As they stepped into the encampment, a wave of noise flowed into Mortis's senses, it was lively chatter and footsteps. It reminded him of the street markets from his previous life. The air was filled with voices—nervous, excited, uncertain—all belonging to candidates like him.
Crowds of teenagers gathered in small groups, actively whispering or boasting as they waited for their turn to enter the many tents scattered throughout the camp and some just stared toward the largest tent at the center with wide eyes full of apprehension and awe.
Jareth led Mortis directly to that very tent which left many other candidates filled with apprehension and awe.
It was enormous, at least twice the size of any other, and entirely black, as if stitched together from midnight itself. Tiny ornaments shimmered across its surface, looking like stars scattered across the dark fabric. The tent pulsed with a subtle allure, beautiful and haunting all at once.
The moment Mortis laid eyes on it, something changed.
The noise around him dulled, like being submerged underwater. His eyes locked on one of the stars glimmering on the surface of the tent. A strange urge surged through his body—deep, primal, uncontrollable.
'Reach out.'
'Touch it. Claim it. Become more.'
A distant hum filled his ears, vibrating with a resonance that seemed to echo from within his bones. The world around him faded. The camp. The people. Even Jareth. All gone.
Now there was only the cosmos, an endless sea of stars swirling around him. And as he flew in that endless cosmos, he felt like he was incredible close to finding something. Just a little more.
His hand began to rise slowly, almost involuntarily, toward the fabric of the tent.
Then—
"Hey, candidate! What the hell are you doing?! I told you to follow me!"
Jareth's voice cut through the illusion like a blade.
The stars vanished. The black tent was just a tent again. The buzzing crowd returned to his ears. Mortis staggered back, blinking rapidly. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and cold sweat clung to his back.
Jareth was standing several paces ahead, glaring at him with a mix of irritation and confusion.
Mortis quickly stepped forward, trying to mask the tremble in his limbs.
'What the hell was that…? An illusion? A hallucination? Or something else?'
His mind was spinning, trying to piece together what had actually happened.
'Sigh… At least I managed to come back to my senses. This is another small confirmation of my theory that this world is built on danger. Literally just looking around can kill you.'
He clenched his fists, took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Then he caught up with Jareth, who was now standing at the tent's entrance.
Once he caught up, Jareth looked at him and spoke. "Once you enter, you'll be asked to fill out a short form with basic stuff about you and your background. Then you'll take the aptitude test and affinity test and if you'll successfully pass all of that you will be free to roam the camp."
He paused and added.
"By the way, since you were late, you only have until tomorrow morning to choose the organization where you'll practice magic and live for the rest of your life. And if you fail to choose one by then… you'll have to wait five more years for the next cycle."
Mortis froze slightly at the weight of that sentence. Five years. A lifetime in a place like this.
"Now," Jareth continued, pointing to a small line of candidates standing in front of the tent, "get in line just like the others and wait for your turn."
"Ahh… By the way take this form. You'll need it inside." Jareth pulled a stack of parchments from inside his robe and handed Mortis one.
Mortis took the parchment with both hands, nodding silently.
After that the line moved quickly, each candidate stepping in, then vanishing behind the dark curtain, but no one came back out.
Before long, it was his turn.
The guard at the entrance gave him a disinterested look. "Take out your form. Fill in your details and when you're done, enter and follow the examiner's instructions."
Mortis nodded, pulling out the parchment and the feathered quill the guard offered. The parchment was rough, slightly yellowed, not the smooth white paper he once knew from his previous world. The quill was sharp and fine, its ink flowing black and slightly metallic.
He filled out his name, age, birthplace, family details with steady hand and returned the quill to the guard, who nodded without a word and gestured for him to go inside.
Mortis pushed past the heavy curtain and entered inside.
The interior of the tent was dim but warm, lit by soft, glowing runes along the black fabric walls. The scent of ink, parchment, and something sweet—like vanilla and lavender—lingered in the air.
"Come over here," a voice called gently
Mortis turned his head toward the sound.
Sitting behind a small wooden desk was a woman—beautiful and strange, almost otherworldly. Her long black hair flowed down her shoulders like silk, and her golden-yellow eyes sparkled with mischief and intelligence. A few small freckles dotted her pale cheeks, giving her an oddly youthful charm, despite the mature grace she carried.
A wide smile curved her lips, as if she had been waiting just for him.
She wore a flowing black dress embroidered with silver threads that glinted faintly in the low light. On the table in front of her rested several quills, inkwells, and a single, radiant crystal ball that shimmered with shifting colors.
He stepped closer and greeted.
"Hello" his voice calm but cautious.
The woman chuckled lightly. "Hello. Take out your form and place it on the table."
Mortis complied without a word, laying the parchment gently before her.
She scanned it with a brief glance. "Mortis Nacht, from the Nacht Kingdom. Is that correct?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Good," she said. "Now… place your hands on the crystal ball."
Mortis hesitated only for a breath, then followed the instruction, placing both hands on the cool surface of the orb.
At first, the sensation was subtle, like the buzzing of static electricity under his skin. But within seconds, it intensified.
A sudden heat surged into his palms. His hands began to burn, the sensation crawling up his arms like fire licking through his veins. Then came the pressure, a sharp throb inside his skull, as if something was trying to crack it open from within. Mortis gritted his teeth. His knees wobbled. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, but he resisted, gripping the orb tighter instead.
All around him, the crystal flared to life, brilliant shades of violet, crimson, emerald, and gold pulsed outward in rhythmic waves, bathing the tent in light.
"Very good," the woman said, her voice almost melodic beneath the storm of pain. "Don't let go. Endure as long as you can. The longer you can persist, the better your aptitude is."
Mortis didn't respond. He couldn't. His skin felt as if it were peeling away, his bones vibrating under invisible pressure. Time slowed. Minutes stretched into eternity.
But still, he held on.
And as he did, the light grew even brighter. The crystal now pulsed violently, throwing wild arcs of color against the dark walls of the tent. The inkwells on the table rattled from the force emanating off the orb.
The woman's smile faded slightly. Her eyes narrowed, watching him with growing interest.
"Impressive…" she muttered.
But even Mortis just like everyone else couldn't endure it infinitely. With a final wave of searing agony crashing through him like a tidal wave, he was forced to tear his hands away. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.
The moment his hands left the orb, the light dimmed instantly. The crystal returned to its original calm shimmer, as if nothing had happened.
Mortis stared at the ground, his vision blurring.
The woman stood up slowly and walked around the table to crouch beside him. Her smile returned, gentler this time, but her golden eyes were still blazing with intensity.
"…You passed." She said and gave small nod.
She stood again and returned to her seat, retrieving a quill from the table. With smooth strokes, she began scribbling something across the top of his form.
"We categorize the aptitude of candidates, those who seek to become Magus Apprentices and eventually Official Magi—into six grades," she explained as the quill danced across the parchment. "Grade A is the highest. F is the lowest. Most people fall somewhere in between."
She looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to see through his skin.
"You are… Grade A."
There was a pause in the air, as if the entire tent held its breath. Then she placed the quill back in its inkwell and pushed the parchment toward him.
"My part of the examination is over," she said, her voice returning to its usual light tone. "Take your form and proceed to the next section of the tent. Further instructions await you there."
Mortis nodded silently, still processing the implications of what he'd just heard. Grade A. The highest. A strange mix of awe and unease stirred in his chest.
He picked up the form, now marked with her elegant writing, and walked deeper into the tent.