In the middle of the growing faculty assembly arrived a young, raven-haired man with sharp features, his posture deceptively casual. Thin reading glasses rested neatly on the bridge of his nose, the lenses catching a glint of morning light. His violet eyes—unmistakably unnatural in hue—glowed faintly despite the soft, ambient sunlight, a quiet sign of magical proficiency. He wore a pristine white robe that fluttered lightly in the breeze, marked on the left side with an insignia:
A shield bearing a single, vivid blue fla in its center.
"Is this everyone...?"
He asked, his voice carrying a lazy drawl, one hand half-covering his mouth as he stifled a yawn. The other arm stretched over his head, shoulder cracking audibly.
He looked every bit the overworked graduate student dragged out of bed too early—not the person in charge of one of the most prestigious academies in the realm.
"It’s everyone, Headmaster," another professor confird, giving a crisp nod.
"I see..."
The Headmaster murmured, adjusting his glasses with two fingers in a smooth, habitual motion. His expression barely shifted, his features etched with a kind of weariness that felt old—too old for soone who looked barely thirty. His gaze swept over the rows of students standing in perfect formation, sharp and dispassionate.
"So many students..."
He sighed, and with a quiet hum of mana, a clipboard materialized in his hand in a flicker of silvery-blue light.
"Which one requires a new assessnt?"
He asked flatly, eyes still on the clipboard as he tilted it slightly toward the sunlight. He didn’t look up as he gestured for Counselor Juna.
Juna stepped forward, heels clicking softly against the stone part of the courtyard as she approached. She pointed to several nas on the clipboard with practiced efficiency. Her fingers moved swiftly, but her eyes flicked—cold, sharp, and unmistakably irritated—toward Marcus for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Marcus couldn’t help but smirk.
He’d made quite the impression on his first day—trouble followed him like a narrative magnet—and it was no surprise Juna was offering him a death glare sharp enough to shave steel.
"You’re for sure going to be part of the ones getting a new assessnt,"
Cynthia muttered beside him, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Makes sense. I’m just that good, after all."
Marcus replied with a smug grin, his voice light with bravado.
Cynthia tilted her head, lips curling in amusent.
"Sure you are," she chuckled, before shifting her focus back toward the Headmaster.
The Headmaster scoffed quietly, bringing the clipboard closer to his face with a resigned flick of his wrist.
"Here are the students that need a new assessnt. The rest may sit wherever in the courtyard and observe while their classmates are evaluated."
He paused, scanning the list with narrowed eyes.
"First one on the list is..."
He lowered the clipboard slightly.
"Marcus Ravenfield. You’re up."
Marcus tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it—but of course he had. He adjusted his collar with exaggerated calm, letting the weight of every watching eye roll right off his shoulders. Showti.
"What’s first, teach?"
Marcus stepped forward with a relaxed gait, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets, the grin on his face as easy as ever. Behind him, the formation of students began to break apart in a wave of movent, murmurs rising as everyone scrambled to find a comfortable vantage point. So sat on benches, others perched on ledges or low walls, the courtyard buzzing like a theater before curtain call.
One of the supervising teachers gave a curt nod—silent permission for the crowd to settle in however they pleased.
"It seems the magical capabilities you displayed during the Forest of Trials far surpassed that of class 4-D,"
Another instructor announced clearly, projecting their voice over the ambient hum.
"So, we’re just going to do a quick re-evaluation."
A few students glanced over in surprise—so in curiosity, others in disbelief. Reassessnts were rare, especially on the first day.
The Headmaster—Laurent—stepped forward, the hem of his white robe fluttering slightly as he locked eyes with Marcus. His gaze, cool and unreadable, lingered for a beat too long before a faint smile ghosted across his lips. Wry. Almost entertained.
"You seem like the type to get straight into things," he said, tone level, "so I’ll not waste your ti any longer."
Then, with deliberate emphasis, he added:
"And it’s Headmaster Laurent to you."
A low pulse of mana radiated outward as he raised one arm. A mont later, a shimring blue barrier manifested in front of him—ethereal and intricate. The air around it buzzed faintly with power. Arcs of light danced across its surface like trapped lightning, and a ring of glowing runes spiraled outward from the center, rotating slowly with rhythmic precision.
But the inscriptions—though clearly ancient and powerful—were blurred, like ink smudged under water. Impossible to decipher. Impossible to replicate. The magic was designed to be seen, not stolen.
"Hit with all you’ve got," Laurent said simply, the challenge plain.
He smirked—not arrogantly, but with the calm confidence of soone who’d stood at the center of many storms. The expression contrasted sharply with the heavy, tired bags under his eyes. His violet gaze remained half-lidded, as if perpetually a breath away from sleep, even as his presence radiated unwavering control.
He adjusted his glasses with a practiced flick of his fingers, and with a subtle wave of his free hand, the clipboard vanished in a soft pulse of magic—dematerialized without ceremony.
The courtyard fell quiet.
All eyes turned to Marcus.
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