My turn.
I thought I had made peace with failure. I thought I knew the end.
Yet here I stand, my chest burning with the foolish hope that I might slip through.
It's terrifying. If I crash now, the drop will kill me. So I have to clear the bar.
"Applicant Three-hundred twenty-one!"
Arthur stepped into the arena, bronze card pinched between his fingers, pulling his shoulders back into an iron posture.
Gods above, the evaluator muttered internally, scanning the intake sheet. The twin of the monster Vigo warned us about? They share the exact same face.
The same quiet insolence, too. Strolling in here as if the academy belongs to him. I suppose he was born with the world in his palms as well.
Why couldn't the heavens glance my way for once? Well, I have no intention of coddling him.
I will measure this boy against the highest standard the registry allows.
Show me your divinity.
"Body Hrett Scale: Twelve," the proctor announced, jotting the figure down after the physical trial.
Arthur could barely hear the syllables over the roar of blood in his ears. His lungs burned, chest heaving as he fought to keep his knees from buckling.
Twelve out of fifteen puts him in the upper echelon of physical specimens… the evaluator noted. Perhaps he was a mage. He doesn't look that scrawny, so I assumed he leaned toward the sword.
"You had the option to select mana capacity over the physical Hrett trial," the proctor said. "I will permit the revision once. You must declare your preferred discipline before we advance."
"No," Arthur gasped, dragging air through his teeth. "Keep… the score."
If the boy wants to bleed, so be it.
"Standard rubric, then. Physical capacity over reservoir, elemental proficiency, magic control, the Combat Trial, and divine blessings?"
"Yes, Instructor," Arthur managed, spitting dry saliva.
"Catch your wind. Elemental aptitude begins when you can stand unassisted."
Ten minutes bled away on the sand.
Body Hrett Scale: 12/15.Elemental Proficiency: 7/10.Magic Control: 2/10.Combat Trial: 8/10.
A cumulative tally of sixty-four percent. With only the patron trial remaining.
The lowest aggregate mark I've recorded all morning—is he even trying?
What a pathetic waste. Blessed with divine blood, yet too lazy to forge it.
If I possessed a fraction of these children's inherent capacity, I would train until my lungs burst to seize the pinnacle.
They sleep in fortified manses, entirely oblivious to the tide of claws and teeth waiting beyond the border.
Still… he sits precisely one mark shy of the threshold. A single low-tier blessing will catapult him to seventy-four.
"Final section. Let us finish this," the proctor sighed. "Unbutton your tunic. Where are your patron marks engraved?"
Arthur went rigid.
"Oh, spare me the modesty. Do not tell me the mark rests near your groin."
Silence hung heavy over the sand.
"Are you deaf? Strip the lower garment if necessary."
Arthur did not flinch.
"Boy, I take no pleasure in this procedure. I have a beautiful wife in the west, whom I see twice a year. This is standard protocol. Unless you desire a zero for the blessing rubric, show me your seals. I assure you, my eyes will wander nowhere else."
"I hold no blessings, sir," Arthur said evenly. "Please record the zero."