Exam day.
The first subject was the theoretical examination.
Over four hundred new students filed into various classrooms, most of them wearing tense expressions.
Only a very few individuals had a chance to score full marks on the theoretical exam and earn credits. But that didn’t mean the rest could just slack off. The instructors would assess their competence from their answers.
It worked the same way as the practical exam. You could choose your “opponent” in advance, and you might think that credit was in the bag—but try phoning it in? The instructors would teach you a lesson.
Some of the stricter instructors wouldn’t even finalize their list of accepted students until both exams were over. Even if there had been a preliminary agreement, if the two exam results didn’t meet their expectations, the instructor would “return” the student.
Under the control of the instructors’ wind magic, the exam scrolls floated naturally in front of each student.
Lily took the scroll in front of her and laid it flat on the desk.
The material of this scroll was not ordinary paper, but a type of magical parchment that could monitor cheating attempts.
No one could cheat under such surveillance. Or rather, if you were skilled enough to cheat, scoring full marks probably wouldn’t be much of a challenge either.
Following her old test-taking habits, Lily first skimmed through all the questions and got a general sense of them:
Fifty percent of the questions covered the basics taught by the academy after enrollment;
Twenty percent involved extensions mentioned by instructors in class, but which they were not required to master;
The remaining thirty percent were random advanced topics.
Lily estimated: if she answered methodically, she could probably score around fifty or sixty points—maybe sixty or seventy if she got lucky.
For a student in the First Academy, such a score wouldn’t be considered hopeless, but it would place her right in the most mediocre tier—the kind that instructors wouldn’t even give a second glance!
The competition in the First Academy was that fierce. The academy held exams constantly, layer after layer, to weed out the weak.
Lily held her pen and stared blankly at the scroll before her.
Other students were already writing furiously. At the very start of the exam, she was the only one in the entire room stumped by the first question.
The proctoring instructor noticed her and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
She was a “notable figure” among this year’s cohort—at least among students of commoner background, no one had more name recognition than her (whether that reputation was good or bad aside)—and the instructors had all heard something about her one way or another.
Some said she was audacious to the point of recklessness; others thought she was commendably courageous. The instructors didn’t really care, nor would they intervene. But if she lacked real ability, then all they could do was shake their heads. At a magic academy, magic was the foundation.
Lily paid no attention to the eyes fixed on her.
She wasn’t actually stumped by the first question—she was just torn: was it better to play it safe and score fifty or sixty points, or to take an unconventional approach to answering?
Yes, for some of the questions, Lily remembered what the “standard answers” were, but she had a different interpretation.
Of course, those “interpretations” came from the conceptual framework of the modern world, and she hadn’t tested whether they would hold up in this world.
Two worlds with different developmental trajectories might have differences in their underlying logic. What if the successful expansion of the Light Breeze spell was just a fluke? Then her interpretations would be pure nonsense.
Even further—even if her “interpretations” were actually valid, if the grading instructor couldn’t comprehend her reasoning, her score would still be disastrously low.
Should she be the most mediocre student, or take a gamble?
A flash of resolve passed through Lily’s eyes.
She hadn’t been planning to earn credits through the theoretical exam anyway. A score of fifty or sixty wouldn’t attract any instructor’s favor either. So—might as well bet!
If her interpretations also worked in this world, and if by chance an instructor appreciated her unconventional thinking, she’d hit the jackpot!
Lily began writing swiftly on the magical scroll.
Some instructors casually passed by her and glanced at her answers.
“If you only know one spell—Water Arrow—how do you maximize its power?”
The standard answer to this question was: master expansion techniques like water arrow redirection, catch the opponent off guard, and strike their vital points.
Lily’s answer: Blood is also water. Consider using the opponent’s blood as the “material” for casting Water Arrow. The blood transforms into arrows inside the opponent’s body and shoots out—even if they survive, they’ll be crippled.
“What is the key to learning the Freezing Spell?”
The standard answer was: possess over 80% water-element affinity, and during the learning process, block off perception of all other elemental spirits while maximizing your connection to the water element—only then can water transform into ice.
In this world’s conceptual framework, ice attribute was a transformation achieved when water attribute reached its extreme. Hence, the threshold for learning ice magic was very high. Many students, including Lily, could only study the theory but couldn’t actually cast the spell.
But in Lily’s view—ice and water vapor were just the solid, liquid, and gaseous states of water, weren’t they? Nine years of compulsory education told her that this only involved physical changes; the essence of water hadn’t changed! Magic that didn’t involve an essential change should be the easiest to convert.
So Lily answered: We shouldn’t overcomplicate ice magic. Pay attention to the freezing point of water during casting—even mages with average water-element affinity can successfully cast it.
Seeing her answers, the instructor’s mouth twitched. At first glance, what she wrote seemed quite coherent—but on closer inspection, what on earth was all this?!
No wonder she was the one staring blankly at the scroll as soon as the exam started—she could only spout nonsense with a perfectly straight face.
The instructor looked twice and walked away, afraid that reading too much would cause information contamination.
In a dimly lit room, specimens and skeletons scattered everywhere made the place especially eerie. The occasional rustling sounds seemed like monsters prowling about, or like a creepy gnawing noise.
Bang—the door was kicked open, and the light from outside instantly flooded the entire room, dispelling the earlier uncanny atmosphere.
Under normal lighting, it looked like an ordinary magic laboratory—larger inside than it seemed, but cluttered and messy, making the spacious area feel cramped.
But that hunched figure in a magic robe sitting at the desk, the moment it was touched by normal light, let out a wail like a vampire scorched by sunlight—”My experiment! My experiment failed again!”
The magical beast pinned under his hand didn’t even have time to make a sound before its fur and flesh began rapidly disintegrating, leaving nothing but a skeleton in the blink of an eye.
“Aaron Lewis!” The person who kicked the door open let out a roar. “Do you want to die?”
The hunched figure—Aaron—fell silent at once, like a screaming chicken with its neck squeezed.
Aaron revealed an unkempt, aged face and cautiously looked at the lady standing at the doorway. “Headmaster, what brings you here personally? My experiment is at a critical stage, and I got a bit impatient…”
Indeed, the woman before him was none other than Headmaster Emma of the First Magic Academy—a genuine legendary mage.
Aaron wasn’t some dark mage, either; he was a senior instructor at the First Academy.
But his fear of Emma was real—not fear of her formidable power, but fear of her explosive temper.
In Aaron’s words: Ever since Emma became headmaster, the academic culture of the First Academy had become a lot more violent.
See that magic staff in Emma’s hand, about as tall as she was?
Whether she actually used it to cast spells, Aaron wasn’t sure. Most of the time, she used it to bash people—in the literal, physical sense.
Like right now—
Emma grabbed her staff and whacked Aaron across the back with a series of thuds.
“Still playing dumb with me? You don’t know why I’m here?”
“If you don’t take on students this year, if you don’t fulfill your teaching duties, your title of senior instructor will be revoked, all benefits and allocations will be cut by two levels, and this lab will be confiscated!”
She had sent someone to notify Aaron several times already, but the man had been playing dead the whole time—otherwise, she wouldn’t have bothered coming in person to drag him out.
Aaron scurried around trying to dodge, while arguing vehemently, “Headmaster, you can’t be this heartless! The academy has a rule that when an instructor is conducting important research, they can be exempted from teaching duties for that year!”
Emma let out a cold laugh. “The limit is two years. If you achieve recognized breakthrough progress, you can extend it further. But how long has it been since you’ve made any progress?”
Aaron said, “That doesn’t matter. I’ve produced enough results in the past—I can just coast on my old achievements, can’t I?”
“You’ve already coasted through them all! This is your final notice!”
No matter how Aaron dodged, Emma’s staff always found a way to land on him with pinpoint precision, without touching a single other object in the lab.
A bizarre scene unfolded: Aaron’s hunched back gradually straightened out, and his white-haired, white-bearded aged face grew younger—though still unkempt from years of neglect, giving him a somewhat haggard look.
Emma finally withdrew her staff and let out a cold snort. “Also, you’re only in your thirties—stop playing the old man in front of me. Otherwise, I’ll whack you every time I see it!”
Aaron was thirty-seven—actually quite young for a senior instructor.
His claim of having produced enough results in the past wasn’t bragging either. Back then, he had been a genius in the field of magical innovation research, promoted to senior instructor at just thirty—an exceptional case. Some said he was the most promising among the younger generation to ascend to legendary mage.
But after that, he started researching time magic—and fell into complete obscurity. For seven whole years, he hadn’t produced any useful results.
In the past, many had sought him out, hoping to become his students—he refused them all. Now, who was rejecting whom was really hard to say. A fallen genius held no value.
The academy had given him seven years of leeway as a courtesy, but it was time for him to crawl out of his dead end.
Aaron rubbed his aching back with a grimace and couldn’t help muttering, “Isn’t it better to play the old man than to play young at your age?”
Emma’s staff stirred restlessly again. “Say that again?”
Aaron immediately backed down. “I meant—it’s not intentional. It’s just a minor side effect of experimenting with time magic. Besides, doesn’t the old sage image look more respectable?”
Emma said impatiently, “That’s not time magic—that’s a mishmash of a spell that drains life force and vitality. Stop experimenting on yourself.”
Then she raised her hand and beckoned—an overwhelming flood of exam scrolls flew toward Aaron, nearly burying him.
“Alright, your new job starts with grading these papers. Take a look and see if there’s any student who catches your eye.”
Aaron’s face turned green. He hadn’t looked this bad even when Emma was pounding him.
“Dear Headmaster, you’re asking the most creative mind to grade these worthless, nutritionless papers—this is a waste of life! I would rather die—”
Emma silently raised her staff: then go ahead and die, by all means.
Aaron shut up.
Emma left, thoroughly satisfied. Genius or troublemaker—before her staff, all were equal.
Aaron made a sour face and began skimming through the papers at lightning speed.
“Trash.”
He gave that paper ninety points.
“Hah, meticulously crafted trash.”
He gave that paper full marks.
“…”
Aaron’s scores were all accurate, and in most people’s eyes, anyone scoring above ninety was absolutely among the top new students!
But his evaluations were equally sincere: they were all just parroting from textbooks—what else were they if not trash?
That was why he hated doing this meaningless work, and why he hated taking on students. He didn’t need a “walking encyclopedia”—full marks meant nothing to him.
But then, Aaron’s hand, which had been flipping through papers rapidly, suddenly stopped.
He had already spent more time on one particular paper than on all the previous ones combined.
“What a mess…” Aaron chuckled. “But interesting.”
That said, he showed no mercy when scoring—giving it the lowest mark he’d given so far: thirty-two points.