[Act I: Blackie]

[Location: Crowsight]

An early spring breeze skimmed the training field fence where two girls leaned against the railing. A blonde fiddled with a new butterfly clip in her hair.

"Heard they're testing elemental affinity again today," she murmured, tugging her companion's sleeve with hopeful urgency. "Last year I only sparked a flicker. Dad nearly smashed the crystal orb."

"Speaking of magic..." The blonde lowered her voice, pointing beyond the town walls. "You heard it last night, right? Those explosions rumbling over Sunset Plains all night?"

"Patrol said it was the Expeditionary Force clearing monsters," her curly-haired friend replied, fingers tracing rust on the rail. "But... my neighbor's older sister went with a supply convoy last year..." Her voice faded. "Never came back."

"This time's different!" The blonde whirled, eyes bright as she gripped the bars.

"The tavern mistress swore it—led by a red-haired prodigy! Just twenty-two, they say." She mimed flames leaping from her palms.

"Pilots three-meter magi-mechs and casts platinum-tier fire spells barehanded!"

The curly-haired girl pressed warm cheeks. "If only my water magic could ever be that strong..."

Distant chimes rang from the elementary magic academy.

"Time for the annual trials again," the blonde sighed, plucking her friend's sleeve.

"Ugh. Same old, same old," came the muffled reply.

On the dew-slick cobblestones, pale pink petals clung to dampness. Amid a tide of gray-blue academy uniforms, one figure stood apart: a girl in a black hoodie and fitted gray jeans.

Head perpetually bowed, her hood shadowed everything below her nose. Loose fabric billowed as she walked. Black canvas shoes crushed stray petals in the cracks, their scuffed toes kicking up wind-tossed grass and pollen that swirled in her wake.

"All classes to the testing zone!" The PA announcement startled sparrows from the sycamores. Two girls darting past the hooded figure whispered, "Look—it's the magic void..." They swerved wide, as if avoiding contagion.

Yes. On this continent, everyone possessed magic. From elders to newborns, each soul held a spark—unique, but undeniably present.

[One exception.]

As dawn broke through clouds, the hooded girl stretched with a yawn. Her hood slipped back. The arch of her neck, tilted upward, held an almost swan-like grace. A messy, shoulder-length low ponytail framed her face. She tucked stray strands behind one ear as she moved.

Raven hair shifted in the morning light, revealing hidden currents of deep blue.

Beneath eyes faintly shadowed with fatigue, round cheeks bore the soft imprints of restless sleep. Wide-set eyes might have lent innocence, but their olive-green sharpness cut through—like a drowsy wolf cub.

A silver cat-paw earring on her right lobe scattered light when she turned. She pressed her lips together unconsciously, a slight crinkle forming at her nose—a ripple of expression that instantly banished the lingering sleepiness.

To the empty air, she mouthed exaggerated, soundless words: "A·gain. With. The. Stu·pid. Tests." A pause, then: "Just. End. Al·ready."

This girl was Evea. The world called her Blackie. Born to a prestigious magical lineage, yet she'd never shown a flicker of mana. In a world ruled by magic, she was an anomaly. A specimen. A pariah. The nickname "Blackie"—cemented by her ever-present black hoodie—echoed louder than her given name ever had.

In time, she stopped trying to prove herself. Stopped fighting the name. After all, "Evea"... it was a name she'd seen reflected countless times, yet never felt like her own.

She wore the hoodie not to hide, but to escape the weight of stares that screamed Why aren't you one of us? She disliked light, especially the enchanted glow from streetlamps—it mirrored the coldness in people's eyes when they looked at her.

Magic was the world's foundation. Its measure of worth. Here, without it, she felt nameless.

[The world had long since left her to walk alone.]

Blackie drifted through her thoughts all the way to the academy gates. Bronze doors, verdigris-stained in the morning mist, were flanked by griffin statues clutching mana crystals in their beaks, silently surveying the flow of people.

"Mornin'," Blackie tossed a casual wave at the statues. Nearby, groups of her peers laughed and walked arm-in-arm. By the fountain, new students helped each other pin on silver enrollment badges, morning light dancing across the metal – a scene she could never replicate, no matter how many years she'd waited on these flagstones.

The main path, paved with six hundred and thirty stone slabs, held the faint scent of spring blossoms. Students clutching books crisscrossed it, treading on lingering perfume. Blackie's canvas shoes, however, stayed firmly on the narrow right-hand trail.

Tiny purple-red droplets sprayed from crushed petals lodged between the cobblestones with each step she took. Head down, she moved swiftly through the crowd.

The campus, the scenery; her classmates, their laughter – because she couldn't have them, she refused to feel them. She wore the ache like armor. Since some cosmic bricklayer had built an invisible wall between her and the world, she pulled her hood tighter, wrapping herself in an impenetrable cocoon.

Her black shoes crushed petals underfoot, following the path past two lecture halls towards the campus's Magical Assessment Tower.

The tower's metal dome, crowned by a sharp spire, blocked all natural light. Inside, only the grand hall and the testing chamber existed.

Dozens of proctors, badges from various departments gleaming, filled the foyer, mingling with combat specialists in rune-embroidered robes. The rustle of fabric and deliberately hushed whispers bounced off the dome, creating a faint, echoing murmur.

Blackie pushed through the shifting crowd, slipping sideways into the testing chamber and joining the end of the line. As the iron door clanged shut behind her, the hall's noise instantly muffled, becoming a watery drone.

Unlike the brightly lit foyer, the chamber was plunged into stygian darkness, like the belly of a dragon. Only the faint glow of enchanted vellum used by the proctors for recording offered any illumination.

Centered in the room, a metal dais etched with pale gold sigils held a pitch-black crystal orb in a recessed socket.

A proctor in gray robes and round spectacles observed the orb's reaction to each student, noting mana attributes and magic categories on the vellum – data that would shape their futures.

Behind Blackie, a towering, bearded officer stood out starkly: sunglasses covering half his face, a blade-straight nose above them, his two-meter frame straining against a tight military uniform – a walking fortress.

"Number 140!" The proctor's call cut through the low buzz.

Since their eighth birthdays, every child underwent the annual Mana Appraisal. This ritual, spanning their youth, continued until eighteen.

The appraisal at eighteen bore a name heavy with fate: Destiny. It decided each life's path: the magically gifted ascended to advanced academies; the moderately adept entered Magitech Engineering or Scrollcraft studies; the weakest flowed into transcription rooms or potion workshops.

The idea that Destiny alone could box in a life… had a certain absurdity to it, didn't it?

Yet the youths in the chamber buzzed with novelty:

"Look at that army guy!"

"Isn't that an Augmenter's insignia on his sleeve?"

"That girl with the light magic earlier was stunning!"

Amid the rising and falling commentary, Blackie shrank at the back of the line, picking at a frayed thread on her sleeve. What could the orb possibly show? At best, it would add another "magic void" stamp to her life's record.

The students' chatter turned into silvery grit floating near and far in her ears. Blackie's thoughts drifted like a snapped kite string…

"Miss Blackie."

"Miss Blackie?"

"Miss Blackie!"

The third call jolted her awake. She was already standing before the crystal orb. The proctor's round spectacles reflected her messy strands of hair. "Young lady, this name… you can't seriously be called Blackie?"

"Blackie's fine," she replied softly, her tone hovering between lazy resignation and simple acceptance.

Snickers rippled through the chamber. Out of the corner of her eye, Blackie spotted familiar faces – childhood playmates hiding smirks behind their hands. She tilted her head, feigning indifference, though her eyelashes trembled slightly.

The crystal orb's surface remained utterly placid, not a single ripple, as if it had swallowed all energy. The proctor flicked the orb with a finger. "Didn't push hard enough, girl? Even a three-year-old touching it would…"

"How do I push with no magic?" Blackie yanked her hood lower. "Can we wrap this up?" She yearned to bolt from this place ripping open old wounds.

"Please try once more." The bearded officer's voice fell like an anvil, his steel-wool stubble seeming to pierce the frozen air.

"Same result a hundred times over." Blackie spun the orb idly. "See? Like a burnt pot bottom." She feigned nonchalance, though her palms were slick with sweat – she'd rehearsed this awakening ritual countless times in private. Since her first test at eight, the orb had remained a dead void year after year.

The girl hadn't given up easily. She'd tried meditating upside down, choked down bat bile, even danced under the full moon following ancient texts…

The night she turned fourteen, she'd cried a snot bubble into her instant noodles, finally admitting her connection to magic was thinner than the dehydrated beef flecks.

Since then, she'd lived more loosely. The uniform became a black hoodie, gray jeans, canvas shoes, a low ponytail with messy bangs. Living unnoticed in a corner wasn't so bad – at least it avoided the exhausting, meaningless social rituals.

"Please try again." The officer's voice was ice water, deep and devoid of inflection.

"Relax your shoulders, engage your core, envision mana flowing through your meridians…" The proctor's rote instructions were cut off by Blackie's eye-roll. She could recite that backwards to every stray cat in town.

She clapped her hands together prayer-style, pious enough to consecrate the orb itself. Three seconds later, eyes open—whoa!

Pitch black. Thick enough to dip a quill in and write an epitaph.

Snickers rustled around her. Blackie kicked the dais. "Guess the orb's picky."

She flicked her hoodie hem and turned to leave…

"Fourth time," the officer's voice came again. "Please."

"Hey, hey, isn't this harassment, old man?" Blackie spun around impatiently and nearly collided with a brass military button.

She stumbled back half a step, realizing the officer had somehow closed the distance. Without his sunglasses, his steel-blue eyes held an unexpected hint of scholarly gentleness in the fine lines at their corners. His resolute face showed no trace of threat, only a strange sense of reassurance.

The officer snapped his fingers. Seams in the metal dome above suddenly bled threads of light. With a clack of interlocking gears, the ceiling peeled back like torn foil, retracting to the sides.

Attendants pulled silver chains. Black velvet drapes lining the chamber's walls fell away like a receding tide. The fierce noon sun instantly melted the room's shadows.

The sudden light angered students whose eyes hadn't adjusted. Gasps exploded, and the whispering grew bolder:

"Special treatment for the dud?"

"My mom says being near her brings three years of bad luck!"

A bitter smile touched Blackie's lips. She knew those lines by heart too. Though, these weren't the kind she'd recite to stray cats…

Sometimes, adolescent malice cut sharper than magic – even bullying lacked originality among magic lineage brats.

"Please." The officer nudged a creaky wooden stool towards her with the toe of his boot, then knelt himself on one knee, sinking into shadow. "Sit straight. Relax your neck and shoulders."

Before Blackie could protest, he gently guided her hand back onto the orb. The calloused knuckles of a man used to gripping a weapon were surprisingly light, his touch beneath her wrist as careful as a museum curator handling an artifact.

"Same result, anyway…" Her words died. Within the familiar void, something unfamiliar quivered – a scene she'd witnessed a thousand times, it should be… wait. This was different!

The darkness within the orb began to churn. The orb she thought dead now swirled with dense black filaments. Blackie's pupils contracted – in the harsh noon light, she finally saw countless strands of shadowy energy twisting into cords, racing frantically along ancient conduit patterns.

A current defying magical texts wove within the orb, instantly filling every sigil. The patterns under the sun gleamed like obsidian, intricate layers overlapping – like some bizarre abstract painting, yet pulsing with a strange beauty.

"Magic… hidden in darkness?" the officer murmured, almost to himself, his steel-blue eyes reflecting the churning gloom within the orb. The conduits, meant to function independently, now writhed and tangled uncontrollably, like harp strings plucked by invisible fingers.

"Holy hells!" The young proctor scrambled closer, his spectacles sliding down his nose. "Never seen mana activate all the conduits!" His face almost pressed against the orb's surface.

Blackie stood rooted to the spot before the dais, stunned by the sudden anomaly. What she expected to be the yearly routine had shattered a decade of self-understanding – those dark currents writhing across the orb's surface… were they magic spilling from her palm?

Yes. Because students' mana was nascent, often as faint as candle flames, the absolute darkness was meant to ensure clear observation of patterns and colors. This seemingly rigorous setup had instead become a veil obscuring the truth.

"Your case is unique. I need to report this to the school board. You'll be notified if anything develops." The officer spoke low, giving her shoulder a light pat. "Other candidates use the reserve orb! Testing continues!"

The crowd's whispers suddenly seemed distant, as if all the air had been sucked from the world. She felt like waking from a deep dream. She'd gotten used to life without magic, so why…?

How was she supposed to feel? The girl couldn't articulate it…

She withdrew herself, inch by inch, from the weight of their stares, letting the whispers crumble around her.

Stepping through patches of light pouring from the open dome, the soles of her canvas shoes finally met the cool moss on the flagstones outside, like crushing a string of unspoken questions.

An evening wind, edged with gilded leaves, swept past her feet, merging hazily with the twilight of her eighth birthday. The girl walked alone down the memory-dampened path, shadows stretching silently behind her.

[The past is never truly gone; it waits within your shadow.]