The examination grounds did not erupt into celebration when the final test
ended.
They fell into something quieter.
Candidates stood scattered across the vast stone field, some collapsed where
they stood, others staring at their hands as if unsure whether what they had
just experienced was real. The air still carried traces of mana discharge and
aura pressure, faint sparks dissolving into nothing.
Atelion remained standing.
Not because he was unscathed—his muscles ached, his mana circulation slowed
deliberately—but because he chose not to show it. He rolled his shoulders once,
subtly loosening tension, then let his breathing even out.
Around him, eyes lingered.
Not openly. Not boldly.
But enough.
He could feel it: attention without understanding.
The instructors did not speak.
Instead, a bell rang—deep, resonant, final.
"All examinees," a voice amplified by magic echoed across the grounds, "the
entrance examination of Best Academy is now concluded. Results and class
assignments will be announced after internal review. Until then, you are
dismissed to the outer waiting halls."
A collective exhale rippled through the field.
Some groaned. Some laughed weakly. Some clenched their fists, already
calculating ranks and futures.
Atelion turned and began walking with the crowd.
The outer halls of Best Academy were vast enough to swallow noise.
Stone corridors branched endlessly, lit by floating crystals that glowed
with steady, neutral light. Benches lined the walls. Names were whispered,
speculated, compared.
"That dummy shattered at eighty thousand units… did you see that?"
"He ran the course without triggering half the traps."
"I heard someone cast compressed third-circle magic without chanting."
Atelion sat alone.
Not isolated—deliberately positioned.
He leaned back against the cold stone, eyes half-lidded, listening without
reacting. His mind was not on rankings or class placement.
It was on control.
The special exam had forced him to walk a narrow edge. Aura reinforcement
layered beneath magic circulation, never overlapping, never colliding. He had
succeeded—but barely.
Still incomplete, he assessed calmly.
A misstep there would not mean failure.
It would mean death.
A presence stopped in front of him.
Atelion opened his eyes to find a boy standing there, posture straight,
expression tight with restrained irritation. Pale robes marked him as a mage
examinee. Mana still clung faintly to him—clean, precise.
"You're Atelion," the boy said.
A statement, not a question.
"Yes."
A pause.
"You ranked above me in the practical spell efficiency segment," the boy
continued. "Despite casting fewer spells."
Atelion studied him briefly. Sharp eyes. Controlled breathing. Pride barely
restrained.
"I did," he replied.
Silence stretched.
Then the boy exhaled sharply. "Good. That means beating you will actually
mean something."
He turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Atelion watched him go, expression unchanged.
A rival, he noted. Not an enemy.
That mattered.
High above, unseen by the examinees, figures gathered behind rune-etched
windows.
The academy's decision-makers.
Scrolls hovered. Crystal slates recorded data. Numbers alone could not
explain what they had witnessed.
"This year," one voice said quietly, "will not be simple."
Another answered, colder. "It never is—when anomalies appear."
Atelion felt none of it.
Yet.
He sat among the hopeful, the desperate, the ambitious—balanced on the thin
line between obscurity and inevitability.
The verdict had not been spoken.
But fate was already moving.