"Test completed!" Gustav's voice cracked across the arena. "We don't need to continue."
The soldier was already retreating.
He reached the far wall. Stopped. Pressed his free hand against the stone and bent forward, breathing hard.
His head shook once. Twice. Three times.
The fear was still in him.
Through a passive thread of [Mind Connection] that Alphonse had left trailing behind the encounter, he could feel the soldier's thoughts churning.
'What happened? I've fought mages before. I've sparred against full [Arcane] specialists who could set the air on fire. None of them ever made me feel—'
The thought fragmented. The soldier slammed his fist against the wall.
'I need a drink.'
The soldier sheathed his sword and disappeared through the side door without looking back.
Alphonse stood at the center of the arena. His posture hadn't changed since the fight began. Hands at his sides. Feet shoulder-width apart.
He looked at the panel.
Gustav Obermann sat at the center of the long table. His pale eyes hadn't left Alphonse since the fight ended. The expression on his face was unreadable.
The evaluators flanking him were less composed.
To Gustav's left, a severe-looking woman with grey hair pulled back in a military bun leaned toward the man beside her. Her whisper carried in the arena's acoustics despite her obvious effort to be discreet.
"If the soldier hadn't retreated, the boy would have lost. Two [Fire Sparks] against a trained combatant with an active barrier? That's not a win. That's a coin flip."
The man she addressed nodded without looking at her. His quill scratched across the scoring sheet in front of him.
To Gustav's right, two younger evaluators exchanged glances. One of them, a thin man with ink-stained fingers and the distracted air of someone who spent more time in laboratories than in arenas, was shaking his head.
"The soldier panicked," the thin man murmured. "Marcus doesn't panic. I've seen him take hits from Class-3 war mages and keep advancing."
"Nerves," the woman beside him interrupted. "He's been testing candidates all morning. Fatigue accumulates. Even veterans make mistakes."
"Marcus doesn't make..."
"Enough."
The Headmaster's eyes remained on Alphonse.
"Congratulations, Alphonse," Gustav said. His voice carried across the arena without effort. "You've been approved for the next stage."
A ripple passed through the stands.
Alphonse caught fragments of the whispered commentary drifting down from the tiered seating.
"—barely cast two spells—"
"—the soldier practically defeated himself—"
"—Hohenberg? Which Hohenberg? The western barony?"
"—must be getting old, that's the only explanation—"
"—if that's the standard for admission now, my stable boy could pass—"
Good, he thought. Let them think it was luck. Let them think the soldier made a mistake.
The moment they stop watching me is the moment I start winning.
"The second test will also take place in this room," Gustav explained, rising from his chair. He stepped around the evaluation table. "You won't need to leave. Please position yourself at the center of the arena."
Alphonse walked to the exact center of the polished stone floor.
A circular pattern was carved into the surface beneath his feet. He'd been standing on its edge during the fight without noticing. Now, looking down, he could see the full design.
Concentric rings. Dozens of them. Each one inscribed with runic text so fine that the individual characters were barely visible to the naked eye.
The [Arcane Affinity] activated the moment his attention focused on the runes.
The symbols lit up. He could feel the architecture of the enchantment the way a musician could feel the key of a song after hearing three notes.
It was a measurement device. A colossal one.
This isn't just reading surface mana, Alphonse realized, his eyes tracing the outermost ring. It's probing. The artifact is designed to measure total mana capacity, natural affinity resonance, and... something else.
Whatever that third parameter is, it's the primary function. The mana measurement is almost an afterthought.
"Below this arena," Gustav explained, addressing both Alphonse and the audience, "is an artifact that will read your mana and provide a number indicating your magical potential."
But his eyes, Alphonse noticed, were not on the audience. They were on the floor. On the runic circles. On Alphonse's feet, positioned at their exact center.
He's watching the artifact, not me, Alphonse thought. He knows it does more than measure mana. And he's curious about what it'll show.
The realization hit him a second later.
Am I going to be exposed?
His mana pool was enormous. One thousand points. For context, a typical Academy-age [Mage] might possess between one hundred and two hundred mana. An exceptional talent, the kind who appeared once per generation, might reach three hundred.
A thousand was not exceptional. A thousand was impossible.
If they find out I have a thousand mana, there'll be a frenzy.
His jaw tightened behind his composed expression.
He exhaled.
Then I'll deal with whatever comes.
"Starting!" Gustav announced.
The runic circles ignited in sequence, from the outermost ring inward, each one blazing to life with a blue-white luminance.
The rings pulsed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, abruptly, everything stopped.
The light cut out. The rings went dark. The arena was plunged into a silence so complete that Alphonse could hear the creak of bench wood as three hundred spectators leaned forward simultaneously.
Alphonse looked around. Tried to read the room.
Every face was turned upward.
He tilted his head back.
A symbol floated in the air two feet above his skull. Glowing. Stable. Rendered in the same blue-white light as the runic circles.
The number hung there. Clean and undeniable.
Alphonse stared at it.
Ten?
Ten what? Ten units of mana? That's not just low. That's practically null. A farmhand with no magical training registers higher than ten.
His second reaction was suspicion.
Unless the number doesn't represent mana at all.
And based on everyone's reaction, ten is terrible.
His third reaction was relief.
He lowered his gaze. Composed his features into the carefully calibrated expression of a young man who didn't fully understand what had just happened but was trying very hard not to look rattled.
The arena erupted.
Not in applause. In outrage.
"Absurd!" A woman's voice, sharp and carrying, rang from the upper tier. "That's pathetically low. He needs to be rejected immediately."
"How could someone like him even dare to apply to the Academy?" A man in the third row, his doublet embroidered with the crest of a house Alphonse didn't recognize, was already on his feet. "This is a disgrace to every legitimate candidate who's been waiting in line."
"Every year, the standard drops further." An older voice, dripping with contempt. "At this rate, the Academy will be accepting kitchen servants by next semester."
"A ten!" Someone laughed. The sound was cruel. "My horse has more magical potential than that."
"Hohenberg, did they say? That western backwater? No wonder the boy can barely register on the artifact. They probably think a bonfire counts as advanced magic out there."
"He shouldn't have passed the combat test either. The soldier clearly made an error. This entire evaluation is compromised."
The murmurs became a roar.
Alphonse stood at the center of it.
The noise washed over him. The contempt, the mockery, the casual dismissal of people who had watched a thirty-second fight and a glowing number and concluded they understood everything they needed to understand.
He let it happen.
He would become invisible.
Not through [Shadow Cloak]. Through something far more effective.
Insignificance.
"Silence."
Gustav's voice cut through the cacophony.
"SILENCE."
The second iteration was louder. The enchantments woven into the arena's acoustics amplified it. The word hit the stands like a thunderclap.
The roar died. Conversations choked off mid-syllable.
Gustav stepped away from the evaluator's table. His academic robes swept the polished stone as he walked, not toward Alphonse, but toward the runic circles inscribed in the floor.
He stopped at the outermost ring. Crouched. His pale eyes traced the carved symbols.
His fingers brushed the stone. Following the runic text. Moving inward, ring by ring, toward the center.
"Curious," Gustav murmured.
The word wasn't directed at anyone.
He straightened. His gaze moved from the floor to the space above Alphonse's head, where the number 10 still hovered.
Then his eyes dropped to Alphonse himself.
Alphonse met the look.
For three seconds, neither of them spoke.
He sees something, Alphonse thought. In the runic patterns, in the artifact's diagnostic output, there's something that the audience can't read but he can.
Gustav's expression gave nothing away.
He turned to the panel.
"The candidate passes," Gustav said.
The grey-haired woman on the panel leaned forward. Her mouth opened to protest.
"The candidate passes," Gustav repeated, without looking at her. "Proceed to the next stage."
His tone ended the discussion.
The panel members exchanged glances. The portly man with spectacles adjusted them on his nose and made a notation on his scoring sheet. The thin, ink-stained evaluator frowned at the runic circles as if they had personally offended him.
None of them argued.
"Congratulations, Alphonse," Gustav said, turning back to him. "You've passed. Please proceed to the next room to take your knowledge test."
He indicated one of the heavy doors set into the arena's rear wall. His arm extended, finger pointing, steady as a compass needle.
Alphonse nodded.
"Thank you, Headmaster."
He turned and walked toward the indicated door. His stride was unhurried. His posture relaxed. The stride of a young man who had just received passing marks and was moving to the next station with neither triumph nor anxiety.
He did not look at the stands.
He did not acknowledge the whispers that resumed the moment Gustav's attention shifted away from the audience.
He reached the door. Gripped the iron handle. Pulled.
He stepped through. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the arena's murmur.
Alphonse stood in the empty corridor.
He exhaled.
Back in the arena, the stands buzzed with the residual energy of an audience that had just watched something they couldn't explain.
The evaluation continued. The next candidate was already being called. A girl from one of the eastern counties, her [Wind Magic] classification announced to polite murmurs.
But in the upper tiers, where the best seats were reserved and the occupants wore clothes that cost more than some candidates' entire family estates.
A private box occupied the highest point of the stands. From outside the box, its occupants were visible but inaudible.
Inside, six figures sat in cushioned chairs arranged in a semicircle facing the arena.
Five women. One man.
The imperial descendants.
Every princess and the lone prince of the empire, gathered in a single box, observing the entrance evaluations with the predatory attention of talent scouts at a bloodstock auction.
This was tradition. Each semester, the imperial family sent its Academy-enrolled members to evaluate the incoming class. The purpose was nominally academic, identifying promising candidates for mentorship, research partnerships, and house alliances. In practice, it was a recruitment exercise.
Every imperial scion maintained a faction within the Academy. The factions competed for influence, for resources, for the Headmaster's favor. The most talented incoming students were courted aggressively, offered positions within these networks before they'd even unpacked their belongings.
The competition was fierce. An exceptional [Sword Master] recruit could tip the balance of the annual inter-faction tournament. A gifted [Mage] could revolutionize a research project. A well-connected noble heir could open diplomatic channels that had been closed for generations.
In the third chair from the left sat the third princess.
Her name was Elise.
She wore the Academy's standard uniform, a fitted jacket of dark navy over a white shirt, paired with trousers and polished boots, but the insignia on her collar marked her rank. Three silver stars arranged in a triangle. Third princess. Third in line to the imperial throne.
In the chair to her immediate right sat a girl one year her junior. Dark-haired, pale-skinned, with the precise posture of someone who had been trained since birth to sit correctly. Her name was Celeste di Tramontto, and she served as Seraphina's primary aide. A combination of secretary, intelligence officer, and closest confidante.
Celeste held a leather-bound notebook open across her knees. A quill rested in her right hand. The pages were dense with names, written in a shorthand that only she and Seraphina could read.
The list of potential recruits.
"What was his name?" Elise asked. She hadn't taken her eyes off the arena floor, where the wind mage from the eastern counties was currently demonstrating her proficiency against a fresh test soldier.
"Alphonse von Hohenberg," Celeste said, consulting a separate sheet.
"Hohenberg." Seraphina let the name sit in her mouth. Tasted it. "The western barony."
"Yes, Your Highness. Minor territory on the empire's western border. The current Baron is Alexander von Hohenberg, a [Sword Master] serving on the southern front. The territory is administered by the Baroness, Isabelle von Hohenberg." Celeste's eyes scanned the roster's supplementary notes. "The candidate is registered for the Strategy and Management course, Artificer specialization."
"Strategy and Management," Elise repeated. A note of mild derision colored the words. "Not even Arcane. And Artificer, of all things. The boy wants to build trinkets."
"His combat performance was... unusual," Celeste offered carefully. "The soldier's retreat was unexpected. Marcus is one of the most reliable testers on the rotation."
"Cross his name off," Elise said. "No other faction will bother poaching someone with that score. And we certainly don't need dead weight."