Morning settled over the academy without ceremony.
No tension lingered from the previous day—at least not on the surface. Students returned to routine, conversations normal, footsteps measured. But underneath, something had shifted.
The lecture hall filled gradually.
Taren was already seated, flipping through his notes, though his attention drifted more than usual. Dante leaned back in his chair, one arm hanging loosely, blade absent for once. Lysara sat near the window, quiet as always.
Modred arrived last.
He didn't speak. Just took his seat.
The room continued as if nothing had happened.
That lasted exactly six minutes.
Then the wall broke.
Not shattered—folded.
Space itself bent inward with a low, suffocating pressure, and the next instant, something stepped through it.
The change was immediate.
A dense surge of Arcana flooded the room.
It wasn't explosive. It didn't lash out.
It simply existed.
And that was enough.
Several students gagged. One collapsed to their knees. Another turned away, retching as cold sweat drenched their uniform. Desks rattled slightly, not from force—but from imbalance, like gravity itself had shifted and hadn't decided where to settle.
Taren's pen slipped from his fingers.
Dante's posture straightened, instinct overriding laziness.
Lysara didn't move—but her hand tightened slightly against the edge of her desk.
Modred felt it too.
Not pressure.
Not killing intent.
Something far worse.
Control.
Absolute, effortless control.
The man standing where the wall used to be exhaled lightly.
"…Too much?"
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
The pressure eased.
Not gone—but reduced enough for the room to breathe again.
A few students coughed. Someone dragged in a shaky breath.
The man glanced around, taking in the reactions with mild curiosity.
"Right. First-years."
He stepped forward, hands still in his pockets. The space behind him corrected itself, the wall reforming like nothing had happened.
White hair, loose and unbothered. A long black coat hung off his frame without structure, silver threading catching faint light. His expression carried something between amusement and disinterest.
He stopped near the center of the room.
"Lance Troyes," he said, like it barely mattered. "Captain, Blutjäger."
Silence followed.
Not because they didn't understand.
Because they did.
Taren was the first to speak, voice tighter than usual. "…Troyes?"
Lance's eyes shifted toward him. "Hm?"
"The Troyes family… they oversee the Pargon region under the Duchy of Zethe. They were once equal to the Liams."
A faint smile touched Lance's lips.
Lance smiled faintly.
"Used to."
The professor tried to step forward. "You cannot just enter—"
Lance raised a finger.
The professor stopped.
Lance tilted his head slightly, studying him for half a second before losing interest.
"Relax. I'm not here for you."
His gaze moved.
It didn't scan the room.
It landed exactly where it needed to.
Modred.
Dante.
Riven.
Taren.
"There you are," Lance murmured.
He took another step forward, and the air shifted again—not heavier, not lighter, just misaligned. Distance felt wrong. Sound dulled at the edges.
Dante frowned slightly. "…You always make entrances like this?."
Lance glanced at him. "Only when I'm bored."
A pause.
"I'm bored a lot."
His attention returned to Modred.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"You're all underwhelming."
Taren blinked. "…What?"
Lance sighed quietly, like he'd been inconvenienced.
"Devon picked you."
A small shrug.
"So now I have to check if that was a mistake."
The room stilled again.
Lysara's gaze sharpened slightly.
"…Check how?"
Lance smiled faintly.
"By breaking you."
Before anyone could react—
He snapped his fingers.
The world folded.
No transition. No movement. No sense of distance traveled.
One moment—lecture hall.
The next—
Impact.
Concrete slammed into Modred's shoulder as he hit the ground. The air left his lungs for half a second before he forced himself upright. Around him, bodies crashed down almost simultaneously—Taren catching himself late, Riven landing harder, Dante rolling once before pushing up.
Open space.
Training grounds.
The academy stretched around them, distant and untouched.
Like nothing had happened.
"…What—" Taren's voice cut off as he looked around.
"We didn't move," Riven muttered.
Dante exhaled slowly. "…No. We did."
Above them—
Lance floated.
Not dramatically.
Not with effort.
Just there, suspended in the air like gravity had forgotten him entirely.
He lay slightly tilted, one hand behind his head, the other hanging loosely at his side.
"Landing needs work," he said lazily.
Modred stood fully now, eyes fixed upward.
"…You didn't teleport."
Lance glanced down at him, mildly impressed.
"Good. You're not completely useless."
A small pause.
"I didn't."
He rotated slightly in the air, adjusting position without any visible motion.
"I just removed the distance."
Taren's expression tightened. "…That's not how space works."
Lance smiled.
"That's because my Arcana allows me to alter the space around me."
A faint distortion flickered around his fingers.
The ground beneath them shifted—just slightly.
Not cracking.
Just… repositioning.
Dante looked down briefly, then back up. "…Vectors too."
"Among other things," Lance replied.
He dropped.
Not falling.
Just appearing on the ground in front of them.
No sound.
No impact.
Up close, the difference was clearer.
There was no pressure now.
No overwhelming force.
And that made it worse.
Because it meant everything earlier had been controlled.
Lance looked between them.
"…Alright."
A small stretch, like he was waking up.
"Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
Taren steadied his breath. "…And if we're not?"
Lance met his eyes.
For a moment, the laziness disappeared.
"Then you're a waste of time."
It came out flat.
Certain.
Then—just as quickly—it was gone.
He yawned lightly.
"Try not to embarrass me."
And without another word—
The test began.