The peak of the Day of Soul‑Echo had passed. Around sixty young people who had successfully summoned their Spirit‑Beasts lined up in the centre of the square following ancient tradition, waiting for the dean’s address.
Those who had failed their summoning had been quietly led away from the grounds. There were no cheers, no salutes, as if they had never set foot inside this ritual at all.
Cecil stood at the very end of the line. That was the spot assigned to him. No one stood behind him, only the shadow of a stone pillar. Directly in front of him was a tall, lanky boy. A dusty rock rat perched on his left shoulder, and another identical one sat on his right. The two little creatures chattered noisily at one another.
Gwendolyn rested herself on top of Cecil’s head — not his shoulder. She hooked herself in place with her claws and tail, looking like a shabby blue‑and‑white hat.
"Can you get down?" Cecil whispered.
"No. The ground is dirty."
"Aren’t you dirty sitting on my head?"
"At least your hair is dry." Gwendolyn brushed his bangs with the tip of her tail. "Don’t move. I’m observing."
"Observing what?"
"How many enemies you’re going to have to face in the future." She paused. "Rough count: more than a hundred."
"...Does that guy with the rock rats count?"
"Both of his rats are sneezing. Clearly they’re in poor condition, so they’re no threat. I subtracted him." Gwendolyn spoke with complete seriousness.
Cecil opened his mouth to argue, but the bell rang from the front of the square. Three deep tolls rolled down from the top of the main tower, trembling through the air. Every conversation died away at once.
"Congratulations," Dean Grimshaw began. His voice was quiet, yet every single word carried all the way to the farthest corner of the square. "By standing here, you have completed your Soul‑Echo and summoned the Spirit‑Beast bound to your fate. That in itself is worthy of celebration."
He paused. Nobody clapped, for there was nothing in his tone to celebrate.
"But I suggest you remember every word I am about to say."
Grimshaw clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly across the stone platform.
"Griffin Holt admits three hundred new students every year. Those who fail to awaken within three months are eliminated. The rest move into formal classes. By the end of the first academic year, half will be culled. By the end of the second year, only thirty to forty will remain. And by graduation at the end of the third year —" his eyes scanned the crowd, "fewer than twenty of you will still be standing here."
The square fell so quiet you could hear the wind whistling against the flagpoles.
"Among those eliminated each year are noble heirs and commoner prodigies, tamers of high‑grade war beasts and rare mythical creatures. The rank of your Spirit‑Beast sets your starting line, but it cannot guarantee you will reach the finish line. This academy boasts the harshest training regime on the continent. Over these next three years, you will endure duels, wilderness trials, cross‑city missions, and constant pushes past your very limits." Grimshaw’s gaze locked onto one spot in the crowd. Following his line of sight, Cecil spotted Leon von Grey and his Thunder Gryphon beside him. "Some of you have come bearing your family’s glory. Some have come to prove yourselves. And others —"
His gaze shifted.
It moved away from Leon, crossed over dozens of heads, and landed precisely on that tiny blue‑and‑white speck at the end of the line.
Cecil could feel Gwendolyn’s claws tighten on the top of his head.
"—some of you may have come bringing trouble."
No name was spoken, yet Cecil knew those words were meant for him. Several students nearby subtly shuffled half a step sideways, creating a small empty gap between him and the rest of the crowd.
Grimshaw looked away and continued his speech.
"No matter what you carry with you, starting tomorrow you will all face one truth: this academy does not keep idlers. Your Spirit‑Beasts are your partners, not your nannies. They will fight beside you on the battlefield, but they cannot take your exams for you, bear your pressure for you, or decide who you wish to become."
His voice deepened.
"Only those who graduate may join the continent’s knight orders, the Magic Council, the Holy Church’s clergy, or the court mage ranks of the city‑states. Those who fail —" he paused, "will be sent back to where they came from. Noble children will be demoted to collateral family branches, and commoners will return to the dust."
Nobody spoke. More than sixty teenagers stood in the sunlight, backs straight or trembling slightly, each tangled in wildly different thoughts.
"That is all I have to say." Grimshaw turned his back on the crowd and walked toward the gate behind the platform. "Assemble in the main hall at six o’clock tomorrow morning. Tardiness counts as an absence. Three absences — you all know the consequences."
He left. The heavy gate slammed shut behind him with a dull boom. The square froze for several seconds, then chatter burst forth like floodwater breaking through a dam.
"—’Half get culled every year’? He makes it sound as simple as sifting flour!"
"My father warned me how brutal Grimshaw’s curriculum is, I thought he was exaggerating..."
"Is it too late to drop out? My grandfather’s manor needs an accountant —"
Cecil stood still, listening to the noisy hubbub all around him. He stared down at the toes of his boots and did quick mental math: three hundred enter, fewer than twenty graduate after three years. Nearly two‑thirds are eliminated every year. His top commoner exam score put him near the bottom among all these students, and for now Gwendolyn had little to show for herself besides a sharp tongue —
"Stop calculating," the voice above his head cut him off. "You won’t figure it out. Your brain isn’t big enough."
Cecil lifted his head.
Gwendolyn lay across the top of his head, her two front paws pressed together in front of her forehead like a pair of binoculars, overlooking the bustling crowd below with the focused expression of someone counting ants.