The examination hall felt more like a university amphitheater than a testing ground for newly awakened teenagers. The long, sterile rows of desks and the hum of white neon lights created a heavy silence. It was a tactical environment. Aren settled into a seat at the back, slightly to the right. From here, he could observe every candidate without drawing a single eye.
He rested his hands flat on the desk, letting his gaze sweep the room. The candidates were open books. Some tried to mask their nerves with forced stillness; others wore a brand of confidence far too loud to be sincere. A tall, dark-haired boy in the center—Timothy Verca, if he recalled correctly—sat rigid, chin tilted upward, convinced that his posture alone would intimidate the room.
Raly, sitting two rows ahead, was white-knuckling her pen. She wasn't trying to look the part; she was simply trying to survive the pressure. Aren noted her tension. Useful, he thought. A mind that feels pressure but doesn't break is a mind that can be molded.
The examiner entered—a man in his late forties with rectangular glasses. He dropped a heavy stack of papers onto the desk.
"You have two hours," he announced coldly. "Subjects include advanced mathematics, Gate analysis, and dimensional synthesis. You may begin."
Aren flipped his paper over. Question one: Density equations for C-rank Gate manifestations.
In Timeline 1, Aren had seen these equations scrawled in blood on ruined walls to calculate escape routes. Here, it was a game. He could have finished the entire test in twenty minutes, but that would be a death sentence to his anonymity.
He began to write, but he forced his hand to pause occasionally. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, mimicking the look of a student struggling with a difficult derivation. He intentionally chose the most common method to solve the problems rather than the "perfect" shortcuts known only to veterans of the future. He even "corrected" himself, crossing out a perfectly good line of math to replace it with a slightly more labored version.
He was crafting a masterpiece of mediocrity.
When he finished, he reviewed his work. He had aimed for a score of 82%. High enough to be respected, low enough to be forgotten.
The corridor leading to Waiting Room B was a cacophony of hushed, panicked whispers. Raly walked slightly behind the crowd, clutching her folder. Aren fell into step beside her. He noticed her pale complexion and decided it was time to play his role.
"That last part about synthesis..." he began, softening his voice and adding a touch of feigned exhaustion. "I think I spent twenty minutes just on that one equation. My head is spinning."
Raly turned to him, her eyes widening in surprise—and then, visible relief. "Oh, thank god. I thought I was the only one. I almost got lost in the third variable."
Aren gave her a small, self-deprecating smile. "I'm pretty sure I just guessed on the probability radius. Let's hope the examiners are feeling generous."
Raly's shoulders dropped three inches. She actually smiled back. "I'm Raly, by the way. I don't think I caught your name earlier."
"Aren," he replied.
By showing a "weakness," he had turned a stranger into an ally. To her, he wasn't a cold monster from the future; he was just another kid struggling to get into the Academy.
Waiting Room B was lined with rubber mats and training weapons. An instructor—a massive man with arms like tree trunks—stepped forward.
"The practical trial is a duel," he barked. "We evaluate mastery, strategy, and adaptability. Pick a weapon."
Aren selected a wooden sword (bokken). It was slightly heavier than he liked, but he didn't show it. He stood in a basic, slightly flawed stance—the kind taught in standard high school clubs.
Raly chose a short staff, her hands shaking less now. Then, Timothy Verca stepped onto the mat, wielding a sword like a trophy.
The Duel — Aren Tallcrag vs. Timothy Verca
Timothy smirked as he saw Aren. "The gringalet from the back row? Try not to cry when I knock that stick out of your hand."
Aren didn't snap back. He didn't stare him down. Instead, he looked slightly nervous, shifting his weight as if unsure.
"Begin!" the instructor shouted.
Timothy lunged—a powerful, arrogant horizontal slash. It was fast, but to Aren, it was moving through water. He could have disarmed Timothy in a single heartbeat, but he chose a different path.
Aren "panicked." He took a clumsy step back, barely parrying the blow. The sound of wood hitting wood echoed through the gym.
Good, Aren thought. Let him think I'm struggling.
Timothy, fueled by his apparent advantage, grew bolder. He swung again, and again. Aren continued to "barely" escape, parrying at the last second, moving with just enough clumsiness to look lucky.
"Quit running!" Timothy roared, losing his rhythm.
This was the moment. Timothy swung a heavy overhead strike, leaving his entire torso exposed. Aren didn't deliver a flashy counter. Instead, he simply "tripped" forward.
As he stumbled, his wooden sword rose—seemingly by accident—and poked Timothy hard in the solar plexus, followed by a quick tap to the throat as Aren regained his "balance."
Timothy gasped, clutching his chest, the wind knocked out of him. He froze, the tip of Aren's sword resting against his neck.
The room was silent. To the other students, it looked like a fluke—a lucky stumble that ended the fight.
The instructor, however, narrowed his eyes. He looked at Aren's feet, then his grip. He didn't say a word for a long moment.
"Winner: Aren Tallcrag," the instructor finally said, his voice thoughtful.
Aren retracted his weapon and bowed slightly, looking as surprised as everyone else. "Lucky guess," he murmured as he walked past a stunned Timothy.
Raly caught up to him, her eyes bright. "That was... intense! I thought he had you for a second."
"Me too," Aren lied smoothly. "I just closed my eyes and moved. I think he just overextended himself."
The loudspeaker crackled.
"Group C candidates, report to the Soul Evaluation Chamber."
Raly's smile vanished, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. This was the one test Aren couldn't fake. The crystals didn't care about acting; they saw the truth of the Soul.
"Aren Tallcrag," an evaluator called.
He walked toward the heavy steel door. His face remained calm, but inside, his mind was a whirlwind of calculations. How would the System react to a Soul that had traveled through time? How would it react to the VOID?
He stepped into the dark chamber. The door sealed.
"Place your hand on the Soul Stone," a voice commanded from the shadows.
Aren reached out. His fingers touched the cold, glowing surface of the obsidian crystal.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, the room began to shake.