The next day. Aurelis War Academy, courtyard.

  The line was moving forward. A candidate pumped his fist into the air, screaming with joy as he had awakened as a ‘Knight’. Atlas, however, had completely detached himself from the surrounding chaos and excitement. Hands in his pockets, he was just waiting for his turn to come. He knew he would wake up as either a Mage or a Knight. So he was calculating. His father's hospital bills, accumulated debts, and the last crumbs of his grandfather's Succession... A high-value class would solve all these problems.

  “Next!”

  Atlas stepped in front of the white-robed Mage class officer. Without even looking at Atlas's face, the officer took his ID and scanned the barcode on the back with a device.

  “Don't move,” he said in a weary voice.

  Atlas did not resist the large, warm hand he felt on his chest.

  As the mage uttered words in the language of magic, a sharp pain erupted in Atlas's chest. It felt like thousands of needles piercing him at once. But Atlas gritted his teeth.

  The warmth spread through his body, circulated, and finally stopped at one point.

  The officer withdrew his hand and looked at Atlas. There was neither excitement nor interest in his eyes.

  “Archer. Low-to-medium potential.”

  The storm in Atlas's mind suddenly calmed.

  Not a knight. Not a mage. Not even a healer. The army's weakest, most expendable class. Archer.

  “Are you sure that's not a mistake?” he asked, his voice freezing over.

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  “No mistake, son, what I said is what you are. Next!”

  After entering the winged arrow symbol, the emblem of the archer class, into the system, Atlas took his ID and left the line. He wanted to scream, but he stopped himself. He just stared at the officer. He was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw muscles twitched. There was anger, yes. But this anger wasn't directed at the officer. It was the teachers who had raised him to be a Knight or a Mage in high school.

  “There's no point in being an archer,” he thought as he slipped through the crowd.

  There was no point in getting sentimental. He needed to get on the bus and return to Mistwood.

  ---

  Atlas paused briefly in front of the wide door. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and made sure his face showed no emotion. When he pushed the door open and entered, the silence in the room fell on him like a wall.

  Raymond Sinclair sat in a chair by the window. His eyes were fixed on a single point; it was unclear whether he was looking at the tree outside, the clouds, or the patients walking quietly in the garden. There was no flicker in his eyes, nor any familiar expression on his face. It was as if time had stopped flowing around him.

  Atlas stepped inside. His every movement was careful, respectful, as if approaching a sacred being. The room was silent, but Atlas was sure everyone could hear his heart pounding. He remembered his father's laughter. The last time he had seen him laugh and move was when he was ten years old. They had played soccer together just a few hours before his mother slit her wrists.

  Shortly before his mother's death, his father had suffered a stroke and fought for his life. Although he had narrowly escaped death, he had been left in a catatonic state. His body was largely dysfunctional. He could do nothing but sit in a wheelchair and stare blankly.

  “Dad, how are you?”

  "My admission to the academy is confirmed. But it didn't turn out as we expected. I got into the Archer class. Low potential."He held his father's large, hairy hand. It was cold.

  "I'll probably be an ordinary infantryman hunting birds in the Northern Forests. In a world of magic cannons, Archers are only used as bait. But don't worry. I'll find a way. I'll turn the system, the rules... everything to my advantage. I'll get you out of that chair."

  Even as he said these things, he didn't believe them himself, but sticking to a plan was better than giving up.

  “Hm?”

  Atlas froze where he stood. In the silence of the room, this sound was as distinct as thunder. He quickly raised his head.

  His father's lips were trembling. On that face, which had been like a marble statue for eight years, there was a frightening sign of life. His pupils were dilated, locked directly into Atlas's eyes.

  “Dad?”

  Atlas's voice trembled. His heart was beating as if it would tear his chest apart. The sound coming from his father's throat was raspy and strained, like a rusty machine in need of repair.

  The man's body began to shake violently. The wheelchair creaked. Atlas lunged forward in panic, reaching for the button to call the nurse, but he was transfixed by his father's icy eyes.

  His lips parted. The words echoed as if they were coming from a deep well, not a human mouth.

  “I... approve...”

  Atlas frowned. “What? Dad, what are you saying—”

  He couldn't finish his sentence.

  A searing heat exploded right in the center of his chest, where his heart was.

  Atlas collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. As his vision blurred, his father's silhouette vanished.

  On the edge of unconsciousness, just before surrendering to complete darkness, a faint blue light appeared in the center of his field of vision.