"Forty instants."
"Thirty-nine instants."
"Forty-one instants."
"Thirty-eight instants."
One after another, the students of Class Six thundered down the track. Most crossed the line within forty instants; only a few lagged beyond, their faces palling at the verdict.
For the rule was merciless: forty instants was the standard. To exceed it was a failure.
At last, as the untested dwindled, one name remained.
"Henry."
When Teacher Chaucer spoke, heads turned. Every student knew him—knew this was his third attempt. Fail again, and the gates of the academy would close to him forever.
"Do your best!" Charles called, fist clenched in encouragement. His own trial had ended at thirty-seven instants, a respectable margin past the line.
Henry gave a single nod and stepped to the line. After ten days beneath the mantle of an Advanced Knight Talent, he felt the tide of power flowing in his limbs. Passing was no longer in doubt—yet what mark he might truly achieve, he did not yet know.
"At last," he thought.
From the crowd, Benson's lips curled in cruel delight. He remembered Henry's weakness ten days past, and remembered facing him in battle. Then, Henry had been pitiful, far from the standard. Ten days could never span such a gulf. Failure would come, and with it expulsion. Benson longed for it, savored the thought.
"Begin!"
Henry's eyes locked on the finish. At the command, his body shot forth like an arrow unbound.
Swish!
His legs churned like wheels, his body light as air, weightless as though he might lift from the earth itself. Such was the illusion of true speed. On Earth, he would have shattered every record, seized every crown.
"Henry is faster!"
Charles's face lit with joy. So—the silver-deer blood truly worked. My sacrifice was not in vain.
Benson's eyes narrowed, disbelief cutting him. Impossible… in ten days?
But Henry's pace did not falter.
Halfway.
Three-quarters.
Four-fifths.
Swish!
He flashed past the line.
"One, two, three… thirty-eight."
The servant bent over the sandglass, counting the fallen grains. "Thirty-eight instants."
"Thirty-eight?!"
"Impossible!"
The number was not exceptional; many had done as well. But for Benson, it was thunder in his ears. This was Henry—the same boy who had failed twice?
"Teacher Chaucer! This cannot be!" Benson burst out, rage twisting his freckled face. "He must have cheated. You—" He spun on the servant. "You were bribed, weren't you?"
The servant collapsed to his knees, face ashen. "N-no! Never! I swear it!"
All knew: cheating was the academy's deepest taboo. Servants caught aiding students were crippled and cast beyond the walls.
"Henry, you will run again," Chaucer said at last, brows knit. Even he found it difficult to believe.
"Teacher Chaucer! He passed already—why force him again?" Charles protested hotly. He trusted Henry utterly, and he knew the risk: an instant's variance might spell failure.
"It's fine."
Henry's calm voice silenced him. "If I passed once, I can pass again."
"But—"
"No matter. My strength holds no falsehood. I do not fear the trial."
He returned to the line. This time Chaucer himself stood at the end, glass in hand.
"Begin!"
Again Henry sprang forth, swifter than wind, vision locked upon the finish. The line rushed closer—
Ding!
The sandglass stopped. Chaucer bent, counting each grain.
One. Two. Three…
At last he straightened, gaze resting on Henry with something like wonder.
"Thirty-nine instants."
One instant slower, yet the margin meant nothing. It proved the truth: Henry's rise was real.
Benson's face drained to ash. No trick. No bribe. Only raw strength—monstrous, unnatural strength, as if Henry had become another man altogether.
"Henry! You did it!"
Charles nearly shouted, joy for his friend greater than for his own success.
Henry inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips. He had expected this result, but the relief was no less real. A weight lifted from his shoulders.
The speed trial was finished. Now comes strength.
At the far end of the hall, iron blocks stood ranked in ascending order, each affixed with a ring. The task was simple: lift the block to the chest, and claim its weight as one's own.
"Fifty radons."
"Fifty-one."
"Fifty-two."
One by one, students strained at the blocks, their limits laid bare. The standard was fifty radons. Pass, and you might test yourself against heavier burdens; fail, and shame would be your reward.
"Henry."
Once more his name was called. Once more the hall turned to watch. After his startling speed, all now hungered to see whether he could match it with strength.
Before, they would have laughed at the thought. Now, anticipation simmered.
"I do not believe you will pass this as well," Benson muttered, eyes like knives.
Some men were built for swiftness, others for power. Henry's lean form bespoke the former. Surely here his strength would falter.
Henry stepped forward. His gaze fell upon the block marked fifty radons.
One radon equaled ten kilograms. Fifty radons—five hundred kilograms.
A weight that would stagger Earth's champions. Yet here, in this world, it was but the standard for students who had not even reached the rank of knight.
Such was the strength demanded of those who sought the path of knighthood.