The Grand Magus' final syllable still vibrated in the air when the presence struck Reinhard's periphery.
"You don't belong here."
He turned. Of course it was her.
Seraphina Eldrath. Former fiancée. Highest-scoring candidate in Academy history.
Ceremonial battle robes clung to her frame, her platinum hair a molten river down her back. Her eyes were gemstone sharp, glacial as the dynasties she heir, and they pierced him with venom.
Even restrained, her mana vibrated the ground, dwarfing the lesser aristocrats nearby. She closed the distance, not for warmth, but threat. Her whisper was a blade's edge. "What delusion dragged you here, Luxor? Leave. Before you break."
Reinhard grinned. There. That exquisite, rotting pride. She still saw the corpse he'd shed—the beggar, the failure. Let her. Let the height sharpen her plunge.
He tilted his head, voice loud enough for only her to hear. "Observe closely, Seraphina. This exam isn't a trial. It's a feast."
A flicker. A microsecond fracture in her ice.
His certainty had teeth.
Then her sneer returned. "Your arrogance still outpaced your talent," she spat, whirling away. "We'll see if your spine survives the first gate."
She marched toward the arena, shadows bowing at her stride.
Reinhard tracked her, smile unblunted. "My spine? No, princess, you'll learn to kneel."
***
The Test of Knowledge was the Grand Arcane Academy's first culling—a written gauntlet designed to purge half the candidates before magic ever left their fingertips.
To nobles, a trivial dance. To commoners, a gallows walk.
To Reinhard von Luxor? A chessboard he'd checkmated weeks ago.
The hall loomed like a titan's mausoleum, all obsidian arches and stained mana-glass casting fractured light over rows of hovering desks. Runes pulsed in the floors, not guiding, judging. The air hummed with the static of 5,000 held breaths.
Commoners gripped their pens like lifelines. Nobles lounged, boredom etched in their sneers. High above, the examiners' platform drifted, spectral and severe.
Archmage Claudius Grimwald dominated the center, his gold-ringed eyes scanning the crowd. Magic coiled around him like a serpent, heavy enough to bend spines. When he lifted a hand, the hall fell tomb-silent.
A snap of his fingers.
Test scrolls materialized, glowing faintly blue.
Reinhard's gaze skimmed the first question. A laugh threatened his throat.
Pathetic.
He'd written essays on these theorems at age twelve. Solved these equations blindfolded. The real test wasn't the parchment—it was the fear choking the room, the way nobles' fingers twitched toward hidden cheat-charms, driven by the primal terror of becoming lesser. Or, at the very least, being seen as lesser.
He dipped his quill, ink bleeding across the page.
Let them tally their tricks. Let the weak crumble.
This wasn't an exam. It was a victory lap.
The Test of Knowledge didn't care about rote spells or memorized incantations. It was a slaughterhouse of intellect. Every question was a blade aimed at privilege, a scalpel dissecting who'd been groomed in shadowed libraries versus those who'd scavenged crumbs of wisdom.
Question 1: Compare mana flow vectors in Abyssal Curses versus Celestial Blessings. Calculate their collision within a neutral mana field.
A noble's heir blanched, his quill trembling.
Question 2: Tier-3 Inferno Spear cast in a Wind Mage's compressed air field. Predict mana backlash.
A commoner's knuckles whitened—he'd never seen a tier-3 spell, let alone its math.
Question 3: Forbidden Magic is banned, yet archmages wield it. Cite Grand Magus Zephiroth's theories on hypocrisy.
The girl beside Reinhard choked back a whimper.
Bonus: Name the erased inventor of Runic Spellweaving and justify their annihilation.
A ducal heir's sweat pooled on parchment.
This wasn't testing. It was a massacre. A rigged game to out bloodlines, not brains. To weed out those without secret tutors, grimoires passed down through centuries.
Candidates cracked like overripe fruit. Some hyperventilated. Others scribbled gibberish, praying for pity points. The hall reeked of despair.
To Reinhard, this was child's play. He wasn't merely noble. Not just a mage. He was a transplant. A ghost.
In another life, he'd dissected quarterly reports, manipulated stock markets, outmaneuvered sharks in corporate boardrooms. His mind was a vault of strategies, loopholes, cold calculus.
This test? A toddler's puzzle.
His quill danced.
Answer 1: Abyssal mana spirals counterclockwise at 47.3 degrees, Celestial at 132. Neutral fields invert polarity per Zephiroth's Third Law…
Answer 2: Explosive collapse within 2.7 seconds unless wind density exceeds—
Answer 3: Council hypocrisy evident in the Siege of Vornholm, where Archmage Lirien deployed—
No pause. No doubt. Each stroke surgical, lethal in its elegance.
High above, Archmage Claudius leaned forward, acid-green gaze tracking Reinhard. The boy wrote like a machine. Like he'd authored the damned test.
"Fascinating," Claudius murmured, fingers steepled.
The von Luxor brat shouldn't know half these theories. Yet here he was. Unraveling secrets meant for dynastic heirs.
Who the hell are you? the Archmage thought, hunger glinting in his eyes.
Candidates slumped over desks, their minds fractured and fried. Others sat hollow-eyed, their scrolls pristine. They already surrendered.
Reinhard's parchment bloomed with more answers, the ink still wet. No strain in his posture. No sweat on his brow.
Darius Valmont—scion of the Violet Flame Viscountcy—glanced sideways. His throat tightened.
Impossible.
Reinhard's quill danced, each stroke precise, smug. Equations Darius's tutors had deemed "beyond his station" sprawled across the page like taunts. "Trash," Darius hissed, knuckles bone-white around his own quill. His voice wavered. "You're trash."
Seraphina watched from three rows back. Her quill hovered, forgotten. This wasn't the boy she'd disowned—the stuttering fool who'd botched basic mana drills. This creature wrote like a scholar-king, untouchable and cold.
Her chest burned. When did you learn to breathe fire, little pig?
The gong's toll shook the hall. The scrolls dissolved. The chorus of whimpers rose.
Reinhard stretched, cracking his joints. Around him, the defeated hunched like wounded animals.
Above, Archmage Claudius descended the platform, obsidian robes swallowing the light. His gaze lingered on Reinhard—a scalpel probing a wound.
"Well," the Archmage purred, "aren't you… unexpected."
Reinhard met his stare. Unblinking. You've seen nothing yet.
He strode toward the exit like a shark cutting through minnows. Outside. Where the Combat Trial arena loomed, the spires clawing at the sky.
He smiled.
Finally. The fun was just beginning.
***
The survivors marched to the arena. No rest. No mercy.
Enchanted stone walls towered around them, scarred by generations of spellfire. The air tasted metallic, of ozone and old blood.
Grand Magus Eldrin Vael floated above, a vulture surveying carrion. His voice boomed: "You have proven your intelligence. Now, prove your strength. One-on-one duels. Victory by incapacitation, surrender, or ring-out. Lose, and you are eliminated from the exam."
The obelisk shuddered. Names carved themselves in lightning. A collective inhale; then laughter.
Nobles howled. Cedric strutted forward, velvet robes embroidered with his House's starburst crest. Pretty. Pampered. Poisonous.
"Luxor!" he called, feigning pity. "Run along. My flames might singe your tail."
Reinhard stepped into the ring. Dust clung to his boots.
Cedric snapped his fingers. A spark danced on his palm. "Beg, and I'll make it quick."
Reinhard rotated his neck. Cracked his knuckles. Said nothing.
The gong thundered.
Flames roared from Cedric's palm, a searing comet aimed at Reinhard's chest. Simple. Brutal. Predictable.
Reinhard's lips twitched.
[Hurricane Dash]
Wind erupted beneath his boots. He vanished.
Cedric blinked. "Wha—?"
A shadow loomed to his left. Reinhard's hand clamped down on his wrist, vise-tight.
"Let go, you filth—!"
[Devour Magic]
The spell tore from Cedric's veins, a river of fire siphoned into Reinhard's grasp. Cedric shuddered, choking as his mana drained—raw, violent, stolen.
Reinhard opened his palm. A new fire coiled there, hotter, hungrier, its core flickering black.
[Emberfang Lance]
The flames morphed. Twisted. Became a spear of molten teeth.
Cedric staggered back, barrier flaring—useless. The lance pierced it like parchment, slamming him into the arena wall. Stone cracked. Dust billowed.
When the dust settled, Cedric slumped against the shattered stone: unconscious, robes singed, pride ash.
The arena held its breath.
Reinhard flexed his hand, embers still clinging to his fingers. His gaze swept the nobles' gallery—their smirks dead, their laughter strangled.
Grand Magus Eldrin's voice cut through the silence. "Victory to Reinhard von Luxor."
No cheers. Just the rustle of robes as candidates edged away from the duelist still radiating heat.
Seraphina's nails bit into her palms. Stealing magic. Refining it mid-combat. This isn't possible.
Yet there he stood. A storm contained in flesh, smiling like he'd barely tried.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. What are you?
The arena's silence thickened.
Cedric's absence left a void no one dared fill. Nobles traded glances, their smirks buried. Commoners' eyes flicked to Reinhard—not with pity now, but primal wariness.
Only Reinhard remained unshaken, the dying embers of his stolen spell curling around his fingers like smoke.
Pathetic, he thought.
Cedric had been a blunt instrument—all bark, no strategy. A stepping stone.
A blade's edge sliced the tension.
"Was that your best?" Seraphina now stood at the ring's edge, the crowd parting like red sea before divinity. Her mana pressed down, smothering whispers. Platinum hair glinted cold as her gaze.
Reinhard turned. "Care to test it yourself, Eldrath?"
She stepped closer, her disdain festering. "Crushing insects proves nothing. The Malgraves are carrion feeders." Murmurs.
The insult wasn't for Reinhard—it was a declaration. You've conquered nothing.
He smiled. Not the wolf's grin from before. Something quieter. Dangerous. "You're not angry I won." His voice carried, deliberate. "You're furious I stopped playing the fool. Worried I'll start outshining you?""
Her mana flared—not a spell, but a blade of pure pressure. The air thickened, tasting of ozone and winter frost. Candidates nearby flinched, collars damp with sudden sweat.
Reinhard didn't blink.
Her eyes narrowed. "You?" Her laugh was ice cracking underfoot. "Belonging here?"
He leaned closer, his voice a velvet threat. "Not your equal, princess. Your better."
A flicker in her pupils. A falcon spotting a new predator.
The arena's obelisk boomed: "Orion Fenrir vs. Sylas Ravencourt!"
Seraphina stepped back, spine straight as a martinet, but her thumb grazed her ring—once, twice. A tell.
"Prove it," she hissed, retreating into the crowd like smoke.
Reinhard watched her go, smile sharp as a scalpel.
Oh, I will. And you'll choke on every step.
Around him, the arena buzzed. Whispers, bets, trembling hands. He closed his eyes, savoring it. This was power. Not spells. Not bloodlines.
The scent of fear, fresh and sweet.
The coliseum's breath hitched as Orion Fenrir glided forward.
No weapons. No theatrics.
Just the glacial stillness of a predator who'd never tasted fear.
Sylas Ravencourt lunged, a wind-blade screaming in his hands.
Orion lifted a palm. "Frozen Domain."
The arena died. Ice devoured stone. Air crystallized in lungs. Sylas's blade choked mid-swing, frost spiderwebbing across his skin.
A flick of Orion's wrist. A needle-thin shard pierced Sylas's shoulder. "Frostbite Curse."
Sylas collapsed, veins bluing, mana snuffed like a candle.
Silence. Then roaring applause.
Nobles chanted Fenrir's name like a prayer.
Reinhard watched, unimpressed. Efficient. Soulless. A statue with a pulse.
Seraphina's voice slithered from behind him. "You see? That's true power."
He didn't turn. "Power? Or parlor tricks?"
Her laugh was a dagger's edge. "You couldn't touch him."
Reinhard faced her, smile venomous. "Oh, darling, I've already beaten him once."
A lie? She searched his eyes. Her ring finger twitched. It was impossible.
He leaned in, his breath grazing her ear. "Ask him about the scar beneath his ribs."
She recoiled.
Orion stood yards away, flawless, invincible. Yet her gaze snagged on his left side. A faint ripple in his robes.
No. Reinhard walked away, humming. The arena's walls seemed to lean closer, hungry. Winter's heir? I'll bury him in spring.