Ivan
Ivan sighed softly and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the boredom gnawing at his patience like termites in old wood.
An entire hour had passed since he arrived, yet he was still standing in the same spot. No one had moved, no one had said a word. Only silence… and waiting.
The day had finally come, the exam day he had been counting down to for a month, as if counting down to a lifetime. a day that meant more to him than just an evaluation. a day that meant a step toward proving himself.
The place where the test was held wasn't nearby. It was a facility run by the Ritters, located deep in the forest, about two hundred kilometers away from the city of Seven Men. a city he had spent more time outside of than within, due to training.
He had to wake up before sunrise and travel the whole distance alone. even old Van, who rarely ever missed anything, wasn't home— claiming he had overseas business related to his law firm, something Ivan didn't understand in the slightest.
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He looked again at the line of applicants in front of him— ten rows, ten people in each row. a mixture of exhausted faces, anxious expressions, and some carrying cold stares as if this were just a routine procedure.
He turned his head with effort, as if doing so for the fiftieth time, trying to count everyone again. nothing had changed.
The boys and girls stood in solemn silence, as if birds of fire perched on their heads.t hey ranged in age between twelve and fourteen, and all of them wore the same uniform— the shared test uniform.
The hall itself added to the tension. It was submerged in a soft darkness, with light pouring down from above in sharp columns, each spotlight focused on one participant, as if each of them was a lone star on a stage, waiting to deliver their line to an invisible audience.
There were no visible walls, no ceiling in sight, only a massive void that swallowed sounds and muffled footsteps as if they were dropping into a well.
Everyone wore the same shared test uniform: a tight-fitting, all-white suit woven from a coarse, durable fabric that clung to the body like protective armor.
The suit was laced with thin, fiery red lines branching from the chest toward the arms and legs, like veins ablaze with life.
a wide belt wrapped around the waist, from which small pouches dangled. the forearms were protected by dark metal guards that reflected the glowing lines.
on each participant's back, a number was printed in deep crimson red.
The number 75 was etched across his back in searing red script. a number that might seem ordinary to others, but to Ivan, it held a meaning only he understood.
1475 AFD (After Forgotten Decades)— the year his mother, Yasni, was born.
To him, this number was no coincidence.
It was a sign, a silent message from her spirit cutting through time and space to whisper: "I'm with you."
Something trembled inside him for a moment, but he hid it well.
He lifted his head and stared forward, murmuring in a voice only he could hear: "Is this a sign from you, Mother? If you can see me now... I won't let you down."
His gaze settled once again, sweeping across the hall—but this time, it wasn't random. his eyes scanned the faces with cautious analysis. Without realizing it, his visual memory began sketching a miniature social map of the attendees, their features, postures, expressions, even the way they stood beneath the light... everything was a clue.
So many arrogant faces. Shoulders held high as if they'd never known defeat. eyes that didn't blink, as if they were certain they wouldn't be dismissed regardless of the outcome.
Boys and girls wearing the scent of nobility, with perfectly styled hair that made no sense in an exam hall, and hands too clean to have ever known dirt or labor.
"Nobles. Of course," Ivan thought. Then he frowned, muttering dryly to himself:
Did you come for fun? To prove something? Or just to pin another medal to your already crowded chests?"
In the middle of this olfactory clash that invaded the hall like noise, heavy perfumes saturated with luxury filled the air, wafting from noble bodies like open declarations of class and status.
Lavish scents soaked in pride, some sharp enough to sting the nose, others clawing at the throat like they demanded submission.
Ivan felt like he was suffocating, the air thick with fragrance, as if the entire room had turned into a shattered bottle of perfume.
But amidst the overwhelming haze, a familiar scent broke through.
It wasn't some expensive cologne or aristocratic essence, but a memory. Soft and subtle. a blend of wild rose and fresh lemon leaves.
A fragrance not made for boasting... but for comfort.
Time froze inside him for a moment. He took a deep breath, not even noticing that he had, as if his nose was chasing it on its own, like a child searching for his mother's arms after a nightmare.
"This scent..." he thought as his eyes shut without meaning to. "I could never forget it... It's one of the perfumes my mother used to make with her own hands."
Memories surged through him suddenly, like warm water in the dead of winter.
He remembered her hands stained with rose petals. Her laugh while slowly stirring oils over a gentle flame.
The little glass bottles she carefully arranged on the shelf... that day she let him choose the flowers himself when he asked to help.
He opened his eyes slowly, his head spinning. The hall no longer looked the same. he searched-- silently, intently—for the source of that scent. not out of mere curiosity… but out of longing.
"Could someone here really be wearing a perfume my mother made? Or did that scent slip in from another world entirely?" Ivan wondered.
He swallowed hard, turning his head slowly, trying to trace the fragrance that had pierced through the sensory chaos around him. finding its source wasn't easy. In a packed, enclosed room like this, scents swirled and mingled, creating invisible walls that masked the truth.
But he didn't give up. His nose had long been trained to sift through smells. and though not superhuman, that sense was sharper than most, especially when it came to blood.
He'd always had a strange ability to pick it up from afar, like his nose was wired to sound the alarm for danger.
After a few moments of following the scent with his nose, still standing in place, Ivan finally managed to pinpoint its source.
It was a girl standing in the fifth row, the number 47 printed across her back. His eyes caught her instantly amidst the crowd، and time seemed to freeze for a moment.
She was blonde, her curly hair tied back into a tight ponytail secured with a dark violet ribbon, adorned with delicate golden pins etched with elegant designs.
They were subtle, but spoke clearly: she belonged to a noble family.
Ivan kept staring at her from behind, eyes narrowed in a kind of focus he didn't recognize in himself.
He was never the curious type, but this was different. "Who is this girl? Could she really have been buying the perfumes my mother used to make?"
The question circled in his mind insistently. "It doesn't make sense… why would a noble girl wear such a simple scent?"
On the other side, the girl suddenly felt something restrain her movement— a faint sensation of being exposed. a voice in her head whispered: "What is this feeling? Why does it feel like someone is staring at me?"
Her tension spiked slightly; she bit her lower lip, uncertain.
She turned slowly, careful not to draw attention, as if making an idle movement that meant nothing.
Her eyes scanned the hall with a swift glance, searching for the source of that strange presence. the feeling of being silently, intently watched.
Fortunately for her, it wasn't hard to figure out who it was. No one else was looking her way، everyone's gaze was locked forward with a cold, statue-like focus.
Everyone… except one.
Ivan. Standing there like an idiot, still staring at her with a frozen face, completely unaware that he had been caught.
In a split second, he snapped back to reality. he turned his face sharply and furrowed his brows, trying to act as though nothing had happened.
But the damage was done. she had seen his eyes, met his gaze and read enough in it to start wondering.
As for her, she held her stare on him for a few more seconds. Surprised, maybe even provoked, before she too returned to her original posture.
Though she didn't fully hide the faint scowl that lingered on her lips.
Inside, Ivan cursed himself, muttering bitterly: "Idiot. What a damn idiot. Please don't think I'm a pervert or a creepy weirdo. I was just… just trying to… damn it."
That brief moment was enough to plant a seed of tension deep in his chest.
He didn't know why he felt so exposed… Or why that stranger had stirred up such chaos inside him.