{ FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLIER… }
The sun shone high in the sky, above the white clouds, when the Tharion family's carriage came to a halt in front of their imposing residence: a grand palace of white stone that towered over the common buildings of Raerno.
Cylindrical towers, adorned with crimson banners bearing the golden phoenix, stood tall against the twilight sky, while stained-glass windows sparkled like jewels under the last rays of light.
Servants, dressed in impeccable liveries, hurried to open the carriage doors, bowing with deference as Simner stepped out first. His red cloak billowed like a living flame.
Joren followed, his face still marked by the humiliation he had endured at the Association's Central Headquarters.
His boots echoed on the cobblestones as the servants greeted him with smiles and bows.
"Welcome back, young master Joren!" they said in unison.
But Joren offered only a distracted nod, his mind elsewhere.
They had just dropped off his companions—the shaved-headed boy and the one with the scar—at their respective homes in Raerno's more modest districts.
Both were still battered, the former barely able to stand and the latter muttering muffled curses.
Joren hadn't said much during the journey, staring out the carriage window with his hands clenched in his lap, the memory of the brawl still burning within him.
Even now, half an hour later, a single thought kept buzzing in his mind, as persistent as the pain left by Mirac's blows:
'Tsk! Damn brat…'
At the entrance to the palace, a familiar figure awaited him.
His mother, Lady Elyra, a woman with elegant features and brown hair gathered in an elaborate braid, opened her arms with a warm smile.
"Oh, my dear boy! It's been so long! How was the journey?"
Joren relaxed for a moment, letting the warmth of his mother's embrace melt away some of his tension.
"It went well, Mother. I couldn't wait to see you all again."
"How sweet of you!" Elyra replied, placing a hand on his cheek. "And know that we feel the same! We missed you so much!"
Joren smiled at her words, his heart filled with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
But just then, a familiar clatter of hooves on the cobblestones made him look up, breaking the spell of the embrace.
A man approached the entrance, riding a black steed.
His dark, slightly long hair swayed gently in the breeze, framing a sharp face, similar to Simner's but younger, marked by an unyielding calm.
He wore light armor, with the imperial phoenix emblem etched on the breastplate, and a long sword hung at his side.
Joren recognized him immediately, his eyes widening.
'C-Castan?' he thought, his heart tightening in his chest.
Simner approached the newcomer, his face stern but composed.
Castan stopped the horse with a slight tug on the reins, remaining in the saddle, and addressed him.
"Father," he said, his voice steady and emotionless, "I received an urgent letter from the Association. I suspect it's a mission of particular importance, but the details are vague. It's described as a brief matter, so I should be back by dinner."
Simner nodded, his face impassive. "Ok. Good luck, then."
Castan inclined his head slightly, a quick and formal gesture, then turned his gaze to Elyra.
"See you this evening, Mother," he said, his tone respectful but detached, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Elyra returned the gesture with an affectionate nod, though her lips trembled slightly.
"Be careful, please!" she murmured softly, her voice filled with the usual worry that mothers struggle to conceal.
Castan nodded again, a sharp and decisive motion. "I will. Don't worry."
Without another word, he spurred his horse lightly, and the black steed snorted, taking a step forward, ready to resume its journey.
Joren, standing beside his mother, stiffened.
Castan hadn't spared him a single glance.
Not a word, not a nod.
His hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and hope.
'Should I say something?!' Joren wondered, hesitating.
Part of him wanted to stay silent, to let Castan ride off as he always did.
But another part, more stubborn, refused to give in.
In the end, he made his decision...
As Castan urged his horse forward, Joren raised his voice, laced with a mix of emotions—hope, hesitation, and perhaps a touch of shyness:
"I-It's good to see you, b-big brother…"
Castan stopped his horse abruptly, the movement so sudden that the steed snorted, tossing its head.
He remained still for a few seconds, his back rigid, his head slightly bowed.
He didn't turn around.
The silence that followed was heavy, as if the world itself held its breath.
Then, in a cold, flat tone, Castan replied:
"I wish I could say the same, Joren…"
Without another word, he spurred his horse and rode off, disappearing down the tree-lined avenue that faded into Raerno's crowded horizon.
Joren clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with the force.
Frustration boiled in his chest, a fire threatening to consume him.
Elyra placed a gentle hand on his arm, a kind but futile gesture.
"Joren, my dear, don't mind him. You know how Castan is…"
Joren didn't respond.
His eyes were fixed on the spot where his brother had vanished, his jaw tight.
"Yeah, I know…" he muttered, his words bitter, as if he'd chewed them with effort.
Simner, who had observed the scene without intervening, turned silently, his crimson cloak flaring like a living flame as he headed toward the palace's grand entrance.
Elyra sighed softly, her grip on Joren's arm tightening slightly, a gentle invitation to follow.
Joren hesitated, his heart still trapped in that now-empty void, but then he moved, his steps stiff.
Together, mother and son crossed the palace threshold, following Simner's imposing shadow.
And as he walked, Joren couldn't help but think:
'He's still mad at me, huh? Well, how could I blame him…'
* * *
{ PRESENT… }
It was around 10:30 in the morning.
Entering Room 03M, Mirac immediately noticed it was more intimate than the vast hall where he had taken the Written Test.
The air was thick, infused with magical energy that seemed to vibrate within the tapestry-covered walls, adorned with arcane symbols.
At the center, suspended in midair, a large crystal as tall as a man pulsed with a faint white glow, like a heart of light.
Beside it, a polished obsidian panel, connected to the crystal by blue and yellow threads, housed an opaque screen ready to record the results.
Three mages in burgundy robes stood gathered before the panel, leather-bound notebooks in hand, engrossed in checking the preparations.
The atmosphere was solemn, but when their eyes fell on Mirac's masked figure, a ripple of curiosity passed through their gazes.
Master Eldrin closed the door behind Mirac, ensuring, as with all candidates, the privacy of the measurement.
"Registration form, please," Eldrin said, his voice hoarse but authoritative.
Mirac handed over the document without hesitation.
Eldrin's eyes quickly scanned the lines written in cursive.
"Isaac Belgram," he murmured, confirming the candidate's name and surname as he positioned himself among the other mages.
His gaze slid downward, where the details of his Mana Core were listed.
'Huh? Only 2 Layers and 19 Orbits?' he wondered, a shadow of pity crossing his face.
For an aspiring Adventurer, a Mana Core like that was practically laughable—one that would hardly allow someone to stand out in their career.
The old Eldrin sighed softly, shaking his head slightly, but said nothing—out of respect for the boy.
"Mr. Belgram," he began, his voice hoarse but professional, "the procedure is simple. Approach the crystal, place your hand on its surface, and let your Mana flow in a closed circuit through the crystal. The device will analyze the amount of magical energy in your Core, without the slightest loss of your stored Mana in the Layers or Orbits. So don't worry, and infuse as much Mana as possible into the crystal, focusing on keeping the flow stable and constant. Just remember not to remove your hand until you've fully recalled the Mana transmitted into the crystal. Please, proceed now."
As Eldrin spoke, the other three mages didn't hold back.
One of them, a man with a sharp face, read Mirac's form and let out a chuckle, exchanging a glance with the younger colleague, who snickered openly, covering his mouth.
The third mage, a woman with gray hair tied in a severe bun, raised an eyebrow and muttered, loud enough to be heard:
'Two Core Layers? Heh, what a waste of time!"
Mirac, however, didn't flinch.
Beneath the mask, his green eyes gleamed, fixed on the crystal, ignoring the scornful remarks as if they were nothing more than distant buzzing.
His focus was entirely on the complex structure of the meter.
Mana measurement technology, though ancient, held an elegance that fascinated him.
He knew that instruments like this had existed for centuries, created in a long-forgotten era to decipher the essence of magical power flowing through the bodies of living beings.
But for a long time, they had relied solely on a vague and visual logic: the more Mana an individual possessed, the more intensely the crystal would glow.
However, everything had changed radically thanks to Andrea Nucci.
It was he who had introduced the innovation that forever revolutionized magical engineering.
And for Mirac, that was just further evidence supporting his hypothesis: that Andrea Nucci, too, was a reincarnated soul!
In fact, likely equipped with engineering knowledge from his world of origin, Andrea had made a revolutionary leap: a few decades before Mirac was "born," he introduced a technology capable of performing complex calculations in fractions of a second.
He called them computers, devices capable of processing data in a logical and systematic way, unlike anything that had ever existed in that world.
It was through the union of this technology and the local magical theories that the first true Mana measurement system was born: an interface able to receive the raw impulse of the crystal and convert it into exact numerical values.
A genuine "scientific measurement" of magical potential.
A monumental leap forward!
And now, thanks to that upgrade, there were no more ambiguous interpretations: every Mana Core was analyzed and quantified with near-clinical precision.
That's why Andrea Nucci was considered, and universally acknowledged, as the Father of Science.
'I wonder if he comes from my same world, and my same era…' thought the masked boy, as he strode confidently toward the crystal.
Once he stood before it, his thoughts about Andrea Nucci quickly faded.
Mirac placed his right hand on the smooth surface and closed his eyes for a moment, recalling Master Eldrin's instructions.
'As much Mana as possible, huh?' he thought, a hidden smile curling his lips.
With a deep breath, Mirac focused, letting all the Mana stored in his Layers and Orbits flow into the crystal.
He didn't touch the Origin Core, but unleashed a torrent of energy, a powerful wave that surged through the crystal and the equipment.
The crystal reacted instantly.
The white glow intensified and erupted in the room, so bright it forced the mages to squint.
Meanwhile, lines of blue and golden energy danced in the wires, weaving into vivid spirals.
A deep, almost primal roar filled the hall, as sparks danced across the crystal's surface, intertwining in a pattern of lines and circles so complex it seemed alive.
The floor trembled slightly beneath Mirac's feet, and the air grew heavy, charged with an energy that felt on the verge of overwhelming everything.
At that same moment, the panel's screen lit up suddenly.
Numbers and symbols began chasing each other in a frantic vortex as Mirac poured his Mana into the crystal.
The values skyrocketed at an astonishing speed: 50, 200, 500, 1000…
The mages' eyes widened, their mouths agape in a mix of awe and disbelief.
The sharp-faced man dropped his notebook, his hands trembling as he stammered: "W-What's happening?!"
The gray-haired woman gripped her clipboard until her knuckles whitened, whispering in a broken voice: "I-Impossible, this can't be!"
The youngest mage took a step back, his mouth agape and his eyes wide with shock.
Chaos seemed to envelop the room, as the vortex of numbers on the panel showed no sign of stopping.
Normally, a Core with 2 Layers wouldn't exceed 80 Manapars, and only in exceptional cases would it approach 100.
Now, however, that "rule" seemed to crumble before their eyes, like parchment reduced to ash.
Even Master Eldrin stood frozen, his hands tightly gripping the clipboard, his eyes darting between Mirac and the pulsating crystal.
'I-I can't believe it! H-How is this possible?' he thought, his mind reeling in a whirlwind of confusion. 'A Core with only 2 Layers and 19 Orbitals is generating all this?! It's… inconceivable! Unless…'
Eldrin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple trembling.
Meanwhile, the crystal pulsed with wild ferocity, its aura of power so dense it seemed to choke the air.
Mirac, at the center of the room, maintained the Mana flow with apparent calm, but his breathing grew shorter, his shoulders slightly hunched from the effort.
His arm trembled, and his facial features hardened: the strain of channeling such a vast amount of Mana weighed on him, as if his body were being crossed by an inner fire.
But despite the fatigue, he managed to keep the flow steady, his breathing slightly labored.
'Damn it! This is tougher than I thought…' he reflected, a strained smile on his lips. 'Come on, one last push!'
With this in mind, Mirac ensured that all the Mana from his Layers and Orbitals—excluding that of his Origin Core—was channeled through the crystal for the measurement, before slowly and carefully recalling it to his Core.
The trembling in his arm eased, but a subtle exhaustion weighed down his right limb.
As the Mana flowed back into his body, a familiar warmth spread through his chest, a sign that the energy had returned to its place.
At this point, Mirac relaxed his shoulders, his breathing still short, and with a slow movement, he withdrew his hand from the crystal, stepping back.
The roar dissolved into sudden silence.
The crystal glowed for one last moment, then dimmed, returning to its dormant state.
On the panel, the vortex of numbers stopped, and a fixed value stabilized: 95781 Manapars.
A deathly silence fell over the room.
The mages, like stone statues, stared at the number with their mouths agape, the sarcasm and disdain that had animated their faces now dissolved into a mix of awe and reverence.
As the panel's screen continued to glow with that impossible value, Eldrin struggled to regain his composure.
He coughed dryly, a poorly veiled attempt to hide the shock trembling in his hands.
"Mr. Belgram," he said, his voice cracking but forced into a tone of authority. "The analyses conducted through the Measurer indicate that your current Mana quantity amounts to 95781 Manapars. This is an extraordinary and unusual value, especially considering the relatively low number of Layers and Orbits you declared in your registration form. While our equipment measures only the quantity of an individual's Mana, a plausible explanation for such a result would lie in the exceptional density of your Mana. However, I believe this factor alone is insufficient to justify such a value. I suspect, in fact, that the size of your Original Core is also well above average. Have I guessed correctly?"
Mirac tilted his head slightly, a sly smile curling his lips beneath the scarred mask.
"I'd say the answer is rather obvious, Master Eldrin…" he replied, his voice calm but laced with irony that stung the old mage.
Eldrin narrowed his eyes, a shadow of reflection crossing his wrinkled face.
'The woman from earlier achieved a similar result… So, what someone would achieve with a normal Mana Core of over 35 Layers and 90 Orbits, he accomplished with just 2 Layers and 19 Orbits?!' thought the old Eldrin. 'There's no doubt: this boy is surely endowed with a Divine Blessing! Heh, interesting! I wonder who granted it to him…'
For a few seconds, absolute silence reigned in the room.
Then, with a slight cough, Eldrin cleared his throat with difficulty.
"Well…" he murmured, with a nod. "I'd say we're done here, Mr. Belgram. Now, as you are of the Swordsman Class, you may proceed to Arena 02 and wait for the Physical Test to begin. I wish you good luck."
"Alright. Thank you," Mirac replied, his tone calm, almost indifferent.
He knew he had made a strong impression, but the stunned silence of the mages and Eldrin's gaze—a mix of respect and confusion—almost made him smile beneath the mask.
'Not laughing anymore, huh?' thought the masked boy, satisfied at having silenced the three wizards who had mocked him at the beginning.
With a simple nod, Mirac thanked the Master and turned toward the door at the far end of the room, opposite the one he had entered through, leaving Room 03M without saying a word.
Once outside, he found himself in a long corridor, where Carmen was waiting, leaning against the wall—arms crossed and her expression as impassive as ever.
Mirac stopped beside her.
"Done?" Carmen asked, her tone neutral.
"Done," Mirac replied, mimicking her tone.
Carmen tilted her head, a hint of a smile touching her lips.
"Good. Let's head to Arena 02, then."
Without another word, the two walked down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
* * *
Following the signs on the stone walls, Mirac and Carmen spotted a flickering glow coming from the end of a corridor, as if a living light danced beyond the stone arch marking the exit.
Without hesitation, they headed toward that light, their steps echoing in a resolute rhythm on the worn floor.
The air grew cooler as they approached, carrying a faint scent of dust and steel.
Waiting for them was a vast combat arena, surrounded by stone bleachers that rose like the stands of an ancient colosseum. At its center, a wide dirt platform, marked by cracks and worn footprints, reflected the sunlight filtering through the white clouds.
Dozens of candidates were already gathered, some seated on the bleachers, others standing, warming up or exchanging nervous glances as they waited to be called.
Among the stands, however, there weren't only candidates: Mirac soon noticed that some of the people present weren't wearing a numbered badge.
Using his ability, "Instant Counting," Mirac discovered that out of the 51 people seated in the bleachers, only 39 were candidates for the Admission Exam.
The others were, in all likelihood, ordinary people who had come to watch the matches and cheer for someone they knew—or, as Mirac theorized, recruiters sent by various Guilds, tasked with closely observing each duel in order to identify and invite anyone showing potential to join their respective Guilds.
As he continued scanning the crowd, an unusual movement caught Mirac's eye: a tall, skinny boy with messy black hair was waving in their direction with a level of enthusiasm that stood out amid the sea of tense faces.
"Heyy! Over here!" shouted Blake, his ringing voice cutting through the arena's buzz.
Mirac smiled beneath his mask, a spark of warmth in his chest at the sight of the boy's contagious energy.
He took the first step to reach him, with Carmen following close behind, her steps silent as a shadow's.
They climbed the bleacher steps with agility, weaving through the seated candidates until they reached Blake. They sat to his left, Mirac with a fluid motion and Carmen with her usual controlled grace.
"So? How'd the Written Test go?" Blake asked, his lively tone lighting up his face again, as if he'd completely forgotten the insults from Joren and the others.
"Very well," Mirac replied, his voice calm but with a note of satisfaction. "It was easier than I expected."
"Oh, thank goodness!" Blake exclaimed, his smile widening.
Suddenly, a deep, resonant horn sounded, silencing the crowd.
All eyes turned to the arena's main entrance, where an iron gate opened with a metallic clang.
Four figures emerged, advancing with resolute steps toward the platform's center. Their presence seemed to suck the air from the room, an aura of authority silencing even the most restless candidates.
Master Eldrin was the first to step forward, his gray robe swaying slightly as he positioned himself at the center.
With a wave of his hand, the elderly mage commanded everyone's attention.
"Candidates!" Eldrin began, his voice hoarse but powerful. "The Physical Test is about to begin! In this arena, you will put your practical skills to the test, based on the class you declared in your registration forms. Each class will be evaluated by a dedicated instructor who will guide and judge you. So, let me introduce you to the Masters of the Association."
The Archmage stepped back, aligning himself with the other three figures already waiting at the center of the arena, proud and still as statues.
Mirac narrowed his eyes, studying each one carefully, his instincts cataloging every detail.
The first to speak was a massive man, nearly two meters tall, with shoulders that seemed carved from rock.
He wore a polished but battle-scarred plate armor, emanating an aura of brute strength.
His face, hidden by a helmet with a slit visor, radiated raw power.
In his right hand, he gripped a massive war axe, its black leather-wrapped handle encrusted with faintly glowing red runes.
"I am Gorrim Tarre," he roared, his voice like thunder. "Supervisor of the Tankers. Your trial will consist of a direct confrontation with me. You will have to use your shields to defend against my attacks and your axes to strike me. By doing so, you will demonstrate endurance, strength, and discipline. But remember: I don't expect you to defeat me, only to protect yourselves and fight with honor!"
A murmur rose among the candidates, some designated Tankers exchanging uncertain glances, others straightening their shoulders, ready to take on the challenge.
The second figure stepped forward: a slender woman with black hair tied in a high ponytail and reinforced black leather armor that highlighted her agility.
Two curved daggers hung at her hips, and her emerald-green eyes scanned the crowd like a predator's.
"Lyria Tessel," she introduced herself, her tone sharp and precise. "Supervisor of the Assassins. Your test will involve striking suspended fire targets in the air while simultaneously facing me and dodging my attacks. This challenge will test your precision, agility, and ability to stay focused under pressure."
Carmen, seated next to Mirac, tilted her head slightly, a spark of interest in her eyes.
Mirac knew that, like him, "Ananya Shak" had also declared herself a Swordsman. And yet, knowing the red-haired woman, he couldn't help but think that her style might be better suited to that of the Assassins.
When Lyria returned to her place among the other instructors, the third figure, who had yet to speak, stepped forward: a middle-aged man with a muscular build and long, pitch-black hair.
He wore a dark leather and light steel uniform, with a long sword secured at his right hip. A tattered gray silk cloak fell over his shoulders.
A scar crossed his left cheek, lending his face an aura of stern experience.
"I am Teur Draven," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "Supervisor of the Swordsmen and close-combat classes. As you've likely guessed, you will face me in a duel, using any weapon you prefer. It will be essential to showcase skill, technique, strategy, adaptability, and control of the terrain."
Mirac felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine.
Without a doubt, Teur Draven would be his judge, and the aura he exuded suggested it wouldn't be a walk in the park.
Yet, beneath the mask, a resolute smile curled his lips, because this was exactly what he wanted: a chance to test his skills against a worthy opponent!
A murmur of anticipation rippled through the bleachers as all eyes turned back to Eldrin, who raised his hand again to command attention.
"Now that the introductions are complete, we will call the candidates one by one, in ascending numerical order, following this cycle: Tankers, Assassins, and Swordsmen. This pattern will allow us instructors to face you without tiring ourselves with consecutive battles. I also wish to inform you that, during the Assassins' physical test, I, Master Eldrin, will personally create the magical targets on which you will measure your effectiveness. However, my presence in the arena will be limited solely to this task, and I will not interfere in any other way with your evaluation. Furthermore, the Association will provide the necessary weapons for the tests, so no one is advantaged by superior armor or equipment. That said, prepare to prove your worth as future Mercenaries of the Association. And now, let the Physical Test begin!"