The examiners—stone-faced professors in austere robes—stood beside towering crystalline pillars that pulsed faintly with absorbed mana.
One by one, students stepped forward, placed their hands on the pillars, and unleashed their spells. The results were immediate—the measurements precise.
Intermediate-Class and Apprentice-Class are the most frequent rankings.
A smattering of applause followed each result, polite but unenthusiastic. The nobles barely glanced up from their murmured conversations.
Then came the first noteworthy performance.
"Next. Leona Aurelthane."
She stands at the center of the training ground, her platinum-blonde hair stirring faintly in the charged air. The silence is absolute—even the wind seems to hold its breath. She exhales, slow and deliberate, and the world bends.
Mana surges from her in a visible ripple, the ground beneath her feet trembling as the projection of royal green erupts outward. It doesn't just expand—it devours space, spiraling wider with terrifying precision. The outer edges crackle with raw energy, distorting the air like heat haze over a desert.
Three meters. Four. And then—It stops. Dead. Perfect.
The circle hums at that impossible diameter, unwavering, as if carved into reality itself. No tremors. No flickers. Just absolute, unshakable control. The onlookers don't gasp. They don't cheer. They freeze—because they all know what this means.
This is the calm before the storm.
"4 meters across. Nearly Perfectly stable. Move on to the spell test."
She shifts to the 10-meter mark and raises just two fingers. Without hesitation at all she merely flicks both of those raised fingers while muttering:
"Wind Slash."
It's almost imperceptible—just a slender crescent arc of pure white, where mine had been only green before. A subtle mark of mastery over the spell. Something so intensely compressed that the color shifts, warping from green to brilliant white. And then—most striking—the score. Wait, what?
"2.9 Pascals."
"Hmm… Appren—"
"Slash."
This time, it's different. A thinner crescent arc, glowing pure green, streaking swiftly from her fingertips once more. I know exactly what sets this apart. The first strike was her channeling the Wind Element. This next? Her second element. Regal Tempest.
BOOM.
"F-five point one p-pascals."
"Impressive. Novice-Class"
Her eyes—sharp, storm-gray—narrow as she surveys the aftermath of her spell. The air still hums with residual energy, the ground scarred by the force of her power.
And yet, she scoffs.
A flick of her wrist dismisses the lingering winds, as if the feat were nothing more than a passing annoyance. Without another word, she turns on her heel, her cloak billowing behind her like the tail of a retreating hurricane. The crowd parts instinctively, no one daring to stand in her way.
The reaction is immediate. Some students erupt into rapturous applause, their cheers ringing across the training grounds. Others shrink back, fingers tightening around their fist, suddenly aware of the gulf between them and royalty. A few exchange jealous glances, their lips pressed into thin, resentful lines.
But most—most—simply watch her go, their expressions shifting from awe to something deeper.
Respect.
The kind earned not through titles, but through undeniable power.
Most who stepped up next could never hope to match Leona's overwhelming power except the other enrolling nobles. But one stands out, and she stands out like a diamond amongst gold—Lysandra. By all rights, her talent was so extraordinary she should have skipped straight to the Second Year. Yet, for unbeknownst reasons to the students, she chose to remain in Year 1.
But, it still came to no surprise to anyone in the hall when she received an Adept-Class Rating.
She had set the bar impossibly high. So when Seraphyne's turn came, even her Novice-Class rating—a remarkable achievement by any measure—was eclipsed by Lysandra's brilliance. Yet, it was still a breathtaking display of skill. Then again, I'd expect nothing less from the heroines.
And now. My own expectations. I'm just going to aim for an Apprentice Class Rating. As such that would require a stable 3 Meter mana projection plus at least 3 pascals on the spell test.
"Next candidate, Isaac" droned the examiner.
My name was called.
A hush fell over the hall as I stepped forward. A few whispers followed—
"Isn't that the guy who collapsed at dinner?"—but I ignored them.
I step into the center of the training ground. No projections practised, no room for error—just the weight of the world pressing down. Now or never. It shouldn't be this hard… right?
A mutter under my breath. A decision.
"Temporal Anchor. Activate"
The world shifts.
With Temporal Anchor, I steal a sliver of time—just a few extra milliseconds to think, to focus. Every instinct sharpens. Every doubt quiets. This is it.
Convert internal energy into a coherent external force. Channeled, focused, and released. Use my "mana core". My mind, a computer that regulates mana. Focus this into a diameter of 3 Meters. The blueprint in my mind is forming. Finally,
Flow, my mana. Through my legs into the ground and leave a pigment on the world. A mark that showed I did it.
"My eyes snap open— Temporal Anchor deactivating. And the world erupts in a storm of slate-blue mana.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. This isn't right. This shouldn't be possible.
Internal mana always reflects the caster's element—a signature, a birthright. Mine was meant to be silver-green, the hue of wind. But what surges around me now is something alien, impossible.
It blazes with electric blue, vibrant and unnatural, like lightning trapped in liquid form. Streaks of neon magenta and violet swirl through it—living currents that pulse and coil with erratic purpose. At its core, lines of searing white slice through the storm, converging into a radiant nexus. The air thrums, charged with something foreign. Unseen. Wrong.
Whispers turn to shouts. Archivist Orlan, supremely surprised. Reluctantly reads my measurements:
"Uhm… 3 Meters. Incredibly unstable. Move on to the spell test."
I release the projection. So much for staying hidden. I'm assuming that due to my otherworldly nature. The mana most likely would be inverted somewhat? Well nevertheless, due to mana like a collapse given form—every godforsaken eye in the arena locks onto me. The stares burn hotter than spellfire. Keep your eyes to yourselves. Dumbasses. Please.
Never mind.
I take my position at the 10-meter mark, rolling my shoulders loose. Right arm up. Fingers taut and wrist coiled. No fancy theatrics—just a slash so vicious it'll carve pressure itself. Three pascals or higher, that's my aim.
I don't just imagine the arc—I demand it. Thin. Thinner. A crescent edge honed to the brutality of Leona's Regal Tempest, but mine.
"Wind Slash."
A flick. A release.
The air parts.
My slash isn't the radiant ribbon of light Leona conjures—but it's sharper than any other Wind Mage's. And when it strikes, the sound reverberates. Give it a few seconds…
"3.1 Pascals"
"For an, assumed, commoner. Well Done Mr Isaac. Fascinating as well.. Apprentice-Class"
From the corner of my eye, I caught three pairs of eyes locked onto me:
Seraphyne, her molten gaze calculating.
Lysandra, her lips parted in surprise.
Leona, smirking like she'd just found a new toy.
And then—
Kael.
His expression was unreadable. But his eyes…
Now had a light in them, a glint of gold in the void.
The test shall continue as I get back into line.
But I'd already made my mark.