Henry turned the small azure vial in his hand, a complex light flickering across his face.
Silver-deer blood.
The lifeblood of that rare and wondrous beast, brimming with natural particles. For any below the rank of knight, it was a treasure beyond price, a draught that could strengthen the body directly—an elixir of legend.
Yet its worth was as staggering as its rarity. Even nobles strained to obtain it, for supply never met demand. Henry had never dreamed Charles would go so far for him.
True, he no longer required this blood as a lifeline—but Charles's gesture pressed heavily upon his heart. He knew well: this kindness had been meant for the former Henry, yet it was he who now received it.
"I must repay this… no matter what."
He could not guess the price Charles had paid, but instinct whispered it was steep. Whatever the cost, he would return it—though only after the trial. Until then, Charles would never accept it back.
At dawn, as the sun crested the horizon, the students of the Neo Knight Academy's second year assembled in the testing hall. Over two hundred youths clad in black leather armor filed into order.
The academy examined all six grades at both mid-year and year's end. With each grade numbering more than two hundred, the total surpassed twelve hundred students. To test them all at once would have been madness; thus, each grade was judged separately.
"Look, there he is."
As Henry entered, dozens of eyes turned.
Since the day Lady Sera had singled him out for instruction, he had become a figure of renown among his peers. Now, the gazes fixed upon him burned with curiosity, resentment, and above all—envy.
Many had hesitated, too timid to seize their chance with Lady Sera. That chance had fallen to Henry instead. And so they hated him for it, coveted what they had lost. Human nature is ever thus: what one cannot possess, one resents another for gaining.
"Bah. To waste Lady Sera's teaching and still fail the trial—were I him, I'd dash my skull against a tree in shame."
"If only she had chosen me! My sword would be twice as sharp by now."
Henry ignored them. Words were wind; to quarrel with half-grown boys was beneath him. His silence was answer enough.
"Hmph. Wait and see—he'll be expelled."
A sudden chill pricked his spine. He turned, and his gaze locked with Benson's.
The freckled youth watched him with a predator's sneer, eyes bright with malice.
"This one clings like a shadow," Henry thought grimly.
Most jeers he could dismiss, but not Benson. In that gaze was no rivalry, only the will to kill. Henry felt certain: the duel that had ended the life of the body's former owner had not been an accident, but design.
"Henry."
A figure interposed itself between them—Charles. His presence was clear: he would not permit conflict here.
"You're here," Henry said, greeting him lightly. He did wish to repay Benson—but not now, not today. The trial was the true stage. To jeopardize that for petty vengeance would be folly.
"Wait… your face."
Henry's brow furrowed. A dark bruise marred Charles's cheek, one that had not been there yesterday.
"It's nothing. I… tripped."
Charles turned his gaze aside, voice steady.
Henry said nothing more. But inwardly he knew: for an academy student, whose body surpassed common men, even a fall from height could scarcely leave such a mark. The truth lay elsewhere. Yet Charles would not speak it, and Henry would not press.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The bell rang. Over two hundred students formed into six neat squares. Their teachers stepped forward.
"Class One, with me," said the grade's director, instructor of the first class. At a nod from his peers, he led his students inside.
"The first class, eh? Think anyone will fail?"
"Hardly. They always pass."
"Of course. They're the elite."
Each grade had its own Class One, taught by the director himself. Students were gathered there from across the grade—the best of the best, hence the name Elite Class.
Half an hour later, the result was announced: every one of them had passed, most with marks far beyond the line.
The other students, though unsurprised, still drew sharp breaths.
Then Classes Two through Five entered in turn. Some returned smiling, others pale, a few hollow-eyed with despair. Those who passed rejoiced; those who failed but still had chances left bore bitterness; and those who failed for the third time—expelled without reprieve—looked like husks of the living.
Many watched those broken figures with thinly veiled glee, then turned their eyes toward Henry. Their meaning was clear: soon he would join them.
"Class Six, follow me."
The instructor of the sixth class—a square-jawed knight named Chaucer Joyce—swept his gaze over his students, then led them into the grounds.
The testing hall was vast, as broad as the outer plaza. Two stations dominated the space: a straight track lined in white, and a row of iron blocks graded from small to great. Servants stood ready at each, sandglasses and ledgers in hand.
The academy's trial was simple—and merciless.
Speed. Strength.
The twin pillars of a knight's body. These could not be faked.
"Genoch."
The first call was a towering youth, broad-shouldered and solid as stone.
"Begin."
Swish!
At the command, he hurled himself forward. His strides boomed against the earth like drums, yet his speed astonished—swifter than the finest sprinters of Earth.
"Thirty-seven instants."
Joyce marked it briskly with a check. The youth had passed.