employment at the filtration plant. I mean, look. I am already hired pre-graduation."
Marcus then laughed—the deep, raspy sound of someone who had not expected to be amused and found it refreshing.
"And look. I ended up hearing a bit of your conversation on my way in. Silas Fulgur, eh?" He took another bite out of his half-eaten apple. "If you're actually going up against him next week, you'll need some training—not that I know if it'll mean anything." He pointed a thumb at himself, rather confidently. "I run the night shift at the south filtration tunnels—midnight to four, and there is barely any monitoring in here, the Hollows. Show up if you want unobserved time."
Elara looked between them. "Training? But…"
"I didn't answer your question yet, did I, Elara," Isaac spoke. "No, there exists no specific grievances between Silas Fulgur and me. However, he, for some reason, seemed to be rather interested in me since the start of the first-year." He looked down and gazed at his palm. "Should he wish for an opportunity to set up a duel that I cannot refuse, it will happen. Those of higher power always find ways. The best I can do is to prepare—something is better than nothing, regardless of how pointless it may seem."
He clenched his hand. Looked up at Marcus.
"I will take on the offer. Thanks, Marcus."
Marcus nodded.
Elara mumbled, knowing that there wasn't much options that Isaac could choose from. "Just… ha… I don't even know what I can say for you."
After chatting for some more, Elara left.
"Well then, take care of yourself. Welcome to the Hollows."
Marcus looked at him for a moment with the expression containing a personal interest. Then he left.
Once again, the silence returned to the dorm.
Isaac was left with a lot to think about.