"Shou-san," the nurse stammered, her voice tight with an awkwardness that mirrored the room's discomfort. Her eyes darted nervously towards the screen, then back to me, a flicker of desperate hope in them. "Maybe... maybe there was some kind of error in the readings? The magic can be a little finicky sometimes. Let me... let me run the diagnostic again. Just to be sure." She took a hesitant step towards the equipment, her hand hovering over the controls.
I met her gaze, a weariness settling in my chest that belied my sixteen years. "There was no mistake in the procedure, Nurse-san. The mistake... it resides within me. Don't trouble yourself. It was expected." My voice was flat, devoid of the emotion churning beneath the surface. Saying the words out loud, acknowledging the reality of my defect, felt strangely liberating and utterly soul-crushing at the same time.
Without another word, I turned and walked away. The concerned murmurs and lingering gazes followed me as I made my exit, the heavy silence of the hall a constant companion. I didn't look back. There was nothing left to see there.
The walk home was a blur. The familiar streets seemed alien, the vibrant colors of the city muted. My mind was a blank canvas, refusing to process the enormity of what had just happened.
The small apartment we shared felt even smaller, the silence within its walls a stark contrast to the suffocating quiet of the academy. My elder sister, Aoi, was sitting at our worn kitchen table, a pile of mending at her elbow. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she meticulously stitched a tear in one of her work uniforms.
"Shou," she said, her voice gentle as she looked up, her dark eyes filled with a familiar warmth. "Today was the BTP testing at your school, right? How did it go?" There was a hopeful lilt in her tone, a quiet expectation that things might somehow be okay.
I met her gaze, the raw truth hanging heavy in the air between us. "Yes," I replied, my voice flat. "I have 1.4%."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked straight to my small room, the weight of my reality pressing down on me with every step. The worn futon on the floor offered little comfort. I lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling, the enormity of my situation finally beginning to sink in.
Aoi. Seventeen years old. My sole family. After our parents were taken by a sudden illness three years ago, she had been forced to shoulder a burden no child should bear. At fourteen, she had traded textbooks for long, grueling hours at the textile mill, her dreams of further education sacrificed to keep a roof over our heads and food on our meager table. Her calloused hands were a constant reminder of her sacrifice, a silent testament to her fierce love and unwavering responsibility. And now, my uselessness, my fundamental inability to contribute in this world, would only make her already difficult life even harder. The thought was a leaden weight in my chest, heavier than any disappointment I felt for myself.
Stepping into the cramped confines of my room, the familiar scent of old paper and dust clinging to the air, a strange sense of calm settled over me. The silence here was different from the charged quiet of the hall – it was a quiet of resignation, of acceptance. Surprisingly, the abysmal 1.4% hadn't plunged me into despair. In a way, it was a confirmation of what I had always suspected. And if I was being truly honest with myself, it was even a sliver better than the absolute zero I had mentally braced for.
The reality was stark. Even taming the most docile, average-ranked beast required a BTP of at least 10%, according to all established theories. My pathetic 1.4% effectively slammed the door shut on that avenue. By conventional means, my chances of forming a bond with any creature, no matter how weak, were statistically zero. A dead end.