Aboard the high-speed train, Raven looked out the window. The carriage glided along the rails with that fluidity characteristic of mana engines, barely disturbed by a faint background hum.
The further the train advanced, the more the landscape changed.
The transformation occurred gradually before his eyes. The train had left the station of the southern slums and was now burrowing northward through Dome M-77. Through the window, the scenery scrolled past.
First, the streets became cleaner.
The difference was striking. The trash that littered the ground in the southern districts gradually disappeared, giving way to neat, swept, maintained roadways. Potholes became rarer, then vanished completely, replaced by a smooth, uniform surface. The sidewalks were now clearly defined, bordered by cut stone curbs. Grates covered the gutters to collect runoff—the kind of detail one only truly notices when coming from a place where such things don't exist.
People in service uniforms were visible here and there, armed with brooms and shovels, ensuring this cleanliness was maintained. A luxury the inhabitants of the south could not afford.
Then, more and more tall buildings rose up.
The low, cracked structures of the slums gave way to more imposing edifices. First, buildings of four or five stories, with well-kept facades and windows adorned with colorful curtains. Then, even taller buildings, reaching ten, twelve, fifteen levels. Their structures were made of visibly nobler materials than the raw concrete of the poor districts—cut stone, alloys with matte reflections, glass surfaces that captured the dome's artificial light.
Each one was more magnificent than the last.
Every new building seemed to compete with the previous one in architectural elegance.
In Dome M-77, there were only two classes: the rich and the poor.
The dichotomy was brutal, without nuance. The entire dome was structured around this fundamental division. No middle class worthy of the name. No gradual scale of prosperity. A chasm separated those who possessed from those who survived.
The rich, the families of the Chosen, lived in the west of the city.
Raven's memories specified this social geography. The west of the dome was the residential district of the elite. The Chosen and their families owned vast residences there, sometimes veritable small mansions surrounded by private gardens. The streets were wide. Private patrols ensured the residents' safety, turning away undesirables long before they approached the properties.
The south, on the other hand, was the territory of the lower classes.
Where Raven lived. The slums. The south was the receptacle for all those whom the dome's prosperity had left behind. Laborers, low-level employees, handlers, the unemployed—all were crammed into this deprived quarter.
Even with money, without influence behind you, you remained considered low class.
Material wealth alone was not enough. A prosperous merchant or a talented artisan could accumulate comfortable savings. But without the status of the Chosen, without the connections that came with that status, they would struggle to find a place. The money earned was used to improve the everyday, to buy consumer goods, but never to cross the invisible barrier that separated the dome's two classes.
To the east lay the Great Gate of the dome, leading outside.
The Great Gate was the sole authorized access point between the dome's interior and the outside world. It was also the location of the Mercenaries' headquarters—the guild.
The train was heading north.
The north was considered a military zone, also housing the president's residence—the dome's mayor. But it was also where Bark Academy was established.
The train was slowing now, approaching its destination. Through the window, Raven could make out a massive silhouette in the distance, outlined against the dome's artificial horizon. A building that dwarfed all others by its proportions. Bark Academy, the sole educational institution of Dome M-77.
After a fairly quick journey, the train arrived at its destination.
They undertook a six-minute walk before reaching the academy.
The academy loomed closer with every step.
In front of the gates, many cars were parked.
The space before the main entrance resembled an exhibition of luxury vehicles. Automobiles with gleaming bodywork, aerodynamic shapes, deep and lustrous colors. Some were of classic design, with wheels touching the ground. Others seemed to levitate, floating a few centimeters above the asphalt.
From these cars descended elegant young students.
They emerged with the natural assurance of those who have always been treated as exceptional beings. Their gazes swept over the crowd of students on foot with polite indifference, sometimes tinged with poorly concealed condescension.
Raven and Bella were not part of this world. They continued their walk, skirting the parked vehicles, heading for the entrance.
His sister said goodbye to him.
Bella stopped suddenly, her face lighting up. She had just spotted a group of her friends standing a little further away.
"See you tonight, Raven!" she called out with a quick smile.
She moved away with a brisk, almost skipping step to join her classmates. The group quickly formed, voices mingling in excited chatter. They headed off together toward one of the academy's side entrances.
Bella was in her first year of the lower cycle.
The educational system of Bark Academy was structured in cycles. The lower cycle welcomed students from the age of fourteen, providing them with fundamental knowledge and beginning their controlled exposure to mana. Bella, at fourteen, was in her very first year.
It was different for Raven, who was in the third cycle.
Raven Scrow was sixteen years old. He had completed the first two years of the curriculum. He was now in the class of third-cycle students—the class where everyone was sixteen. The class where everyone had to undergo the awakening.
He entered the gigantic academy that stood before him.
The main doors were open, allowing a steady stream of students to pass through. Raven crossed the threshold and entered the main hall.
Bark Academy was a world unto itself. Hundreds of students studied there every day. Classrooms, laboratories, mana adaptation rooms, a library, a cafeteria. Everything was designed to train the dome's future generations.
He walked toward his classroom.
His steps led him through a maze of corridors. The walls were covered with educational posters, administrative notices, and student work pinned to cork boards. Numbered doors lined both sides. Occasionally, one would swing open abruptly, releasing a hurried teacher or a late student.
He was looking for room zero three.
He found the door. A metal plaque fixed to the wall read: "Room 03 — 3rd Cycle."
He took a deep breath.
He pushed the door open and entered.
The room was of medium size. Rows of individual desks faced a blackboard mounted on the far wall.
A few glances turned toward him.
The sound of the door had drawn attention. Heads lifted. Eyes briefly scrutinized him. A moment of suspension, then the gazes turned away. Some students returned to their conversations. Others went back to their textbooks or tablets.
The majority completely ignored him.
No one greeted him. No one spoke to him. He entered the room like a ghost, barely noticed, immediately forgotten. Raven Scrow was clearly not a prominent figure in this class.
He walked to his seat.
His seat was in the middle of the room, slightly offset to the right.
The chair was hard beneath him. The wood of the desk was cool under his forearms. He settled in, his back straight, his hands placed flat before him. His gaze fixed on the blackboard, waiting for what came next.
The day at Bark Academy was beginning.