Standing in the silent aisle between the bookshelves, Alphonse stared intently at the cover of The Ballad of the Ten Stars in his hands. His fingertips traced the dried, cracking leather on the book's spine.
The material degradation proved that the literature in his hands was hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years old.
Logically, Alphonse concluded that whoever the author was that etched the name 'Eon' there must have died long ago and crumbled to dust. However, something tugged at his intuition. Someone had deliberately censored this person's work.
Carrying the book, Alphonse returned to the desk of the eccentric librarian.
"Apologies for bothering you again," Alphonse said in a calm tone. He placed the book on the desk and opened it to the final page where only torn remnants remained. "I noticed that the end of this poetry collection and the previous history book possess identical tears. As if someone deliberately destroyed them to conceal information. Does the tower keep any records regarding this vandalism?"
The old librarian adjusted his thick spectacles. He glanced at the torn section and shook his head slowly, his expression entirely indifferent.
"Those books have been mutilated like that since I was an apprentice tasked with sweeping the dust around here," he answered in a raspy voice. "And my master, as well as the master before him, said the exact same thing."
"Who tore them in the past, and what their motives were, is unknown. Regardless, they are merely obsolete fairy tales that few people seek out," he continued quietly.
Alphonse was unsatisfied, but he restrained himself. He posed his final question. "Then, does the tower possess any records regarding the author? Who is Eon?"
The librarian chuckled softly. A laugh that sounded dry and hollow.
"None. Not a single historical record of the Paxora Kingdom, noble family genealogies, or the deepest archives of the Magic Tower mentions anyone named Eon. That person's existence is proven only by the old books they left behind on various dusty shelves across this continent. He is like a ghost writing history."
Hearing that his source of information in this place had hit a dead end, Alphonse let out a faint sigh.
He glanced toward the tower's exterior window. The Wealden sky had shifted its hue from blue to a dark, reddish-orange, signaling the late afternoon preparing to welcome the night. They didn't have much time.
"Thank you for your time," Alphonse said politely. He bowed his head slightly, then walked away, leaving behind the scent of dust and the secrets of the past.
While Alphonse dove into history, Vrischil had been standing still like an ice sculpture inside the examination hall for hours.
The closed hall was not an ordinary classroom; rather, it was designed resembling a medium-sized amphitheater. There were rows of curved wooden seats ascending upwards like grandstands, where spectators, other examinees, and noble families sat waiting their turn.
Vrischil's focus was locked onto the open area in the center of the amphitheater. The area was enveloped by a transparent magical protective dome that pulsed softly every time it absorbed an impact.
The magical dome was clearly designed to absorb the brunt of the examinees' attacks, ensuring stray magical sparks wouldn't injure the spectators in the stands.
The analytical brain of Pioneer's general dissected the ongoing evaluation system.
Standing at the edge of the dome, a senior tower mage wearing an emblem of an eye surrounded by three magic circles on his chest oversaw the exam with a rigid expression.
After observing several sessions, Vrischil concluded that the requirements were incredibly simple. The examinee was only required to master a minimum of five different types of spells at the tested tier.
The casting time was not permitted to exceed five seconds per spell.
Subsequently, the examinee had to continuously fire their spells at the dummy targets inside the dome for a total of ten times before their Mana reserves were entirely depleted. Failing to meet any of those conditions meant the examinee failed the test.
In the spectator stands, exactly a few rows behind Vrischil, Arcus was leaning back in a highly disrespectful posture. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, while he yawned widely without bothering to cover his mouth.
"Good lord... this is worse than just boring," Arcus whispered with his theatrical flair, his tone laden with complaint.
The entire time, he had only been treated to the sight of examinees—most of whom looked tense to the point of breaking out in cold sweat—casting basic utility spells like [Tier 1 - Cleanse] or, at best, firing a [Tier 2 - Magic Arrow] that only managed to leave a tiny scratch on the test target.
By Arcus's combat standards, those tiny elemental sparks were equivalent to the lowest Grade E and Grade D spells in the game. It was deeply embarrassing.
The archer let out a long sigh, longing for the guild battlefields of the past, which were always decorated with the impact of destructive Grade A spells or Grade S star explosions capable of altering the landscape in an instant.
Vrischil glared at Arcus from beneath her hood. Her eyes projected a sharp warning.
"If you already deduced from your skirmishes that the inhabitants of this world are weak, you should have anticipated that the performance in this hall would be incredibly pathetic," Vrischil reprimanded in a piercing, icy tone. "Stop complaining and stay silent."
Arcus groaned softly, rolling his eyes. "Even so," he grumbled stubbornly. "Isn't there at least one among them who possesses a decent trick? Something that could make me laugh a little rather than putting me into a deep sleep?"
As if the universe had answered the arrogant Sagittarius's complaint, the wooden double doors of the amphitheater were suddenly kicked open violently.
The exam atmosphere, which had previously been dominated by tension and silence, instantly shattered into pieces by the echo of arrogant footsteps.
A young man strutted inside. He possessed a handsome face with neatly styled light brown hair.
His attire screamed wealth; he wore a magic robe crafted from expensive silk woven with gold thread, while his hand gripped a luxurious wooden staff adorned with a pure sapphire crystal at its tip.
The man had not arrived alone. He was surrounded by a flock of lackeys and servants marching with their chests puffed out.
Completely disregarding a poor examinee whose concentration was instantly shattered inside the dome, one of the young man's lackeys stepped forward. With a loud, arrogant voice that sliced through the room's silence, he shouted.
"Halt this lowly exam! Prepare the main floor and clear the dome!" the lackey announced, glaring cynically at the senior examiner. "Young Master Caspian Astora has arrived! He has come to claim his Three-Circle Mage Emblem!"
The announcement successfully silenced the entire audience. The atmosphere within the amphitheater grew tense, a mixture of fear, annoyance, and awe.
In the spectator stands, Arcus, who had been leaning back lazily with a sleepy face, slowly lowered his legs and sat up straight. A thin, highly dangerous, predatory smile began to form on his lips.
"Ah," Arcus murmured, his eyes glinting as he stared at the immensely arrogant figure of Caspian Astora. "Finally. A spectacle that might actually entertain me."
Disregarding the rules and the other examinee, Caspian Astora walked haughtily into the center of the testing area beneath the transparent dome. His leather shoes clicked against the stone floor with a rhythm that exuded sheer arrogance.
An examinee—a young man in a Mage robe who had been dripping in cold sweat trying to center his focus—felt disrupted. His concentration shattered completely.
"Hey! What are you doing?!" the examinee snapped loudly, his face flushing red with anger. "It is my turn!"
Instead of replying, Caspian merely scoffed dismissively. The brown-haired man raised his sapphire-adorned staff. In less than two seconds, magical energy congregated at the tip of the crystal, radiating a heat that scorched the air.
[Tier 3 - Fireball]
A sphere of fire the size of a human head shot forward at high speed.
The senior examiner's eyes bulged wide. With reflexes honed by experience, he thrust his hand out and conjured a transparent magical shield directly in front of the unfortunate examinee.
A loud explosion erupted as the fireball slammed against the magical barrier. The magical collision created a blinding flash of light. The examiner's shield managed to absorb the majority of the blast's destructive force, but the shockwave and residual licks of flame still penetrated the defense.
The examinee shrieked in pain. His body was thrown backward, rolling roughly across the stone floor, his clothes scorched and his skin blistered from the burns.
Lowering his magic staff casually, Caspian pointed toward the groaning examinee on the floor, then glared sharply at the senior examiner.
"Count that as my first spell, Old Man," Caspian ordered without a single shred of guilt. "Prepare my emblem now so I don't have to waste time waiting in this dreadfully boring place."
Beneath his examiner's robes, a vein twitched softly on the senior mage's forehead. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to swallow the rage boiling in his throat. Openly opposing the heir of the Astora family in Wealden was tantamount to suicide.
With stiff movements, the examiner signaled for two guards to carry the injured examinee out of the testing hall.
Once the area was clear, the examiner turned back to Caspian, wearing a highly forced professional smile.
"Young Master Astora," the examiner said, bowing his head slightly. "Your magic is truly potent... to the point that my shield could not even fully contain it."
The faux praise was met with a dismissive laugh from Caspian, accompanied by cheers of agreement from his servants and lackeys on the sidelines.
"Do not compare yourself to me," Caspian sneered, twirling his staff arrogantly. "Your potential has peaked as an ordinary Mage who can only guard an exam room. Meanwhile, I... I possess the talent of a high-tier Sorcerer class. My path stretches far beyond this."
The examiner swallowed his pride and pointed toward the wooden and stone dummy targets at the far end of the dome. "Please proceed with the remainder of your exam, Young Master."
Caspian stepped forward. He began unleashing his remaining nine spells consecutively in a deafening display of destructive power.
He cast [Tier 3 - Fireball] three times in a row, creating a barrage of explosions that obliterated the wooden dummy targets into flaming splinters of charcoal.
After the examiner paused the timer briefly so the tower staff could replace the targets with stone blocks, Caspian resumed his assault. Two slashes of [Tier 3 - Wind Blade] shot forth, cleaving the stones into neat halves.
Followed by two strikes of [Tier 3 - Lightning] crashing down from the dome's ceiling, leaving a sharp stench of ozone in the air.
The ground suddenly trembled violently before a [Tier 3 - Rock Spike] thrust sharply from beneath the earth, destroying the target from below.
As a finale, Caspian cast [Tier 3 - Frost Lance], hurling an ice spear that completely froze the remaining rubble of the final target.
Every time a target was destroyed, Caspian's lackeys cheered in wild ecstasy, hailing the magnificence of their young master.
However, from the spectator stands, Arcus and Vrischil could see what those sycophants did not. Beneath that exhibition of power, Caspian's chest was heaving rapidly.
His breathing was heavy and erratic. Cold sweat began to seep from his temples and drip down his chin. Executing a barrage of ten Tier 3 spells consecutively had nearly drained every last drop of Mana within his body.
Masking his exhaustion by puffing out his chest, Caspian walked up to the examiner and held out his hand. "Give me my emblem."
The examiner smiled formally. He produced a metal badge from a velvet box and handed it over with both hands. It was the Three-Circle Mage Emblem—a badge engraved with the image of an eye surrounded by three intersecting magic circles.
"In accordance with the privileges granted by the Magic Tower, Young Master," the examiner said after handing over the emblem. "You are entitled to select one complimentary magic manual corresponding to your new rank."
Without needing to think, Caspian answered immediately, "[Tier 3 - Magic Inscription]."
Hearing the selection, the examiner's smile widened, this time accompanied by slightly more genuine respect. "A brilliant choice, Young Master. We shall look forward to the birth of a new Scroll Master here in the Wealden Magic Tower."
The compliment instantly catapulted Caspian's ego to the ceiling.
A female worker in a tower uniform hurried inside carrying the requested spellbook. Caspian grabbed the book with one hand, while his left hand brazenly wrapped around the female worker's waist, pulling her close. Caspian laughed arrogantly, thoroughly enjoying the absolute peak of his glory and dominance in the room.
However, the little celebration did not last long.
The amphitheater doors opened once more. This time, there was no violent kick. An elderly, impeccably dressed butler walked briskly through the crowd. His footsteps were efficient and soundless, indicating a high level of discipline.
The butler approached Caspian, bowed his head slightly, and whispered a few words directly into his young master's ear.
An emotional shift occurred in the blink of an eye.
Caspian's arrogant laughter vanished. His handsome face turned tense and deadly serious. He immediately released his grip on the female worker's waist.
Caspian turned sharply to the senior examiner. "Send my regards to the Tower Master. I must leave immediately."
Without waiting for a response, Caspian turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the room, leading his confused entourage of lackeys trailing behind the old butler. The amphitheater returned to silence, leaving a massive question mark in the minds of everyone who witnessed the sudden, abrupt departure of the Young Master.