Test

Support Class.

In Hero Chronicles, it was one of the most essential pillars of any successful squad—providing logistics, tech, healing, and battlefield control.

It was also the most overlooked.

Why?

Because prodigies chase swords and spells. Glory. Fame. Elemental explosions and cinematic sword arts.

Meanwhile, the support division?

They're the ones designing comms, fixing mana reactors, and keeping the frontliners alive with zero credit. It was preset since the beginning.

So tell me—why were there so many damn people in the engineering classroom?

Everywhere I looked: students. Buzzing. Chatting. Showing off their knowledge on gadgets and minor enchantments. Flexing designs like they were trading cards.

Even Candice was here.

Okay, that one didn't surprise me too much.

She gave off the vibe of someone who liked having backup plans—and engineering was the perfect fallback for someone with her smarts and paranoia.

Still.

This many people in support class?

Something was off.

I slipped into my seat without a word. Head down. Hood up. Just another tired face in the crowd.

A few seats over, a group of students were loudly arguing about whether mana-dense alloys degraded faster with or without tempering.

[Understanding] activated, I recalled info from the library.

I almost interjected.

Almost.

Then the door opened.

The room went silent. I guess now I know the reason for the packed house.

A tall man walked in like he owned the place—because he probably did. Handsome. Lean. Pale gold hair that shimmered subtly under the light. Piercing blue eyes. Designer clothing that screamed "casual royalty."

He looked like someone who sold out magazine covers and product posters in the same day.

S-rank Supporter. One of the top names in Hero Academy.

Professor C. JAVTTE.

Yup. Capital C. Period. Space. JAVATTE. Like he was allergic to lowercase.

And just like that, I suddenly felt like an NPC in a side quest again.

I mean, I had to admit it.

Dude was the full package.

And there I sat—short, quiet, still slightly recovering from mana-leak dizziness, trying to look invisible in the back row.

"Good morning, class."

His voice echoed across the room—smooth, confident, with a subtle edge that told you he wasn't just a pretty face.

"We'll be doing a written test to assess your foundational knowledge. Engineering is not easy. This test will help us determine the average teaching level we should use going forward."

A few groans. A few gasps. A few students who suddenly remembered they forgot to study.

"If you fail, don't panic," he continued. "You can make up for it during the exams. This isn't punishment—it's data."

He snapped his fingers.

Thin test papers floated across the room, landing neatly in front of each student like summoned cards.

I stared at mine.

At first glance?

Panic.

Words I didn't recognize. Diagrams that looked like ancient runes mixed with electrical schematics. A question that literally asked me to "Calculate reverse feedback from a destabilized dual-core mana loop inside a volatile circuit array."

...Excuse me?

Then [Understanding] came into effect.

Suddenly, the fog lifted.

It was like seeing a blurry picture come into focus. I didn't have all the formulas memorized, but I understood the why. I didn't know the names of some components, but I grasped their function.

[Understanding] wasn't about memorizing. It was about instinctively getting the logic beneath the surface.

So I got to work.

But I skipped most questions.

Why?

Because I didn't want to stand out.

Survival 101: Don't be a glowing beacon in a sea of mid-talent. Mediocrity is camouflage.

I only solved the bare minimum needed to "barely pass."

At least, that was the plan.

One question looked mildly interesting, so I poked at it.

Then another, and before I knew it I was scribbling in shorthand on the back of the sheet. Doodling prototype sketches. Notes. Efficient layouts. Optimization paths.

I may or may not have blacked out for a moment.

By the time I returned to reality, I'd finished.

Kind of.

I called over Professor Javatte with a quiet wave. He walked over, graceful as a cat, and picked up my paper.

He scanned it.

His eyes narrowed.

No words.

I took that as my cue to leave.

I didn't look at anyone. Just slipped out of the room like a ghost. No need for attention.

After all, I'd skipped half the test. He probably thought I gave up.

Or so I assumed.

What I didn't hear—because I was already out the door—was the faint whisper that left his lips.

"…Interesting. He solved two of the most difficult questions."

He looked down at my rough sketches again. His brow furrowed.

"A natural systems theorist? No… something different. A rare talent."

He made a mental note.

Not because I showed off.

But because I quietly broke the rules of how the test was meant to be solved.

---

Later that evening...

Ruby twirled in the air.

> "Master, your heartbeat was elevated earlier. Stress?"

"Pop quiz."

> "Did you win?"

"It's not that kind of quiz, Ruby."

> "Then you lost?"

"...No, Ruby."

> "Congratulations on your loss, Master."

I sighed and tossed her a mana capsule, I had "taken" from the engineering classroom as I slipped out.

She caught it in the air like a child snatching a treat. With her magnets.

Despite everything—the game world, the politics, the looming hierarchy of Class A—I found myself almost… comfortable.

Quiet days like this?

They were going to be rare.

And precious.

So so precious.