"Did I see that wrong?" Proctor Elias Voss whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the stunned hush that had fallen across the vast arena—a hush so complete that the faint crackle of lingering mana in the air and the distant drip of condensation from the domed ceiling seemed unnaturally loud. His sharp gray eyes widened beneath furrowed brows, gloved fingers tightening on the edge of his podium with a soft creak of leather, the golden beast sigils on his deep green robes catching the floating mana-lights in fleeting, uneasy glimmers. Shock rippled through him like a cold wave, his breath catching in his throat with a subtle rasp as the sharp, invigorating scent of ozone from Luan's brief lightning projection still hung thick around the platform.
"How could a defective beast master the evolution technique so skillfully?" he murmured again, the words tasting impossible on his tongue. Even he—Proctor Voss, veteran of decades in the academy—had spent several grueling years of relentless practice, countless nights in dimly lit training chambers filled with the acrid tang of overtaxed mana and the searing heat of failed cycles, before he could succeed consistently with his own Pale Moon Wolf. The memory of those struggles flashed across his mind: the stinging backlash of disrupted energy, the frostbite chill of lunar mana burning his veins, the exhaustion that left his hands trembling for days.
Nearby, Zhang Quan noticed Proctor Voss's unwavering gaze fixed in their direction—mistaking it entirely for admiration of his own Red-Haired War Bear, whose massive frame still radiated waves of dry, smoldering heat that carried the musky aroma of sun-baked earth and faint embers across the obsidian stand. A secret delight bloomed warm in Zhang Quan's chest, his pulse quickening with smug satisfaction; he lifted his chin higher, lips curling into a faint, triumphant smirk as the bear's deep, rumbling exhale stirred faint eddies of dust at their feet.
"You see it right," Zhang Quan thought proudly, his voice silent but his posture shouting it. "This is the true power of my Red-Haired War Bear."
Over on little Luan's side, the blind Thunderbird stood motionless in serene trance, his thin, scarred body subtly vibrating with inner harmony as he completed what felt like a preset program—each energy cycle flowing with effortless precision under my guidance, the faint electric tingle prickling my palms where they rested against his warm, scaled skin, the dry rustle of his ragged feathers barely perceptible against my cloak.
I glanced inwardly at the glowing attribute panel only I could see—lines of shimmering azure text hovering in my vision, confirming the flawless execution—and muttered softly to myself, a quiet thrill thrumming in my veins like distant thunder.
"Proctor," I said aloud, my voice calm and steady amid the charged silence, "we are finished."
Yet Voss remained immersed in his daze, his stern features softened by rare disbelief, breath shallow as he stared unblinkingly at Luan. The lightning projection replayed in his mind's eye: that fleeting, perfect azure-white glow, the pure high-pitched hum that had resonated through the arena, the crisp scent of ionized rain that still teased the air. "It was real," he whispered finally, almost to himself, the words escaping in a hushed exhale that fogged briefly in the suddenly cooler atmosphere around the platform. "I hadn't seen it wrong.
As Luan continued to execute the basic evolution technique—cycle after flawless cycle, ten times in unbroken succession—the arena remained wrapped in a stunned, breathless silence. Each completion was marked by that same fleeting azure-white lightning projection: a soft, high-pitched hum vibrating through the obsidian platform like the pure tone of a crystal bell, a burst of crisp ozone scent sharpening the air, and faint crackles of static dancing across the bird's scarred skin and ragged feathers, raising gooseflesh on the arms of nearby proctors and sending faint sparks skittering along the glowing runes beneath his talons.
Proctor Elias Voss watched unblinkingly, his stern face illuminated by the intermittent electric glow, the reflection of each lightning veil shimmering in his widened gray eyes. This blind, battered Thunderbird's grasp of the basic evolution technique was even more proficient than his own Pale Moon Wolf's legendary mastery—smoother energy flows, purer resonance, not a single tremor of wasted mana. Ten flawless cycles in a row; Voss's gloved fingers twitched involuntarily as he mentally dissected each one, searching for imperfection, yet he couldn't pick out a single flaw in any of them—not in the rhythm, not in the intensity, not in the seamless return to stillness.
"Good… very good," Voss murmured at last, the words escaping in a low, reverent exhale that fogged briefly in the suddenly cooler air around the platform, his voice carrying the faint rasp of genuine awe that he rarely allowed to surface. A quiet thrill warmed his chest, the same electric tingle he felt decades ago when he first witnessed true genius.
He looked down at the heavy ledger on his podium—the thick vellum pages rustling softly as he flipped to my entry, the quill in his hand scratching with deliberate, satisfied strokes that echoed faintly in the hush. My name—Li Wei—was inscribed there in elegant script, the ink still glistening wet and dark.
"100 points," he declared quietly, though the words rang clear across the arena, amplified by the dome's subtle enchantments. The quill's nib scraped one final emphatic line beneath the score, the fresh ink releasing its sharp, metallic scent into the charged atmosphere.
This level of talent was far stronger than any genius he had ever seen in his long career—raw, instinctive mastery that transcended years of disciplined practice, a brilliance that burned bright even through the veil of disability. It was just a pity that the Thunderbird was physically crippled: restoring sight to those silk-wrapped eyes, regrowing those lost feathers to full splendor—such profound healing would likely cost a fortune in rare elixirs, sacred herbs, and forbidden rituals, resources few could afford.
But none of that could hide Li Wei's brilliance, nor dim the spark now kindled in Voss's seasoned heart. The aged proctor's lips curved into the faintest, resolute smile as he closed the ledger with a soft thud of leather on wood.
At least in Voss's mind, the first place for this test had already been decided.
However, as a seasoned proctor bound by the academy's strict protocols, Elias Voss could not reveal anything before the official results were announced—no hint of favor, no premature judgment, only impartial silence. The vast arena remained thick with tension, the air still humming faintly with residual mana and the sharp, lingering bite of ozone from Luan's repeated lightning projections. Voss drew a slow, measured breath, the cool draft carrying the mingled scents of polished stone, nervous sweat from the stands, and the distant earthy musk of summoned beasts.
With deliberate composure, he let his sharp gray eyes slide past Zhang Quan and the massive Red-Haired War Bear—its crimson mane still radiating dry waves of heat that distorted the air like a desert haze—before settling on me. The nod he gave was subtle yet unmistakable: a single, firm dip of his silver-haired head, accompanied by the faintest softening at the corners of his stern mouth, the golden sigils on his deep green robes catching the floating mana-lights in a brief, approving gleam.
Seeing that expression—that quiet, authoritative acknowledgment—Zhang Quan's chest swelled with triumphant certainty. He drew a deep, steadying breath, the warm, smoldering scent of his own bear filling his lungs as his pulse quickened with exhilaration. I've got it, he thought, lips curling into a confident grin he barely suppressed. I've got it—it's in the bag. First place is mine.
After finishing the test, little Luan stepped lightly from the obsidian platform and returned to my side, his scaled talons clicking softly against the stone with hesitant, uneven rhythm. Though his silk-wrapped eyes hid any gaze, his thin body trembled faintly with uncertainty—the ragged remnants of his wings folding tight against his scarred frame, the dry rustle of brittle feathers brushing my cloak, a subtle electric tingle still prickling the air around him like the aftermath of distant thunder.
He tilted his blind head toward me, the warm, familiar weight of his presence pressing gently against my leg, his breathing quick and shallow, carrying the faint ozone scent that always clung to his skin.
"Did I… do okay?" The question came not in words, but in the anxious quiver of his feathers, the slight tightening of his talons through the fabric of my robe, the hopeful tilt of his beak.
I reached down, resting a reassuring hand on the smooth, warm scales of his neck, feeling the steady thrum of renewed energy beneath. "You performed well," I replied softly, a genuine smile spreading across my face, my voice low and warm amid the lingering murmurs of the crowd.
Receiving my affirmation, Luan's tension melted away in an instant—his body relaxing with a quiet, contented exhale that stirred faint eddies of ionized air, his wings unfurling just slightly in relief, the subtle vibration of satisfaction humming through his frame like the first gentle rumble of an approaching storm finally at peace.