Owl held an annual competition each year to decide rankings and determine how resources were distributed among members. The higher the rank, the larger the allocation of potions, points, rare materials, and even missions with better rewards.
Participation, however, was optional. Those who preferred to skip it wouldn't face warnings or risk expulsion; ultimately, it was the organization's trials—not the annual competition—that decided whether a member stayed or left.
Gilgamel had never once participated. Because of this, his rank on the first floor was perpetually stuck at the bottom.
He didn't mind.
As a Potioneer, rankings meant little to him. The demand for potions was always high, and whenever he needed contribution points, all he had to do was brew and submit a few batches to Owl's relevant department. That alone was enough to keep him in good standing.
Instead of chasing rank and rewards, Gilgamel was more concerned about his own progress, which, lately, had been weighing on him.
Most of his peers had already reached Level 8 or 9, while he remained at Level 7. It wasn't that he hadn't been training—he simply refused to force his growth recklessly.
Training required steady effort. Potions could help accelerate progress, but overreliance damaged the body and hindered long-term growth. In other words, pushing for higher levels too quickly could ruin a wizard before they ever reach their peak.
Gilgamel knew this well. That didn't stop the occasional feeling of frustration.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he finally lost interest in watching the current match between Farad and Magnus. He stood up, brushed the dust from his robe, and called out,
"Let's go, Dodo."
The Dark Hound's ears twitched, and it rose from its comfortable spot to pad after him.
Gilgamel didn't head straight for the exit of the Magic Arena. Instead, he made his way toward the infirmary.
The infirmary was a spacious, orderly hall, lined with rows of beds. The air carried the fresh, calming scent of herbs, a sharp contrast to the noisy arena outside. Various magical instruments gleamed under the lamplight—some for stabilizing mana flow, others for mending broken bones or soothing burns.
In an organization like Owl, injuries were a daily occurrence. Some members fought to sharpen their skills, others to settle grudges, and a few simply loved the thrill of combat. Because of this, the infirmary was rarely empty.
The moment Gilgamel stepped inside, a familiar voice greeted him.
"Oh, Gil, thank goodness you're here!"
A middle-aged woman in a crisp white robe approached, relief plain on her face.
Gilgamel grinned, "Madam Elleas, your infirmary is still as popular as Medelien's food stall."
She narrowed her eyes in mock offense, "Please don't compare my sacred place with a food stall. And I do not need this kind of popularity. Now hurry—come help."
Laughing under his breath, Gilgamel crossed the room toward a large, muscular man sitting sideways on one of the beds. Instead of the Owl uniform, he wore a sleeveless black shirt stretched tight over his frame.
Gilgamel knew him well.
Black Bear, though not his real name, was a frequent guest of the infirmary, thanks to his tendency to charge into fights headfirst.
At the moment, the man was gritting his teeth, gingerly poking at a large burn on his arm. He cussed out, "Hiss… that jerk really burned me good this time!"
Gilgamel smirked, "Looks like you still know what pain feels like. I thought you were immune by now."
"Hmph. This is nothing," Black Bear grunted, trying to act unfazed.
"Tsk. Tsundere as always," Gilgamel teased.
A vein pulsed on Black Bear's forehead, "What do you want?"
"I'm here to treat you, obviously. Look at the state you're in."
The man growled like an irritated dog, but Gilgamel ignored the display.
"Lie down. I'll have you patched up in a minute."
Reluctantly, Black Bear obeyed. A moment later, a cool sensation washed over him as a sphere of water formed, enveloping his body from neck to toe. The magic seeped into his burns, dulling the pain.
It wasn't the first time Gilgamel had treated him. Though Black Bear disliked admitting it, Gilgamel's skill in healing magic was beyond question.
When the spell faded, Gilgamel spoke casually: "Be thankful. I healed your burns and a few other injuries you've been ignoring."
"I didn't ask you to!" Black Bear snapped.
"Should I heal another damaged part while I'm at it?"
"What part?"
Gilgamel pointed to his head, "Your brain."
The two locked eyes. Gilgamel smiled innocently; Black Bear's jaw tightened.
From across the room, Madam Elleas was tending to another patient when—
CRASH!
Something toppled over behind the curtain where Gilgamel was working. She tilted her head, debating whether to check… then decided it was better not to know.
DING—DONG.
The deep toll of the Grand Bell echoed through the castle, signaling lunchtime.
Though the eternal night outside never changed, Owl kept strict mealtimes. The moment the bell rang, members abandoned their tasks and drifted toward the Cafeteria.
Soon, the long hall filled with chatter and the clatter of plates. Ten massive tables stretched from one end to the other, while the staff's table—slightly elevated and lavishly arranged—occupied the front. The kitchen, visible through an open archway, bustled with chefs and enchanted cookware.
Overhead, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with the illusion of a star-strewn sky.
Owl's meals were generous: meat pies, lamb chops, chicken stew, fried sausages, roast beef, pasties, creamy soups, puddings, and more. Even wizards under the Fifth Circle needed food to replenish their physical and magical energy—and their appetites were legendary.
Halfway through the meal, a voice rose from one of the tables.
"Hey, have you heard the latest news?"
Across from him, a friend looked up, "What kind of news?"
"About the First Trial."
The change in atmosphere was immediate. The buzz of conversation cut off, forks paused mid-air. Every nearby wizard tilted their head toward the speaker.
For First Floor members, "First Trial" was a phrase that demanded attention. Passing it meant staying in Owl; failing meant being cast out. Any rumor, no matter how small, was precious.
The young man swallowed the last of his bread, then leaned forward.
"I heard we'll need a team for this trial."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"Does that mean a team is required to pass?"
"That's all I know. No details."
"Well, at least it means we can prepare early. Or maybe…"
One wizard tapped the table thoughtfully.
"Maybe the staff leaked this on purpose, so we don't show up unprepared."
Another grinned, "I like that theory."
"How many people per team, you think?"
"Five."
"Why five?"
"Because the Aurium always recommends groups of five for cooperative missions."
"Hmm… makes sense."
Wizards were used to thinking critically. Five years in Owl meant countless missions, strategy sessions, and practice in reading between the lines. It didn't take long for them to start dissecting the rumor into probable scenarios.
One member suddenly pushed back his chair.
"No time for a full meal—I need to find strong teammates before they're all taken!"
"Me too!"
"Count me in!"
Within minutes, half the hall emptied in a rush, as if a magical beast had charged through the doors.
By night's end, everyone on the first floor had heard the rumor. Like wildfire, it had spread from table to table, corridor to corridor.
And the one who first started it?
He was already standing in front of a small building with a modest sign swinging gently in the night breeze: "Gil's Appraisal Room."