Chapter 5: Foundation Assessment.
Morning arrived quietly at Manipur Sorcery University.
The bell did not ring loudly. Instead, a deep, low resonance spread through the dormitory halls—soft but impossible to ignore. It was not sound alone, but Tha vibration, designed to wake sorcerers without shock. The walls hummed faintly, then fell silent.
Lanthaba opened his eyes.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. The room was simple—two beds, two desks, a narrow window covered with a thin barrier film that filtered sunlight and Tha interference. Outside, the university grounds were already alive with movement.
"Morning already…?" Yaikhomba muttered from the other bed, his voice rough with sleep.
Lanthaba sat up. "Yeah. Assessment day."
That single sentence wiped away any remaining drowsiness.
Yaikhomba slowly pushed himself upright, rubbing his face. "I barely slept. My head keeps replaying yesterday's class."
"That's normal," Lanthaba said calmly. "The first assessment is meant to do that."
They dressed in silence. The student uniform was light, flexible, designed to allow free Tha circulation without amplifying it. No weapons were permitted. No artifacts. No personal tools.
As they stepped out into the corridor, they were joined by other students doing the same. Some were quiet and focused. Others whispered nervously. A few tried to laugh, forcing confidence that did not fully exist.
The morning air inside the university felt different from the outside world—cleaner, denser, layered with invisible barriers working in harmony. Above them, Tha arrays shimmered faintly against the sky, maintaining the separation between realms.
"So," Yaikhomba said as they walked, "what exactly is this Foundation Assessment supposed to decide?"
Lanthaba thought for a moment. "Who gets to stay."
Yaikhomba stopped walking. "That simple?"
"That harsh," Lanthaba replied.
They reached the inner sector of the university, an area rarely accessed by first-year students. Ancient structures surrounded the path—stone halls reinforced by modern barrier technology, tradition and progress woven together seamlessly.
Wakheipam Kondonglei was already waiting.
She stood at the front of a wide corridor that led underground, her silver fans closed, her posture straight. Her presence alone brought order to the scattered students.
"You're on time," she said. "Good."
Her eyes swept over them, not unkind, but sharp.
"From this point onward, speaking is unnecessary," Kondonglei continued. "Follow instructions. Observe yourself. That is all."
She turned, and the doors behind her opened silently.
The students stepped into the Foundation Assessment Hall.
Unlike what many had imagined, it was not an arena. There were no weapons, no platforms for battle. The hall was vast and circular, its walls layered with complex Tha inscriptions that pulsed slowly, like a living thing. The air felt heavier here—controlled, deliberate.
Lanthaba felt it immediately.
Not threat.
Evaluation.
"The Foundation Assessment," Kondonglei said, her voice echoing gently, "is not a test of strength."
Some students exchanged confused looks.
"It is a test of compatibility," she continued. "With Thawai. With yourself. With restraint."
The floor beneath them lit up in faint concentric patterns.
"Phase One," she said. "Tha Resonance."
The moment her words ended, pressure filled the hall.
Not crushing—measuring.
Students reacted instinctively. Some stiffened. Some gasped. Others tried to push back with raw will and failed immediately. Tha leakage shimmered around a few bodies like unstable smoke.
"Do not resist," Kondonglei said calmly. "Do not submit. Stabilize."
Lanthaba adjusted his breathing, allowing the pressure to pass through his core without interference. His Thawai responded quietly, contained.
Nearby, Yaikhomba trembled, teeth clenched.
Lanthaba spoke softly, barely audible. "Relax your shoulders. Let it flow."
Yaikhomba followed the advice, slowly regaining control.
One student collapsed.
A barrier wrapped around him instantly.
"Removed," Kondonglei said. "Tha instability."
The hall continued to filter itself.
When Phase One ended, fewer students remained standing.
"Phase Two," came the next announcement. "Mi Stability."
The pressure vanished—and weight replaced it.
Invisible, crushing, sinking into muscles and bones.
This time, there was no fear—only endurance.
Some students fell almost immediately. Others pushed too hard, overloading their bodies. A few adapted, learning to move efficiently under strain.
Lanthaba did not reinforce his body. He aligned it.
Balance. Posture. Control.
Minutes stretched painfully.
Then, suddenly, the weight disappeared.
Heavy breathing filled the hall.
"Phase Three," Kondonglei said, her tone softer now. "Sana Awareness."
The lights dimmed.
The world turned inward.
Memories surfaced. Emotions stirred. Regret, anger, grief—unfiltered.
Lanthaba felt negativity stir deep within him, heavy and familiar.
He acknowledged it.
He did not act on it.
Around him, students broke—some crying, some screaming, some laughing without reason.
"This phase does not reward healing," Kondonglei said. "Only awareness."
When the hall finally returned to normal, silence followed.
Those who remained stood quietly, changed.
"Assessment complete," Taibang Sana Heithoiba announced as he stepped forward. "You are now officially Mahei Maithou."
His gaze lingered briefly on Lanthaba.
"From today," he continued, "your survival depends not on power… but on restraint."
As the students were dismissed, Yaikhomba exhaled shakily.
"That wasn't training," he said. "That was a warning."
Lanthaba nodded as morning light filtered faintly into the hall.
"And it was only the beginning."