Uneven Level

Ray's gaze shifted upward, drawn by the harsh words. The air thickened, like a storm gathering over an unsuspecting horizon. Standing before him was a figure, a towering man, whose presence could silence the noise of the world. His hair shone like molten gold, strands glistening in the weak light, as if spun by the very hands of gods. His skin was pale—so pale, in fact, that it seemed carved from the coldest marble, untouched by warmth, untouched by time.

A figure that resembled an angel in stature, yet the aura that radiated from him was anything but divine. It was the heavy, suffocating presence of something darker, something monstrous beneath the surface of his perfect exterior.

The man's eyes, narrowed in disdain, bore into Ray with a look that could freeze the blood. "What are you looking at?" His voice, smooth yet venomous, cut through the air like a blade. The question was not one of curiosity but of ownership—as if Ray were nothing more than a stray dog in his line of sight.

In that instant, memories clicked into place in Ray's mind. A name. A title. The face. Yes, he had seen him before, though only in fleeting glimpses from whispered conversations in high halls. Nataniel Windsor, the name whispered with awe and fear, was the 5th crowned prince of the Royal Windsor family, born to the 67th king of Europe. The son of a dynasty that ruled with power not just in lands, but in blood and fear. A prince, yes—but one whose heart seemed far removed from the idealized portraits that adorned castles and history books.

Ray's thoughts, sharp and cold, couldn't help but stir with a mix of wariness and intrigue. The prince, this golden figure, was both an angel and a monster—the line blurred, tangled in his very being.

Ray quickly rose to his feet, his words tumbling out in a quick, nervous attempt at reconciliation. "Hey, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking—" His voice faltered as he stepped forward, hand extended in the hope of mending whatever invisible chasm had opened between them.

But Nataniel didn't even spare him a glance.

The prince's gaze remained fixed ahead, his posture straight and unwavering, as if Ray's existence was no more significant than the faintest breeze against a castle wall. Ray's outstretched hand trembled in the air, a gesture of civility that was nothing more than a forgotten echo to the prince.

Without a word, Nataniel glided past him, the faintest whisper of movement marking his presence, like a shadow passing through a fog. His pace was deliberate, his indifference absolute—Ray was nothing to him. Just a speck of dust, no more deserving of attention than the dirt beneath his boots.

Ray stood still, frozen, his hand slowly falling to his side as he watched the prince walk away, his back an unyielding wall of arrogance and power. He turned, just briefly, to catch a glimpse of the man who had so effortlessly discarded him.

But in that glance, something gripped his chest with the coldness of a winter's night. It wasn't the prince's coldness that stunned him—it was the vast, unbridgeable distance between their worlds.

Ray felt the difference, the weight of it pressing on him like an invisible force. The talent. He hadn't understood it until now, until he saw Nataniel moving like a king in his own kingdom, while Ray... Ray was just another nobody. The divide wasn't just in status; it was in everything—the way Nataniel carried himself, the way he moved through the world as though it bent to his will. Ray, by contrast, felt the crushing weight of his own insignificance.

It was a distance that could never be crossed.

Ray's eyes scanned his surroundings, but the faces around him blurred into a sea of whispers, as if the world had suddenly grown deafening. He could feel the weight of their stares pressing into him, each one a sharp dagger wrapped in curiosity and disdain. He didn't need to hear the words to understand the meaning behind them.

"Isn't he the adoptive son of the Vice Leader of the Night Guardians?" The first voice was low and filled with a mix of awe and suspicion.

"He was rumored to be a marksman, but they said he never hit anything," came another, dripping with mockery.

"Does a guy like him even exist?" Laughter followed the words like a cruel wind.

The murmurs buzzed in his ears, each sentence a fresh blow, each laugh a reminder of the alien world he had stumbled into. They saw him only through the lens of rumors, through the fractured glass of their judgments, and none of it was kind. His chest tightened as if an invisible hand had wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing and suffocating.

Before he could stop himself, before his body could react to his racing mind, he was already moving. His legs carried him with a desperate urgency, as if fleeing from the very air around him. His heart thudded like a war drum in his chest, each beat sending a wave of heat and cold across his skin. He needed to escape. To breathe.

The bathroom door slammed behind him, the sound sharp and final. Ray leaned against the cool porcelain sink, his hands gripping the edge as if it were the only thing holding him together. His breath came in ragged gasps, too shallow, too fast. The walls felt as though they were closing in, the noise of the outside world still ringing in his ears, a cacophony of voices that mocked him from a distance.

He tried to steady himself, tried to calm the storm that raged within him, but it was no use. The anxiety clawed at him from every direction, an invisible weight pressing him into the ground. His mind screamed at him, pulling him in every direction, faster and faster, until he felt as though he were spinning, falling, drowning in the very chaos of his own thoughts.

This was the cost of his isolation. The years spent alone, the nights buried in books and silence, had not prepared him for this—the noise of the world outside, the scrutiny of strangers. And yet, here he was, caught between the longing for connection and the crushing fear of judgment.

His fingers trembled against the cold sink as he tried, once more, to steady his breath. But the effort felt futile, like trying to hold back a storm with his bare hands. There was no escape from this feeling, no way to silence the screams in his mind.

"Maybe this is who I am now," he thought bitterly. The boy who lives in shadows, the one who never truly fits.

And in that moment, as the walls pressed closer and the weight of his loneliness consumed him, Ray understood something terrible—this was the life he had made for himself. This was the price of isolation.

The voice echoed through the halls, its tone sharp and commanding: "The exam will start in 10 minutes. All examinees shall proceed to the Arena now for the evaluation."

The words cut through the fog in Ray's mind, snapping him back to reality. His chest still felt tight, and his thoughts were still tangled in the chaos of his anxiety, but he knew he had no choice. The moment had come. He had to face this.

He pushed himself away from the sink, wiping the dampness from his palms, his breath still uneven but growing steadier. He squared his shoulders, drawing in a breath that felt too shallow, too fragile. Yet, with a force he hadn't known he possessed, he stepped toward the door, pausing for just a moment before stepping out of the bathroom.

As he walked down the hallway, the weight of the world seemed to press against him. Each step felt like a battle against the gravity of his own self-doubt. The murmurs, the gossip, the eyes that had followed him, they were all still there, lingering just beneath the surface. But now, they were overshadowed by something more immediate, something he couldn't ignore.

The presence of talent—raw, undeniable, infinite—was all around him.

He could feel it like an invisible force, crackling in the air, suffocating the space around him. It was the kind of power that seemed to bend reality itself, the sort of thing that made Ray feel small, insignificant, as if he were nothing more than a fleeting shadow in the presence of giants.

And then, as though summoned by his thoughts, he saw her.

A woman stood at the far end of the hallway, her figure like a dark silhouette against the pale walls. Her hair was black as night, cascading down in waves that seemed to absorb the very light around her. There was something unnerving about her expression—gloomy, as though the world itself had weighed her down, suffocated any trace of warmth. Her red eyes, glowing faintly in the dimness of the hallway, were the color of blood—cold, unfeeling, and unforgiving.

Ray froze for a moment, a sense of awe and dread spiraling within him. Her presence alone was enough to make his heart skip a beat. She was someone who didn't just carry talent—she was it. It radiated off her like an aura, a force that he could feel pressing against him, a reminder of how far he was from that same power.

Her gaze, though distant, seemed to cut through the hallway, piercing straight through Ray. It wasn't hostile, nor was it kind. It was simply... there, indifferent, like the weight of a storm cloud waiting to break.

He wanted to look away, to shrink back, but something in the woman's presence anchored him in place. The unspoken promise in her red eyes was terrifying in its clarity: she was the storm, and he... was just a leaf in its path.

Ray stood still, facing the woman's unsettling gaze, feeling the storm of talent swirling around him. But, despite the weight of the moment, despite the towering presence of those far more gifted than him, something within him refused to bend.

No, he would not waver.

For all their power, all their raw, unrefined talent, they did not possess what he had—the one thing that could give him the edge in this exam. His mind.

It wasn't the kind of mind that could calculate the trajectory of a bullet in an instant or the kind that could manipulate the world around him with a flick of the wrist. No, his was a different kind of strength. His mind was vast, unpredictable, a labyrinth of thoughts and ideas that never quite made sense to anyone else. It was a mess—vague, filled with half-formed plans and dreams that fluttered in and out of focus like smoke. But within that chaotic blur lay something beautiful, something powerful.

Imagination.

Where others saw walls, Ray saw doors. Where others saw failure, he saw opportunity. His mind could weave worlds from nothing, could build strategies from pure instinct and creativity. It was his greatest weapon, his greatest ally, the only thing he had truly trusted when everything else had failed him.

As the woman's red eyes bored into him, Ray stood taller, straightening his back, his resolve hardening. He may not be a prodigy in combat or an expert marksman, but he understood something fundamental—power wasn't just in the strength of one's abilities. It was in how you used what you had. His talent lay in seeing things others didn't, in thinking in ways others couldn't even imagine.

And then it came—just a flash, a flicker of emotion. Her lips curled, the barest smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, as if she knew something he didn't, as if she had already sized him up and found him wanting. It was fleeting, barely there, but Ray felt it—felt her acknowledgment of his presence. That smile, twisted with quiet superiority, sent a chill through him.

Yet, rather than crumble beneath it, something within him sparked. "Let her smirk", he thought. "Let her think she has me figured out."

He took a deep breath, his mind already beginning to hum with possibility, swirling with the raw energy of his ideas. He could pass this exam. He would pass this exam. And when the time came, his mind would be the one to carry him through—not the strength of his body, nor the weight of others' expectations.

He was ready.

With a final, steadying breath, Ray moved forward, his steps sure and unfaltering, walking past the woman as if the storm she carried were nothing more than a passing breeze. His mind, full of its own endless, imaginative labyrinth, would be the key to everything. And in that, he would find his victory.