Chapter 22: Welco to Altheria
The Royal Grand Hall of Altheria Academy was, in a word—ridiculous.
Vaulted ceilings with floating crystal chandeliers. Pillars inscribed with spells older than the Empire itself.
Rows upon rows of gold-trimd benches that stretched across the massive chamber like a sea of polished wood and velvet.
This wasn't a school.
It was a throne room for gods.
Thousands of applicants filled the seats, whispering, shifting, waiting. The air buzzed with tension. So were sweating. Others were stone-faced.
?
I was chilling.
Noel sat beside , arms folded, eyes half-closed like she was already bored. Her sword leaned against her leg, the charm I gave her still hanging from the hilt.
I leaned back in my seat.
GTP.
[Yes?]
This place is nuts. Do they always go this hard for entrance exams?
[Altheria Academy has the highest standards of magical and academic excellence in the Empire. They 'go hard' as a matter of policy.]
Fair enough.
The magic lamps dimd.
A hush fell over the hall.
And then—
A figure stepped forward onto the central platform.
She didn't wear a crown or robes. Just a long black coat lined with gold thread, a polished cane in one hand, and eyes like winter frost.
But the pressure she gave off?
Colossal.
This was Headmaster Caerwyn Eloria, and the mont she opened her mouth, the entire hall fell dead silent.
"Welco," she said, voice clear, carrying to every corner of the chamber without magic.
"To those who stand before today—you are not students. Not yet."
Her cane clicked once against the stone.
"You are aspirants. Hopefuls. Nas without weight."
People stiffened around .
"By the end of this exam," she continued, "many of you will be broken. So of you will quit. A few of you may even bleed."
She paused, letting that sink in.
"But those who remain... will walk a path carved only for the exceptional."
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"Altheria does not accept diocrity. It creates legends. If you do not burn brightly enough to leave a scar on this world—then you have no place here."
Silence.
Then—
"Let the entrance exam begin."
The hall erupted in noise.
* * *
Today was the written exam.
The first gate to Altheria.
They called it the "Mindfire Trial."
No flashy spells. No sword-swinging. Just ink, paper, and the quiet sound of souls being crushed by long division and magical theory.
Each examinee was assigned to one of the Academy's hundreds of classrooms.
Noel and I had been separated.
She didn't seem to mind.
She'd seen the world for what it was. Learned it the hard way.
And she had that weird murder-wolf thing whispering arcane knowledge into her head.
She'd be fine.
?
I had my own little monster.
I sat at the center of a high-ceilinged classroom filled with fancy-robed noble kids who looked like they ate leather-bound books for breakfast.
A paper packet was dropped in front of .
Sealed. Heavy.
One hundred questions.
A three-hour limit.
No retakes.
No extra ti.
No rcy.
The proctor gave the signal.
I cracked it open.
Scanned the first question.
"Given the recorded magical properties of the Vorthos Spiral, explain how its core mana interference could be stabilized during a Tier-3 summoning ritual under a red-moon condition. Support with a three-phase incantation."
I stared at it.
Then leaned back.
"GTP."
[Yes, Master?]
"Help out."
[Activating Answer Support Mode. Beginning analysis...]
I smiled.
Oh yeah.
I wasn't passing this test.
I was about to ruin its curve.
* * *
Professor ril Dathen sat alone in one of the Academy's upper-level grading halls, a steaming cup of mana-leaf tea at her side, and a pile of test papers that could break a weak man's soul.
She'd been at it for hours.
"Not bad... good structure... fail... fail... oh gods, fail harder..."
She sighed, flipping through each page with one hand while lazily scribbling evaluations with the other.
Most of the students had done okay—so better than expected.
But nobody ca close to answering the final question properly.
Question 100:
"Describe, deconstruct, and theorize a stable manipulation of Hellfla—a paradoxical elent classified as one of the Five Great Mysteries of the Magical World. Known for devouring both caster and target alike, can it be wielded without annihilation?"
It wasn't a trick question.
It was a wall.
Unsolvable.
The Academy put it at the end not to be answered—but to break spirits.
Anyone who wrote even a decent paragraph got a passing grade.
So far?
Garbage.
So didn't even try.
Then she flipped to the next paper.
Her eyes narrowed.
It wasn't the usual chicken scratch or noble kid flexing his family crest on the header.
It was clean. Organized.
Dense.
She leaned forward.
"...Huh?"
She read the first few answers. Precise. Efficient. Perfect.
Every single question—correct. No over-explaining. No wasted ink.
Then she saw the na:
Sam Avencroft.
"...That sounds familiar," she muttered.
She'd been locked away in the Mage Tower for the last year—researching, training, chasing breakthroughs. She didn't have ti for rumors or empire gossip.
But that na...
She turned the page.
Got to Question 100.
And froze.
"...What...?"
The answer wasn't just a theory.
It was a full breakdown. A deconstruction of Hellfla's internal layering, its chaotic mana clusters, theoretical neutralization paths, and even a proposed multi-phase casting formula that could—in theory—stabilize it.
No student should've been able to write this.
Not even so professors.
She kept reading.
Her heart started racing.
"...This is... this is impossible."
The paper nearly fell from her hands.
She stood up so fast she kicked over her chair.
"I need to show this to the Headmaster... no—the entire Magic Arcane must see this."
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