Professor Armand glanced down at the file in his hands, flipping through the pages of the applicants with a bored look.
Most of the candidates today were promising—prodigies with impressive records from top schools, competition champions, and children of renowned guild leaders.
His eyes scanned the current entry on his list: "Shiro."
He frowned, flipping to the next page, then back to Shiro's.
There was… nothing remarkable here. No prestigious background, no achievements.
No glowing recommendations or notable lineage. Just a plain, unremarkable application.
A nobody.
Armand sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"This one's going to be a waste of time,"
he muttered, tapping his fingers on the desk. This year's candidates were exceptionally strong, some of the most promising he'd seen in a decade.
But this Shiro kid? Just another filler applicant, one who'd surely be eliminated in the first round.
There was no reason to waste his attention here.
"Mr. Shiro," he said without looking up, waving a hand dismissively, "show us your skill of choice."
He marked something in his notes, already moving his gaze toward the next entrant.
But just as he was about to call the next name, an unsettling pressure in the room made him pause.
A flicker of energy, subtle at first, prickled at the edges of his awareness.
It felt like a distant tremor in the earth, gradually growing stronger.
Armand's brow furrowed, and he glanced up, only to find Shiro standing there, an intense focus in his eyes as he held his scythe.
The air around him seemed to thicken, a dense aura beginning to build.
Armand felt his own pulse quicken, the weight of Shiro's magic pressing down on him, heavy and dark.
Impossible. Where was all this energy coming from?
Then Shiro spoke, his voice calm yet resonant: "Black Hole."
At that moment, a small black sphere began to materialize in front of him, swirling with a gravity so intense that it seemed to bend the air itself.
The temperature in the room dropped, and Armand felt his heart slam against his chest, his hands gripping the edge of the table involuntarily.
He could feel it—the sheer power emanating from the spell.
It was relentless, an abyss that seemed to suck in everything around it, even light itself.
"An 8-circle spell…?"
Armand whispered, disbelief clawing at his mind.
Students of this level shouldn't even be able to cast 4-circle magic without strain, let alone 8.
The other judges were no longer seated; they were standing, just as stunned as he was.
Armand swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead as he watched the black sphere pulse, pulling at the very air in the room, an uncontained and hungry force.
The whole testing chamber felt like it was on the verge of collapsing in on itself.
This… this was no ordinary applicant.
Armand's initial assessment shattered in an instant.
This young man wasn't just powerful—he was dangerous.