In the middle of the large hall stood a tall, muscular man, surrounded by teenagers, taking turns attacking him. The man remained at the center just tanking everything.
It had been a while since the third examination began, and dozens of candidates had already taken their turns and left. Some of the contestants in the hall huddled together, quietly discussing the ongoing events, while others stood still, watching the proceedings and awaiting their turn.
Rufus though already had an expression of boredom. He either tanked the incoming attacks or canceled them effortlessly with a flick of his wrist. The spells the students cast at him varied—some were elemental, while others involved Ether constructs twisted to serve as attack spells.
One particularly creative boy had attempted to weaponize a water-based healing spell, trying to force it into Rufus's lungs to drown and heal him simultaneously. It was dispelled before it even got close.
Others fared worse. Some failed to cast anything at all, their attempts backfiring violently—nosebleeds, burst vessels, and searing headaches. Not due to incompetence, necessarily, but the unforgiving nature of Ether backlash. Most had neither the affinity nor the experience to control what they were invoking.
By the time the announcer called the next name, over two hundred students had stepped forward.
"Next candidate, Triston Montclair!"
A hushed silence fell over the room before the hall erupted into murmurs.
"Did you hear that? A noble is finally stepping up."
"Alright! We get to finally see something different for once."
"I heard he's a monster with ether constructs."
"Heh, looks like that professor's finally going to get it!"
The excitement among the students was palpable as they gossiped loudly.
Alaric, however, remained indifferent, though slightly amused by the misplaced confidence in Triston's abilities. The idea of giving the professor a hard time? Laughable.
It was simple. Every student in this room, Triston included, was Tier One—a novice. Professor Rufus Loring was Tier Four. The gulf between them wasn't a gap; it was a chasm. Even if they all attacked him at once, it wouldn't matter.
In this world, there were nine recognized ranks for Etherists, each far more powerful than the last.
Alaric knew that all too well. In his previous life, he'd reached Tier Six, an elite among elites. He understood exactly what kind of monster stood before them.
As Triston stepped forward, the room's attention locked on him.
The young man had raven-black hair and enchanting green eyes, with a princely, almost heroic aura about him. His robes, adorned with intricate gold patterns and threads, bore the crest of the Montclair family, a clear symbol of his noble lineage.
All eyes were on him as he approached, the air thick with anticipation.
He stopped before the professor and met his gaze with the same boredom the professor exhibited.
The man gave a slight nod, signaling him to begin.
Triston didn't hesitate.
A surge of Ether burst from his core, washing over the arena in a nearly invisible wave. The very air shimmered, distorting with pressure. To the untrained eye, it was subtle. To the audience, it was a declaration.
He raised his hand and closed his fist. The surrounding Ether twisted and condensed into a spinning orb of dense energy. It hung in the air, vibrating violently.
With a flick of his wrist, the orb darkened—ink bleeding into its core. The spin intensified. The air screamed.
Then, it launched forward like a bullet, aimed straight at the professor.
The professor stood motionless as the ball of energy collided with him head-on.
SWOOSH
BOOOMMMM!
It exploded upon impact, releasing a shockwave and a hurricane that swept through the hall.
The teenagers gasped in awe and surprise at the power displayed.
But as the dust settled, the professor remained unmoved, still standing in the same spot with his hands behind his back. Not a single speck of dust marred his presence.
The professor was about to speak when Triston cut him off.
"I'm not done yet."
With a sharp clench of his fist, the ether and wild winds surrounding him condensed, the air groaning under the immense pressure. In a split second, the solidified mass shattered with a deafening crack.
What followed was like shards of glass falling midair—beautiful, yet deadly. The fragments hovered briefly, glinting ominously before spinning into a whirlwind of razor-sharp shards. They circled the professor with lethal precision, the air humming with their deadly velocity.
On a distant stage, two figures watched the unfolding spectacle.
"Hmmm, not bad," one remarked with amusement in his voice. "Hehe, chained attacks are truly something spectacular."
The other, less impressed, replied, "It is indeed a fine display of precision and control. But I think he's taken it a bit too far. Given the scale of the attack, I can only imagine how much ether he's burned through. He's probably dry by now."
"Indeed," the first one agreed. "This was a test of spell balance and ether control. While his execution was impressive, managing reserves is also part of the evaluation. He failed in that regard. But credit where it's due—it was only a demonstration, not a real battle."
As the storm of shards raged, the fragments suddenly vanished, dissipating into the air as if they had never existed.
The attack was over.
And the professor hadn't moved a muscle.
Triston stood, breathing heavily, fixed his gaze on the professor, silently demanding a sign that his attack had done something, anything.
But Rufus was still pretty much the same regardless. The faintest trace of amusement flickered in his eyes, as if the noble's efforts had been little more than a breeze.
Triston couldn't help but flinch at the sight.
The room fell silent. The students, who had eagerly awaited the professor's fall, now stared in disbelief. Despite all of Triston's exertion, Rufus hadn't so much as flinched.
The professor's lips curved into a barely perceptible smile. His voice, calm and composed, carried a subtle undertone of approval.
"Good," he said, his tone carrying undeniable finality. "Next."
Without another word, he turned and began to walk back through the crowd. His gait was slow and he looked like he'd just lost the biggest fight of his life. The students parted for him, murmuring in awe and excitement though.
"That was incredible…"
"I've never seen anything like it."
"I told you, he's a Montclair! Of course he's that powerful!"
Alaric watched Triston with a lingering stare before shaking his head.
'That was quite excellent—to dissect and reconfigure a spell into something practical. A talented genius, no doubt,' he mused. 'But what's the point of overexerting yourself? Nearly pushing yourself to the brink just to put on a show for a bunch of novices?'
Alaric remained unimpressed. His eyes followed Triston's retreating figure, noting the boy's trembling hands and strained breath. 'A genius, perhaps, but a reckless one at that.'
Alaric thought with a faint, almost amused smile
'Reputation is nice and all, but it doesn't exactly keep you from collapsing when your Ether runs out.'
He saw it plainly. The toll of the spell on Triston. The boy was a master of hiding weakness, but not good enough. Alaric knew the truth: as soon as the spotlight was off him, the collapse was inevitable. And it was going to be ugly.
While the others fawned over the display like starved dogs at a feast, Alaric shook his head, a smirk curling on his lips. No merit in that kind of recklessness, he thought. He didn't have to go that far. But then again, people always forget the importance of survival when the crowd is watching.
It went on like that for a while. A few stood out, one boy weaponized plant spores as both poison and explosive trigger, another turned thunder into a shockwave blade. Occasionally, someone from a prominent family lived up to their name. Most didn't.
Alaric's interest drifted—until the next name called snapped it back.
"Blane Ingram!"
The crowd stirred. A descendant of House Ingram, one of the four greats. That made the set complete: Montclair, Nognes, Kingsley, Ingram… and of course, Drayton.
A young man stepped forward. Golden-brown hair, tanned skin, strong build. Sharp brown eyes full of quiet determination. Nothing about him screamed for attention. His clothes, which consisted of just loose robes and plain pants only made him look like a monk who accidentally wandered into nobility.
While Alaric, despite his best efforts, drew the occasional stare or overeager child, Blane would practically fit in with the crowd like smoke.
'No wonder I couldn't even tell him apart.'
But not now. As he stepped onto the platform, the crowd finally saw him. The spell of invisibility had cracked, and there he was in full view.