7:50 AM — The Professional Theory Building.
The morning sun over Victoria City was a pale, sickly gold, struggling to pierce through the heavy mana-smog that hovered over the industrial sectors. It was a city of two halves: the gleaming spires of the Awakened and the soot-stained tenements of the "Unblessed." Alex Silvester walked toward the Professional Theory Building, his boots striking the pavement with a heavy, rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate through the very soles of his feet.
Each step felt fundamentally different today. At Rank 20 of the Mud Embryo Realm, his physical density had increased to a point where his center of gravity felt anchored to the planet's core. His muscles weren't bulging like a bodybuilder's; instead, they were compacting, becoming like high-density carbon fiber.
Beside him, Wang Hou was practically jogging to keep up, his breath hitching in the humid morning air. "Slow down, Alex! My legs aren't made of iron like yours. Why do you look... heavier today? You're walking like you're made of lead."
Alex didn't answer immediately. How could he explain the "Fires of the Primordial Forge" currently smoldering in his marrow? How could he describe the sensation of his bones turning from porous calcium into something resembling reinforced ceramic? He simply adjusted the strap of his battered backpack—the one with the broken zipper held together by a rusted safety pin—and kept his eyes on the towering glass spire of the Theory Building.
Inside, the tiered lecture hall was a masterpiece of architectural arrogance. It was a massive, semicircular amphitheater designed to hold the entire freshman class of eight hundred. But it wasn't just a room; it was a physical map of the world's cruelty.
The seating was strictly divided by "Class Rank," a social caste system enforced by the university administration. The Talent Class sat in the front five rows, the "Golden Circle." Their desks were carved from mana-conductive silver-oak and featured built-in holographic tablets for real-time spell calculation. The air there was purified by expensive frost-arrays, smelling faintly of ozone and mountain rain.
The Elite Class occupied the middle, sitting on comfortable cushioned chairs with enough legroom to lounge. Then, there was the back.
The Ordinary Classes—the E-ranks, the "background noise" of the university—were crammed into the rear rows. Here, the wooden benches were splintered and stained with the ink of a thousand forgotten students. The air was stagnant, smelling of cheap floor wax and the sweat of the desperate. The division was a physical wall, a reminder that in this world, your birthright determined how much "light" you were allowed to receive from the podium.
As Alex and Wang Hou entered, the hall was already a cacophony of whispers. Alex ignored the stares, heading straight for the shadows of the last row. However, as he passed through the Elite section, a tall boy with a sneering expression—a B-rank Elementalist named Kael—deliberately kicked his foot out. It was a classic, schoolyard move designed to humiliate the "pity admit" in front of the high-borns.
Alex didn't look down. His heightened senses, sharpened by the Extreme Martial Fist Sutra, caught the slight shift in air pressure. Instead of stumbling, he planted his lead foot with the crushing weight of a Rank 20 Warrior.
CRACK.
The floorboards groaned under Alex's sudden shift in weight. He sidestepped the trip effortlessly, but the force of his foot hitting the ground sent a micro-vibration through the floor that made Kael's own desk rattle and his inkwell tip over. A burst of startled, mocking laughter erupted from the nearby students, but not at Alex—at Kael, who was frantically trying to stop the black ink from ruining his expensive silk trousers.
"Vultures," Wang Hou hissed, glaring at them as they finally reached the safety of the back row.
Alex sat in the farthest corner, leaning his back against the cold stone wall. From here, the blackboard was a distant white rectangle, but the window to his left offered a panoramic view of the Martial Arts Tower. It stood like a silent, forgotten god, its peak shrouded in permanent storm clouds. It was the only thing in this city that didn't feel like a lie.
"Look at them," Wang Hou whispered, nodding toward the front rows where students were preening like peacocks. "The 'Geniuses.' They look like they're at a royal banquet, not a lecture."
"Let them look," Alex replied, his voice a low, gravelly grate. "The higher they sit, the further they have to fall. And the harder they'll hit the ground."