Potential Measurement (2)
‘Gasp, what the hell is this!?’
The Magic Hat was in a state of utter panic right now.
Born from the magic of the academy principal, Dumbledore the 2nd, fifty years ago, it had spent all that time at the academy, testing countless freshmen and sorting them into S, A, B, and C classes based on their aptitude.
They say the genius of a great house grows up to be the scholar of the neighborhood, then the model student of the village, and finally just an ordinary citizen of the nation. It’s unavoidable. That’s the way of the world.
And among them, Midland Academy was overflowing with talents, scholars, and geniuses. Truly a heaven beyond heaven.
The middling prodigies who might represent a small nation? In the great empire of Midland, they’re classified as C-class. They were probably hailed as child prodigies, geniuses, and great figures back home, but here? Tough luck.
Among them, those who stand out enough to handle mid-level management even in Midland—folks who could probably become kings or prime ministers in a weak nation. These guys get B-class treatment at best.
A-class and up? They’re special. They have the aptitude to rise to high positions even in Midland. With some luck, they might marry into a grand noble family or even the royal line, etching their name into the lineage, however briefly.
S-class? They’re exceedingly rare. These are the ones who can claim pivotal roles in the great empire of Midland itself. Unconditional top-priority recruitment targets.
The ‘Magic Hat’ foresees this future potential and grades accordingly, with strict precision. As an ego item—a sentient object—it took pride in performing this noble duty and had worked diligently all these years.
But what was this situation?
‘Th-this isn’t human potential! No way it’s human-grade! What the hell is it!? This freshman!?’
The Magic Hat was on the verge of fainting from shock.
An overwhelmingly vast potential was surging toward it. In testing tens of thousands of students, it had never encountered anything like this. It felt like trying to cram the entire ocean into a soy sauce dish. One slip, and overload would make its body burst.
“H-heeek!? There’s no way this can fit in me! Gah! Urgh! T-take... take it... o-off...! Urgh! Get... get it... off me...! Hah! I... I can’t hold it! Please...!”
The hat wrinkled all over and started twisting its entire body.
It was only natural. A standard made for judging frail twenty-something humans couldn’t possibly evaluate a dragon.
Overload on the hat was inevitable. But the onlookers, unaware, just tilted their heads.
“...Huh? What’s up with the hat?”
Principal Dumbledore the 2nd peered at the entrance test site with a puzzled expression.
This ego item had always performed flawlessly. It had never groaned strangely or writhed like this before.
Meanwhile.
‘S-class? No way. This is at least SSSSSSSSSSSSSS-class! Hell, it doesn’t even belong in an academy—it’s beyond human! Who the fuck sent this monster here!?’
The hat’s mind raced, but Cliche’s aura was all it could withstand—no room for words. It felt like being trapped in a drunken, bucking belly, seasick as hell. One word, and everything inside would spew out.
“U-urgh, ugh! T-take it off! Off! Kehk! M-me, get me o-off...! I’m gonna... die... heeek!? Off, o-off—ffffuuuuck!”
The hat kept twisting, mumbling incoherently. Glowing red-hot from overload, it looked pushed to every limit.
“Wh-what’s it saying?”
“Why’s the hat acting up?”
“...Kinda dirty, somehow.”
Professors murmured here and there. Students watched with curious faces.
“Hey, hat. Something wrong?”
Even Principal Dumbledore the 2nd asked directly.
But the hat couldn’t respond. It had hit its absolute limit.
‘Fuck, I’m gonna explode! Sh—!’
The hat screamed inwardly, but no time to voice it.
“Fuc—!”
Clamped shut and trembling, the hat let out a final shriek and exploded.
BOOM!
An abrupt blast over Cliche’s head whipped up a gale, sending nearby hats flying. Some professors flailed to grab their airborne wigs.
Flutter-flutter-flutter—
Fragments of what was once a hat scattered everywhere.
“...?”
Everyone stared, dumbfounded.
“Wh-what? What happened?”
“The hat exploded? Why? Never happened before, right?”
“Check the ‘Made in’ label! Stuff from that Eastern country explodes unless it’s a bomb!”
All the freshmen buzzed. Regardless of year, puzzled faces everywhere.
“That new kid... something off about him?”
“Pink hair from the start. Dyed? Out of his mind.”
“Nah, coincidence probably. Magic Hat’s been used for decades.”
“What’s his name again? Cliche?”
Seniors gawking at freshmen murmured.
Professors exchanged awkward glances.
“Probably past its expiration date.”
“Perfect timing.”
“Hmm, making a new enchanted item’s tricky. Principal Dumbledore will have to whip up another.”
Then Georges protested to the professors.
“W-wait a minute! Wasn’t that an explosion? Shouldn’t we check if the student’s okay first!?”
A professor replied indifferently.
“He hasn’t enrolled in Midland Academy yet, miss. So he’s not our student.”
“Nation’s son in good times, your son when he’s hurt.”
Georges bit her lip at their hypocrisy.
Cliche tossed her a bored word.
“It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt.”
“But...”
“Too annoying. Just stay quiet.”
Cliche closed his eyes lazily. Even then, his nose twitched, sniffing toward the distant palace. Following the faint dragon scent.
Meanwhile, the professors hit a snag while discussing awkwardly.
Cliche was the last for freshman potential testing. Fortune or not, everyone else was already class-assigned.
“Where do we put the pink-haired kid’s class?”
“Retest?”
“Making a new Magic Hat takes months.”
“Gotta assign him somewhere temporarily at least.”
“Tricky. Hat skipped only him. Random assignment risks diplomatic issues, fairness with others too.”
“And for the kid, too high a class and he can’t keep up.”
Puzzled over Cliche’s unknown grade, one professor ventured.
“Uh, but... didn’t the hat say something at the end?”
Professors pondered, recalling the hat’s last gasp.
“Definitely... at the end...”
“Fuc... something.”
Subtle glances exchanged.
And so, Cliche’s potential was deemed C-class, per the hat’s final utterance.
“...”
In the corner of the field where freshman potential testing occurred.
A woman sat on the edge of a pristine white marble garden, hands in pockets, under a towering fountain.
Lush golden blonde hair. Eyes gleaming like golden orbs.
Different vibe from short-haired Georges, despite the blonde. An aura of high nobility radiated at first glance.
Sharp, keen eyes, straight nose, red plump lips. Her pupils sparkled like a cat spotting a fun toy.
“...”
She eyed distant Cliche intently.
“Blew up the hat, huh?”
She hummed at lazy-looking Cliche.
Pink hair sparkling in sunlight. Standout looks amid the crowd.
Unlike tense freshmen, his pink eyes drowned in sloth and boredom.
“...Thought academy life would be a drag. But there’s some fun ones, huh?”
The blonde smirked and headed to the dorms, bag of supplies slung over. A gold student ID marking S-class potential gleamed on it.
Merlini. Her name.
“Cliche in C-class? Ridiculous!”
At the fork between S-class and C-class dorms, Georges fumed.
“I’ll go protest right now.”
Georges rolled up sleeves, but Cliche just shook his head.
“Aaah, too annoying. Just deal.”
“B-but... how can you end up in such a small, shabby dorm...”
“Doesn’t matter. All human stuff’s small and filthy anyway.”
“Hm, oddly cynical, sir.”
Georges bowed awkwardly, then earnestly advised.
“Then, Cliche sir. Let me give you dorm tips.”
“Like what?”
“First, check water flow and pressure, no floor noise, wallpaper not peeling, storage fine, good lighting, no bugs...”
Soon, Georges listed must-checks for room hunting.
“Hmm.”
Cliche watched her head to S-dorm, then turned to C-dorm.
Same dorms, no discrimination they say—but S and C buildings differed starkly at a glance.
S-dorm: new build, clean exterior, pretty gardens. Separate male/female wings.
C-dorm: farthest, remotest spot. Male/female areas nearly adjacent (pro or con?). No gardens, lakes—steep back mountain and wasteland only.
Cliche entered the building. Five floors total. 4-5 male, 2-3 female. First: lounge, study rooms.
Rooms: basic 4-per.
Cliche opened a door, stepped in.
Two bunk beds at ends, huge window and shared desk in middle. Shared rack, lockers beside.
Plop.
Cliche shoved supply bag into locker haphazardly, didn’t lock, flopped on bed.
“Ah, everything’s annoying. Whatever.”
Should he bolt up, ditch the dorm? Smash academy, palace, grab the Wanggabi Stone?
“Eh, that’d be fun if it came to it.”
Who’d guess a freshman was plotting to take on superpower Midland?
“Wanggabi ain’t running off. I’ll watch for now.”
Musing, Cliche shut eyes.
Simple nature. First bed in ages—he soon snored zzz zzz, dead asleep.
“...”
A few lecherous gazes watched him.
“That guy? The unlucky one rooming with mighty Ballack.”
A teen with unbelievable bulk stepped forward.
Ballack. Distant royalty. Fellow students: similar noble backgrounds.
Luckily(?) random draw put them together.
‘World revolves around me, after all.’
Ballack cheered, hugging his minions/friends.
C-class potential? Whatever. Potential’s just potential. Awakening matters.
Ballack chuckled darkly at Cliche.
“Look at him. Ballsy. Sprawled out day one? Sun’s still up.”
Two lackey boys chimed.
“Locker unlocked. Never done dorm life?”
“Gonna learn when supplies vanish. Uniforms gone? Point deduction at roll call.”
Ballack clapped at that.
“Right. Lightly haze this pinky. Crush spirit early—four years as our errand boy.”
“Great idea. Genius, Ballack.”
“We’re three, he’s one. Gotta fit our vibe for easy dorm life. No roommate swaps first year.”
The three punks huddled, plotting mischief. To break Cliche early, make him their lackey.
Oblivious, Cliche slept soundly zzz zzz.