William stepped back, his presence easing into alignment with the others as the remaining captains took their places. Nine in total—nine silhouettes carved from reputation and rumor, each bearing an air so distinct that Xierra felt as though she were staring at a gallery of living legends.
No two of them felt alike.
Some radiated an effortless authority, standing tall as if the world naturally bent around them. Others carried something sharper beneath the surface—eccentricity, danger, humor edged with steel. Xierra found herself quietly fascinated. She had met her share of unusual people in her life, but this—this was on an entirely different scale.
Around her, the other examinees murmured eagerly, voices overlapping as they pointed and whispered names. She listened rather than asked, piecing together identities from scraps of conversation. It irked her a little how none of this knowledge had ever reached their village. No handbook, no neatly bound compendium of Magic Knight squads tucked away in the mayor's shelves. She would have devoured it in a heartbeat, just like she had devoured nearly every other book in his house.
A quiet tap brushed her shoulder.
Xierra startled, then relaxed when she felt the familiar presence lean close. She tilted her head slightly, keeping her voice low. "What is it, Inari?"
"Shouldn't you join the Black Bulls, Master?" he asked again, tone coaxing rather than insistent. "That Yami fellow—his magic would suit you well. And that other one too, I suppose. The... unsettling one."
She blinked. "Unsettling?" Her lips twitched despite herself. "You mean Gordon Agrippa?"
"Yes. Him."
Xierra folded her arms, humming softly as she considered it. "I wouldn't mind joining the Black Bulls," she admitted. Then her voice faltered, trailing into thought. She shut her eyes briefly, weighing the idea with more seriousness than she let on.
Inari waited. "But?"
She sagged a little, shoulders slumping forward. "Their captain is terrifying," she said plainly. "I don't think I'd survive more than a second under him." A sigh slipped out of her. "And besides, why them? There are eight other squads to choose from."
"Because they're full of oddballs," Inari replied without hesitation, a grin practically audible in his voice. "We'd fit right in."
She glanced aside, lips quirking. "You sound... unusually cheerful."
"Of course I am, Master! I might finally meet my kind—"
"Inari," she interrupted dryly, "you're a spirit."
"...Right. That." He paused, then corrected himself. "My weird kind."
Despite herself, Xierra laughed under her breath. The tension she hadn't realized she was holding loosened, just a bit. She reached up and patted the empty air where she knew he rested, gentle and careful.
"Fine," she conceded at last, then deliberately drew out the pause that followed. "But—we choose another squad if either Asta or Yuno ends up with them. Deal?"
Inari's amusement rippled through his voice. "Deal."
His mirth proved contagious; her smile followed, soft and helpless. Still, he wasn't finished.
"Oh, but shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the kid?" he added. "As much as he irritates me, he has a talent for inviting chaos."
Xierra leaned back against the cool stone pillar beside her, head tilting until it rested there comfortably. Her gaze drifted across the arena, searching for a familiar mess of ashen hair. "That's true," she murmured. "But if he passes, I'm sure whichever squad takes him in will keep him alive."
She paused, then smiled faintly.
"...Hopefully."
Smiling faintly, Xierra lifted her gaze toward the second tier of the stadium, where all nine captains were seated in proud alignment. From below, they looked almost unreal—figures carved from rumors and expectation, elevated both by stone and by reputation.
The first to draw her eyes was a man whose presence felt sharp and immaculate all at once.
"Captain of the Silver Eagles—Nozel Silva!"
Silver hair gleamed beneath the open sky, catching the light like polished steel. Violet eyes, cold and unyielding, surveyed the arena with detached precision. There was an austerity about him that made Xierra's shoulders tense instinctively, as though the air itself had thinned around his seat.
He reminded her of winter.
Not the gentle kind that came with quiet snowfalls and soft mornings—but the severe, breath-stealing cold that crept into bone and marrow. Of frost-laced air and mercury-bright mist lingering after relentless rain. Of pale birds vanishing into blizzards, unseen unless one knew exactly where to look. He carried the silence of snowfall and the weight of ice that never cracked.
The firstborn of House Silva. Its current head.
"That's..." Yuno began, eyes fixed upward.
"...one of the Magic Knight captains," Asta finished, squinting as though that alone explained everything.
Xierra stood between them, arms folded, studying Nozel with narrowed focus.
His bangs were braided neatly, falling forward to veil part of his face down to the bridge of his nose. The rest of his hair flowed long and straight down his back, while the crown and sides were sculpted sharply, swept into a rigid, spiked arrangement that refused disorder.
"That hairstyle's intense," a mage behind them muttered. "Doesn't it get in the way of seeing?"
Xierra sighed softly, pinching the bridge of her nose as she hid her mouth behind her hand. Her eyes never left the Silver Eagle captain—but she couldn't entirely disagree.
"It's... not easy to like," she murmured.
Yuno gave a stiff nod in agreement.
"Captain of the Crimson Lion King—Fuegoleon Vermillion!"
This time, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The man seated there bore long vermillion hair, its hue rich and warm, pulled neatly back save for a wavy fringe combed to the left. His purple eyes—darker than Nozel's—held something kinder, something that burned rather than froze.
He reminded Xierra of autumn.
Of ember-lit sunsets and the glow of falling leaves, gold and copper spinning through the air. Of flames that warmed instead of consumed. Of maple wood and firelight, of the quiet crackle that followed long days. The name Vermillion fit him perfectly—like the world itself had chosen the color for his bloodline.
Red markings framed his eyes, sharp but deliberate, and another—shaped like a four-pointed star—rested at the center of his forehead.
"If I remember right," Xierra said quietly, "the Crimson Lion King captain uses flame magic."
She remembered the book well—how she'd spent three whole days poring over it while Inari hovered nearby, far too pleased with her enthusiasm.
Inari hummed beside her shoulder. "His magic would suit you exceptionally well, Master."
She bit back a groan. "Is that so?" she replied flatly, pointedly ignoring the delight she could hear creeping into his voice.
"Captain of the Green Praying Mantis—Jack the Ripper!"
"...Uhh."
That was all Xierra managed.
The man seated there had loose, medium-length black hair and piercing gold eyes. A thin, crimson scar cut down the left side of his face—from forehead to chin—passing directly over his eye and curving toward the corner of his mouth. His features were sharp in a way that felt dangerous, like blades left uncovered.
Every glance she stole sent a chill crawling up her spine.
He reminded her of scythes.
Of the ruthless certainty of death, of the unforgiving order of nature where survival was bought with blood. Of the wilds beyond Clover's borders, where the food chain showed no mercy and life ended as abruptly as it began.
"They say Captain Jack's Severing Magic can split the earth in two!"
Xierra stiffened. Beside her, Inari went very still.
Then—far too cheerfully—he leaned close. "You'd thrive there."
She turned slowly. "No."
"Think of it, Master. Power, sharpness, efficiency—"
"No."
"You could carve your own—"
"No."
"A permanent decision?" he pressed, amused.
"A permanent, eternal, irreversible no," she hissed back under her breath.
Yuno glanced sideways at her, brow lifting slightly. Asta, meanwhile, grinned. "Whoa! That guy looks awesome!"
Xierra shot him a look. "You're not allowed to choose squads based on who looks the scariest."
Asta blinked. "Hey—!"
She exhaled, gaze drifting back up to the captains. Legends, all of them. And yet, standing there between her two childhood companions, with Inari murmuring at her shoulder, she felt the weight of choice settle quietly in her chest.
"Captain of the Blue Rose Knight—Charlotte Roselei!"
The moment Charlotte Roselei came into view, the air itself seemed to temper—softening, as though the stadium had collectively leaned closer.
Xierra's breath caught without permission.
The captain of the Blue Rose Knights sat poised among the others, her presence neither loud nor demanding, yet impossible to overlook. Sunlit gold hair framed her face, a single braid resting neatly along her cheek like a deliberate signature. Her blue eyes—cool, unwavering—reflected the sky above the coliseum, sharp with awareness and discipline.
She was beautiful in a way that felt intentional.
Not ornamental. Not fragile. Not a doll and not quite a model.
Charlotte Roselei was a spring, given armor. A field reborn after frost, where blue roses bloomed despite never being meant to exist. Flowers said to symbolize the impossible—the unattainable made real: mystery, quiet resolve, and beginnings carved from defiance.
A knight of thorns, not a damsel in waiting.
Xierra stared, openly this time, eyes bright enough to betray her.
"She's... incredible," she murmured, barely louder than the wind brushing past the stone tiers.
A soft chuckle drifted near her shoulder.
"Careful, Master. You're staring," Inari teased in a hushed voice, amusement curling through the words.
"I can't help it," Xierra whispered back, fingers curling into her sleeves. "She looks like she walked out of a fairy tale and decided to rewrite it."
Yuno glanced at her, then toward Charlotte, his expression unreadable as ever.
"She's strong," he said. "You can tell just by how she holds herself."
Xierra nodded, reluctantly tearing her gaze away. Strength recognized strength—even when it wore elegance like a crown.
The staff announced again, "Captain of the Purple Orca—Gueldre Poizot!"
The shift was immediate.
Where Charlotte's presence felt like fresh air, Gueldre Poizot arrived like a sealed vial—glossy, contained, and unmistakably dangerous.
"I don't like the ominous vibe I'm getting from him," Inari muttered aloud before he could stop himself.
Yuno inclined his head just enough for his voice to carry only to her, a faint curve tugging at his lips as his gaze lingered where Inari usually perched. "Careful. You might be heard."
"Inari," Xierra hissed under her breath, mortified. "Shush."
"Right. Apologies," Inari replied, wholly unapologetic.
Gueldre stood taller than most, his frame broad beneath the elaborate cloak of the Purple Orcas. A mask obscured part of his face, carved into a permanent smile that never reached his eyes. Blond hair gleamed beneath the sun, while his darkened gaze—hard to see, harder to read—felt like it remained too long on everything it touched.
Xierra rubbed her arms, skin prickling.
He reminded her of poison sealed in crystal. Colorless. Odorless. Lethal not by force, but by patience. The kind that seeped in slowly, sweet at first, until it was far too late to realize you'd been breathing it all along.
"Captain of the Aqua Deer—Rill Boismortier!"
The next introduction drew a ripple of disbelief through the stadium.
Xierra frowned. "He looks younger than half the examinees."
Rill Boismortier stood out not because of an overwhelming aura—but because of how wildly it sparked. Spiky aqua hair shot upward like it had been sculpted by enthusiasm alone, and his roseate pupils shone with restless curiosity. He grinned as though this were a festival rather than a formal assembly of captains.
A fledgling bird perched among hawks. Feathers still soft, wings untested—but brimming with color and potential. A young fowl not yet hardened by storms, unaware that the sky could ever refuse him.
"Captain Rill is nineteen," someone whispered.
"Nineteen?!"
A sharp, indignant howl tore through the murmurs of the arena.
"That's only four years older than me!"
Asta practically folded in on himself, fingers clawing into his own hair as if he could yank the injustice straight out of his skull. He stomped in place, pacing a tight, frantic circle, all wild gestures and flailing limbs—half tantrum, half existential crisis. His face twisted between disbelief and sheer agony, like the universe itself had personally wronged him.
"Four. Years," he emphasized again, shaking his fists at absolutely no one. "I could be a captain in four years! I mean—maybe! Probably! Why is he already one?!"
Xierra watched the display in stunned silence, blinking once. Then twice.
"That's..." she said slowly, her voice trailing as she tried—and failed—to make sense of it. Her brows knit together, awe giving way to something dangerously close to dread. "That's ridiculous."
Somewhere near her shoulder, Inari snickered under his breath. Yuno, meanwhile, didn't react at all—save for the faintest tightening of his jaw, as if he, too, had quietly recalculated the distance between now and then.
"He's the youngest Magic Knights Captain in history," another voice added.
Inari scoffed, far too audibly.
Yuno glanced over again, eyebrow twitching just slightly. "It seems Inari has his... opinions."
"Too many," Xierra sighed, casting a tired look toward her shoulder. "Save your judgment, Inari."
"But Master," he replied sweetly, "he looks like he'd paint the battlefield before fighting on it."
She didn't disagree.
As the murmurs continued, Xierra's attention drifted toward the final captain yet to be fully introduced. Even before his name was officially called, it echoed through the arena—whispered with awe, curiosity, and something dangerously close to reverence.
William Vangeance.
Xierra straightened, pulse quickening.
"Captain of the Golden Dawn—William Vangeance!"
The announcement rang across the coliseum with a deliberate weight, as though even the staff understood the gravity of the name. For a fleeting moment, the air itself seemed to pause—sound folding inward, breaths caught mid-rise—until the murmurs returned in a low, reverent tide.
Xierra lifted her gaze to the second level.
William Vangeance sat among the captains like a figure pulled from the front cover of newspapers, his presence neither sharp nor imposing, yet impossible to ignore. His golden mask caught the light in a way that felt intentional, casting warm reflections that bled into the banners behind him. The emblem of the Golden Dawn gleamed proudly at his side, radiant as its name suggested.
Around her, whispers bloomed again—soft, urgent.
Closest to becoming the Wizard King.
The phrase drifted through the stands like a spell already half-cast.
Xierra exhaled through her nose, shoulders easing downward in something between resignation and resolve. If that was the summit everyone aimed for, then it was only natural that her path would cross it as well. Difficult, yes—but difficulty had never been reason enough to turn away. If anything, it only sharpened her intent.
She shifted slightly, careful, deliberate.
"There are other ways," came a murmur near her ear.
The words were quiet enough to be mistaken for a passing breath. Inari's voice lowered to a near-whisper as he leaned closer, tail flicking once before settling again. Anyone watching would have seen nothing more than a girl adjusting her posture.
Xierra stilled, then tilted her head just enough to acknowledge him.
"Other ways?" she echoed under her breath, lips barely moving. "Explain."
Inari's tone remained gentle, conspiratorial. "People say the Golden Dawn is the shortest, quickest road to the throne. But roads are not the same as destinations. One does not vanish simply because it curves."
She frowned faintly, fingers curling at her side. "You're saying rank doesn't dictate the crown."
"Precisely."
Xierra let out a careful sigh, eyes never leaving the captains' stand. "Inari," she muttered flatly, irritation threading through the hush, "if this is another attempt to push me toward the Black Bulls—"
The fox went rigid atop her shoulders.
"—then don't," she finished, voice soft but edged. "If you say that name one more time, I swear I won't join them even if they're the only squad that wants me."
A beat passed.
Then, lightly—far too lightly—Inari relented. "Understood, Master. Message received. Loud and... terrifyingly clear."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling once more. The day seemed determined to wring every sigh from her lungs.
The chatter around them swelled again, but its texture had shifted. No longer awe alone—now it was comparison, calculation. Past exams. Old results. The invisible lines drawn by blood and birth.
"Only nobles get into the Silver Eagles."
"Golden Dawn too, right?"
"Commoners never even get a glance—"
The words pressed in from all sides, quiet but insistent.
Xierra felt something cold settle in her chest.
Not envy. Not anger.
Isolation.
She glanced sideways. Yuno stood unmoved, gaze forward, posture straight—as though such divisions had never existed to begin with. Asta, on the other hand, was already grinning, fists clenched with restless anticipation, practically vibrating with determination.
And yet—
Sometimes it wasn't the world that excluded her.
Sometimes, the distance came from within.
"...It's me," Xierra murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Her eyes softened, unfocused, and for a fleeting second, she looked very far away.
Inari noticed.
He watched her expression shift into something unguarded, something fragile, and for once, he found himself unsure. There were limits between them—barriers he could feel but not cross. A chain of sorts, forged long before he had found her. Walls she had built herself, brick by brick, iron after iron poured and hardened.
The uncertainty unsettled him.
That haze in her gaze reminded him of the endless fog he had once wandered through—no beginning, no end, only the ache of searching without knowing for what.
He wondered, quietly, if the girl beside him was truly the same master he had sworn himself to.
Yuno caught the fragment of her words.
Just two syllables—but they lodged in his thoughts, heavy and unresolved. His eyes flickered toward her, brows drawing together almost imperceptibly. He was about to ask when the movement above drew everyone's attention once more.
The final captain took his seat.
And this one—
This one was familiar.
"Captain of the Black Bulls—Yami Sukehiro!"
The name struck the stadium differently than the rest.
Not with awe, nor reverence—but with a low, instinctive unease, as though something feral had stirred beneath the stone seats.
Xierra's eyes lifted despite herself.
Yami Sukehiro sat back in his chair with a posture that looked careless at first glance, yet carried a coiled tension beneath it, like a blade left deliberately unsheathed. His expression was solemn—stripped of the killing intent that had once pressed down on her lungs when he'd crossed paths with Asta earlier. Even so, his weight lingered, heavy and undeniable, as if the air bent subtly around his presence.
He looked... quieter than before.
That alone unsettled her.
Behind him stood another man—tall, brunet, and unmistakably relaxed in contrast. Finral Roulacase leaned slightly to one side, his posture loose, eyes roaming with an idle curiosity that didn't miss much.
Unfortunately, it didn't miss her either.
Their gazes met.
Finral blinked once—then smiled, easy and bright—and sent her a wink without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Xierra stiffened.
Her eyes widened a fraction, breath hitching before she caught herself. It wasn't offense that flashed across her face, nor embarrassment—just surprise, raw and unguarded, caught mid-reaction.
She barely had time to compose herself before she felt it.
A shift.
Yuno's attention snapped upward.
His stare locked onto Finral from across the stadium, sharp and darkened, the usual calm in his eyes giving way to something colder. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The intensity alone carried its own warning.
Finral felt it immediately.
A chill ran down his spine, cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck as his smile froze—then slowly, deliberately, he looked away. He straightened, coughed lightly, and suddenly found the far wall of the stadium very interesting.
Nope, he decided silently. Not touching that situation.
From Finral's vantage point, it was clear enough: two heavy, unseen pressures lingered close to the platinum-blonde girl—one quiet and razor-focused, the other... well. Oddly fox-shaped, if his instincts weren't lying to him. Even if there was nothing there.
Xierra, for her part, let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging just slightly. Her expression settled into something resigned yet accepting, as if she had already decided this was a problem for a future version of herself.
"Good job, kid."
The voice came quietly, close to Yuno's shoulder.
He felt a light tap—brief, almost playful—and didn't need to look to know who it was. He inclined his head once in acknowledgment before flicking a glance toward Xierra, ensuring she was alright, before returning his focus to the captains' stand.
At the center of it all, William Vangeance stepped forward.
"We're going to have you go through a multitude of tests," he began, his voice calm and measured, carrying effortlessly across the vast arena. A gentle smile crossed his lips, soothing in a way that felt almost deliberate.
Above him, the other captains listened in silence, expressions varied—some intrigued, some indifferent, some dangerously amused. Their attention never wavered.
"The captains of the Magic Knight Squads will be observing your progress," William continued. "At the end of these trials, we will each select the candidates we deem suitable for our squads."
The pause that followed was brief.
Yet heavy.
"Those who are not chosen," he finished evenly, "will be judged to lack the aptitude required to join the Magic Knights."
The stadium tightened as one.
Spines straightened. Hands clenched. Sweat traced slow paths down backs despite the open air. Somewhere nearby, someone swallowed hard enough for Xierra to hear it.
Her fingers curled at her side.
Eyes sharpened.
She lifted her chin—not in defiance, but resolve.
Beside William, another mage stepped forward, parchment in hand, beginning to outline the rules with crisp precision. The words blurred together, carried on the tide of anticipation until—
"The first test," William said, lifting a hand.
Silence fell.
A heartbeat passed.
Then, with a soft smile that did nothing to ease the tension, he concluded—
"—is flight. Using those broomsticks."
A ripple surged through the participants.
Xierra exhaled slowly.
Here we go.
They lowered their gazes almost in unison.
Broomsticks rested in waiting hands—polished shafts of enchanted wood, lighter than they looked, balanced with quiet intention. They were larger than the everyday brooms used to sweep church floors or village porches, their handles smoothed by careful craft rather than wear. When Xierra lifted hers, she felt the subtle hum beneath her fingers, magic braided so neatly into the grain that it felt like a living thing, patient and expectant.
She set it aside for a moment.
A smile, soft and unguarded, curved her lips as memory stirred—Father Orsi's broom, old and chipped, its bristles uneven from years of use. It had never looked impressive, but it had always been fast enough, reliable enough to carry them through winding roads and hurried mornings. She wondered, distantly, whether the broom in her hands would be returned after today, or discarded once the exam ended.
Her attention rose as movement caught her eye.
One of the Golden Dawn mages stepped forward, his robes whispering against stone. Without hesitation, he swung a leg over his broom and settled onto it with practiced ease, posture relaxed—as though he had done this a thousand times before. Magic stirred at his feet, lifting him slowly from the ground. He hovered just above the stadium floor, steady and unshaken, the motion smooth enough to feel effortless.
Xierra watched closely.
Not the ascent itself, but the control—the way his mana didn't flare or falter, how it obeyed him like second nature. It made sense. Transportation was a necessity, not a luxury, for those who fought across vast lands and shifting battlefields. To be a Magic Knight meant learning to move as freely as one breathed.
William gestured toward the demonstration, his voice calm as it carried across the arena. "Any mage who can control their magic," he explained, "can do this instinctively. It is the most fundamental method of movement for us."
Xierra's fingers curled around her own broom again.
She rolled it once between her palms, testing its balance, grounding herself in the familiar shape. Flying had not always come easily to her. The first time, her stomach had rebelled so fiercely that Father Orsi had laughed and insisted they stop every few minutes. Sister Lily had offered her water, gentle and patient, until the dizziness passed.
She had hated it then.
But persistence had won. Bit by bit, the nausea faded, replaced by the thrill of wind against her cheeks and the quiet joy of mastering something that once scared her.
"It doesn't hurt to try," she murmured to herself, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.
William's gaze swept over the examinees once more before he spoke again, tone unchanged—kind, but absolute.
"So," he concluded, "if you cannot fly a broomstick, there is no future for you here."
The sentence fell like a final verdict.
Before it could fully settle, another exam staff member stepped forward. He raised his arm high, the banner in his other hand swaying as mana surged through it. His voice, magnified by magic, cut cleanly through the air.
"Begin!!"
.
.
.
Xierra watched as throats bobbed with nervous swallows, as hands tightened around polished wood. She glanced from face to face, half-expecting hesitation—someone, anyone, to falter first.
When she blinked, most were already moving.
Broomsticks lifted in uneven bursts, some smooth and confident, others jerking skyward like startled animals. A handful of examinees were already high above, silhouettes slicing through the pale blue as if they belonged there.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Talk about fast," she muttered under her breath.
Below and around her, the exam unfolded in chaos and triumph alike. Many managed to rise without issue, gliding with varying degrees of grace. Others struggled—brooms wobbling violently, disobedient as if offended by their riders' lack of finesse. One spun in a sharp spiral, another bucked outright, tossing its mage aside before shooting off in a crooked line.
Xierra winced when she saw a man doubled over, his breath knocked from him as his broom slammed squarely into his abdomen before abandoning him entirely.
She looked away, lips pressed thin, and then—inevitably—her gaze returned to the broom in her own hands.
Again.
For what felt like the hundredth time.
She inhaled slowly, grounding herself, fingers curling around the familiar curve of the handle.
"Better late than never," she murmured.
Setting it down, she loosened her grip.
The broom responded at once, lifting from the stone with a quiet hum, hovering patiently in front of her as though waiting for permission. Xierra stepped closer, adjusting her footing, testing her balance. To her surprise, it came easily—far easier than she remembered from her earliest attempts.
The ground drifted away.
Stone tiles shrank beneath her boots, the arena widening until it felt less like a cage and more like an open sky. When she glanced down, the castle town unfolded below her in miniature—rows of colorful rooftops stitched together like a quilt, market stalls reduced to tiny dots, streets winding like painted lines.
It was... beautiful.
From the captains' platform, William observed in silence. His gaze followed the movement of the examinees, measuring, weighing.
"By watching a mage fly," he said at last, "one can gain a basic understanding of their potential. This year..."
His eyes lingered on a few figures—those who climbed higher with steady control, who moved as if the broom were an extension of themselves.
"...it seems we have several promising candidates."
High above, Xierra swallowed and glanced down, the distance finally registering.
"We're really high up," she breathed.
Curiosity sparked brighter than her nerves. She coaxed her broom upward, rising until the wind bit colder against her cheeks. It didn't take long before she drew level with Yuno, matching his height with ease.
She grinned, mischief lighting her eyes.
"Did I do a good job, Teacher?" she teased, dipping into an exaggerated bow on her broom—a playful nod to the hours he'd spent drilling balance into her.
Yuno huffed quietly and drifted closer, reaching out to pat her head. "You still have a long way to go."
"Oh, come on."
"But," he added, quieter, "I told you you'd be fine."
Her laughter carried on the wind, light and unrestrained. The cold crept deeper the higher they hovered, and after a moment she settled onto her broom, legs folding easily as she took in the view again.
Then a thought struck her.
She looked around, scanning the sky. "Speaking of... Where's Asta?"
Yuno didn't answer right away. He simply angled his gaze downward—and sighed.
Xierra followed his line of sight.
Below them, far below, Asta stood rooted to the ground, broom stubbornly unmoving beneath him. He tugged at it, adjusted his stance, tried again. Nothing. Not even an inch of lift.
Her brows knit together.
"Is that... him?"
Yuno nodded, jaw tightening as he turned his eyes away, deliberately ignoring the murmurs and snickers rippling through the crowd.
Xierra's smile faded.
She didn't like those voices. Not at all.
"What's going on? Even with very little magic power, one should be able to float a little." Likewise, Fuegoleon and the other captains were just as confused. The captain of the Crimson Lion King rubbed his chin with one hand, locking his gaze on Asta, struggling with all his might.
William, who sat next to the Vermillion, remained quiet. It took Xierra a long time to give up on trying to decipher what he was thinking about. The emotions he wore behind that mask were hard to read.
Xierra's frown creased deeper, worrying about Asta. Other participants were laughing at him and mocking him. Those words weren't for her, and yet, she felt hurt for some reason. Xierra grew up with Yuno and Asta. She was the same age as them, played with them, trained with them—she knew them best.
She knew that neither Asta nor Yuno minded their sneers. They had always been so strong and so confident, and they never gave up.
And they knew her best.
A pair of amber eyes landed on Xierra's anxious figure. She was restless, tapping her foot on the broom. She bit her bottom lip and crossed her arms nervously, trying to think of a way to help the boy. Yuno sighed.
She's always like this, he thought, and flew behind her, placing a hand on her head. "Don't mind them." He repeated those words of comfort every day. "Asta's not going to back down so easily."
Xierra spared him a glance before hesitantly shaking her head. "No, I knew that, but..." Xierra paused. She bit the inside walls of her cheeks and gulped, casting her gaze down. "It still hurts."
Black strands of hair fell onto Yuno's face when he heard those words. He expected it, but at the same time, he was still surprised. A shadow loomed over his face. However, it didn't manage to cover his gleaming amber eyes.
They were unreadable.
Inari, who was invisible, stared at the boy with the same look. Is he worried? What's going on in that head of his? Different questions ran through the fox's head. He knew of the boy's feelings, and yet, there seemed to be hesitation at times.
Why?
Inari didn't know.
He didn't want to know, and he didn't need to know.
Exhaling heavily, Inari looked away. This is their problem. I can't interfere much with their lives, he thought with a blank gaze, knowing that his master was too focused on Asta to even hear him sigh.
"What the heck, man? That twerp is unbelievable."
"How is that even possible?"
The words carried easily through the air, sharp and careless, and they did not come alone.
"Okay, he's not cut out for this."
"There's no way he's passing..."
Laughter followed—thin, hollow, cruel.
"Why is he even here?!"
"Is he trying to mock us?"
The ridicule layered itself poisonously, one after another, piling atop Asta's unmoving figure like stones meant to weigh him down. Each jeer chipped away at the fragile quiet of the arena, echoing off stone and steel alike.
Xierra pressed her lips together, a tight line forming as her brow furrowed. The sound scraped at her nerves. She shifted on her broom, fingers curling until the wood creaked faintly beneath her grip.
Then—laughter again.
She turned, head tilting in confusion as her gaze found its source.
It was different from the others. Not sharp with malice, nor dripping with delight. It rang hollow, exaggerated, as though someone were forcing mirth where none belonged.
"Har har! You're a funny guy!"
The voice belonged to a blond mage who had stepped up beside Asta. His smile was wide, bordering on gaudy, and Xierra couldn't tell whether it was meant to soothe or provoke. He winked at Asta, flashing two fingers in a jaunty salute as an imaginary sparkle seemed to trail the motion.
"My name's Sekke. Nice to meet ya!" he added, punctuating it with one last theatrical laugh.
Xierra's gaze sharpened.
Her brow arched, suspicion settling in as she kept watch over the newcomer. Something about him felt off. Not openly cruel, but not sincere either. He lingered too comfortably at Asta's side, like a spectator masquerading as a friend.
Asta, for his part, barely spared him a glance.
"Ugh—! Hey, I'm Asta...!" he managed between strained breaths, legs trembling as he tried—again—to will the broom beneath him into motion.
Nothing happened.
Xierra's expression softened, just a fraction. She watched his shoulders tense, his jaw clench, the stubborn determination burning behind his eyes despite the failure written plainly at his feet. He was trying. He always did.
Maybe he was doing it wrong, she thought, a quiet ache blooming in her chest. Maybe he just needed a different way.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to Hage. No one there was truly magicless. Some had barely enough mana to light a candle, but it was still there—present, warm, alive.
Yet no matter how closely she looked, no matter how carefully she reached out with her senses, she felt nothing from Asta.
Not even a flicker.
Yuno noticed.
His gaze remained glued on her drawn expression, the worry she tried—and failed—to hide. With a gentle motion, he guided his broom closer and rested a hand against her back, firmer than before.
"Xierra," he said, voice steady, unwavering. "I'll say it as many times as you need. Don't worry about Asta. He'll be fine."
The sudden contact startled her.
"He always is."
She blinked, shoulders stiffening for a heartbeat before easing. She had half-expected his hand to find her head, the familiar reassurance she'd grown used to. Instead, the warmth at her back felt grounding in a different way—subtle, but no less comforting.
Above them, sunlight spilled freely from the open sky, washing over the arena. The pale glow caught against Xierra's snow-bright complexion, igniting it until she seemed to glow in response.
She smiled.
It was small at first, then brighter—unrestrained.
Yuno froze.
Heat rushed to his ears as he quickly raised an arm to shield his eyes, turning away as though the light itself had betrayed him. His ears burned crimson.
"...Xierra," he muttered, flustered, "you're blinding."
She blinked at him.
"Huh?"
.
.
.
One test bled into the next, each one leaving faint impressions rather than sharp memories. Somewhere between moving platforms and timed trials, Xierra made a choice—to keep her eyes forward, to stop measuring herself against the noise of others.
It would have worked if Asta hadn't been so loud about his failures.
Every missed landing, every collapsed spell, every shouted declaration of disbelief echoed across the arena like a bell struck too hard. Frustration clung to him openly, worn on his sleeve without shame. In stark contrast, Yuno moved as though the trials parted for him willingly—steps precise, magic answering him like an old companion. He surged ahead with quiet inevitability, climbing toward the top of the participants as naturally as breathing.
Xierra watched neither for long.
When the second stage was announced—the Magic Ability Exam—the air itself seemed to tighten in anticipation.
Aligned brick walls rose from the earth in clean, uniform rows, their surfaces etched with faint reinforcement spells. They stood like sentinels awaiting judgment. Xierra stepped forward, breath steady, fingers brushing the edge of her grimoire as it fluttered open.
In a single heartbeat, it was over.
Dust bloomed outward like a collapsing star.
The walls did not crack or crumble. They simply ceased, undone so thoroughly that even their silhouettes vanished, reduced to drifting motes that shimmered before dissolving into nothingness. It was quiet in the aftermath—the kind of silence that followed awe, not expectation.
She had used the first spell she had ever cast in battle.
Luck, perhaps. Or memory.
The spell was neither the weakest nor the safest within her grimoire. It demanded balance—too much mana, and it devoured itself, too little, and it fizzled into light. But she had learned its rhythm like a familiar constellation.
"Astral Creation Magic: Night of a Thousand Stars."
The sky above darkened, not like dusk, but like ink spilled across parchment. Darkness cleaved open, and from that wound, stars descended—sharp, radiant, innumerable. They fell with the inevitability of gravity, striking the targets below as if the heavens themselves had chosen them for erasure.
It was less an attack and more a verdict.
"They weren't even moving," Xierra murmured afterward, almost sheepish.
"Good job, Master," Inari whispered, tail swaying as it brushed against her hair, pride threaded through his chuckle.
She laughed softly. "I wonder where I learned that from."
"Oh, you learned from the best."
"Mm-hmm."
The remaining exams blurred together like brushstrokes layered atop one another.
During the Magic Ability Control Exam, moving paper targets danced through the air, rings painted like ripples on water. Precision was the goal—but Xierra, keenly aware of her own shortcomings, chose a different path.
"Astral Creation Magic: Crescent Waltz."
Blades of glade-light curved through the air, slicing cleanly through the targets rather than threading their centers. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't intended.
But it was effective.
She held her breath until no reprimand came.
Maybe destroying them still counts, she thought, wiping sweat from her brow.
From the sidelines, captains exchanged looks—some amused, others impressed. Inari's grin widened into something sharp and delighted.
The Creation Magic Exam allowed imagination to take the reins.
While others formed statues, blazing birds, or replicas of cities long left behind, Xierra paused, humming thoughtfully. She glanced over her shoulder. What should we make?
Whatever you wish, Inari replied easily. Let it be yours.
Mana flared—blue and gold entwined—as silver strings unfurled from her fingertips, weaving through flame as though she were sewing light itself. Shapes emerged: a luminous deer, antlers branching like constellations; an eagle that scattered clouds with its wings; a lion whose mane shifted through every hue of fire.
Each transformation echoed a Magic Knight squad emblem.
When the lion leapt forward, it passed harmlessly through the candidates like a mirage. With another spell, it shifted—bull to peacock, stars to sunrise, roses blooming as thorns encased the final form in quiet slumber.
The Development Magic Exam came last before combat.
A seed rested in her palm, unassuming and small.
"Huh," she murmured. "Now what should I turn you into...?"
Mana poured gently, reverently. The seed trembled—then burst into life. Roots unfurled, branches flared, and a flaming tree rose where she had crouched. Stars dangled from its roots like lanterns, glowing softly as it swayed.
"Perfect," Xierra said, pride swelling in her chest.
The final announcement came sooner than expected.
"Next is the last test," William said, rising from his seat. "You will engage in actual combat. Pair up and fight."
His gaze paused—just briefly—on Xierra.
Something about it prickled.
Inari's reaction was immediate. A low growl reverberated from his unseen form, fur bristling, heat flaring against her skin.
Keep your distance from him, Master.
Xierra soothed him with a gentle scratch. Easy. You're burning me.
Her touch stilled him. Slowly, he relaxed, eyes closing as memory tugged at him—of kindness long past, of hands that felt achingly similar.
If only...
"Rest up," Xierra whispered. "You've done enough today."
To Be Continued...