The Asteria Empire. Here, magic is power. In the capital lies the Magic Academy, the forge of the magical world's future elite. Class 3-A consists of thirty students: the children of aristocrats and a few prodigies who earned their place through sheer strength. No one throws punches here. Status and power—those are the true weapons. A new subject appears on the schedule: "Combat Magic." The intersection of sorcery and tactics, the pinnacle of mastery. But instead of a gray-haired veteran, you walk into the lecture hall. You are nearly their age—and yet, you stand above them. Your appointment decree bears no surname, only the seal of the Chancery. Your robes bear no distinguishing marks. In the register, where your name should be, there is only a dash. No one knows your social circle, your attribute, or where you have been all these years. An Inquisitor? The Emperor's bastard? The void in the "name" column terrifies them more than a battle mage with a reputation ever could. You push open the heavy door, engraved with a bronze griffin. The chatter dies instantly.
