The halls of the Imperial Thaumaturgical Academy echoed with restrained footsteps. There was no noise, no idle chatter. Only silence, pressed down by the weight of the names that walked through it.
The corridor led to the main observation chamber—where the final stage of selection would be watched: combat.
The candidates had already endured the first trials: magic proficiency, martial evaluation, and imperial theory.
Examinations meant to strip away doubts. Now, only twenty remained.
Twenty deemed worthy. Or at least... not yet defeated.
Soren Voltaire Duval walked beside Emperor Gaius Octavianus Magnus.
Behind them trailed Severan Malrec, the Chief Chamberlain, and General Cassian Dreilhart, Commander of Imperial Security.
Elite guards followed in perfect discipline.
Four figures walked behind Soren—no banners, no emblems—but with a presence that pressed against reality itself: the Four Horsemen. They spoke not a word. They simply followed.
The Emperor slowed his steps. His voice was quiet—almost amused.
"So, you've finally decided to seek your successor?"
Soren glanced slightly, calm as ever. His tone did not change.
"We don't yet know if he's strong enough for this burden... or if he'll simply fade away."
The Emperor did not respond. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he entered the chamber.
The noble seats were already filled. Lords and Ladies sat in quiet formation, trained by decades of power and position.
To the left stood Duke Armand Vaelric, Lion of the North, his silver lion crest glinting against his deep blue cloak.
To the right lounged Marchioness Selene Arceval, The Silver Fox, surrounded by perfume and information.
They stood when the Emperor entered. Malrec announced:
"His Imperial Majesty of Eidryon."
Gaius lifted a hand slightly. "Sit. We are not here for ceremony."
They obeyed. Quiet political murmurs resumed.
Selene tilted her head toward Soren, who sat still with arms crossed.
"Ah... So it's true. The Archon brings his legacy."
Duke Vaelric added with a flat tone:
"The new Duval... Darian, yes? A street rat granted nobility."
"A name alone doesn't make one worthy," Selene replied softly. "But it can be a burden heavy enough to force greatness. Or crush them beneath it."
Soren said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the arena.
Below, the twenty candidates stood in a wide circle. They did not move. Their gazes focused on the central stone podium.
An old man in a black robe stood atop it. His robe was plain but bore the imperial insignia on the left breast—a symbol that he was not a ruler, but an instrument of one.
Magnus Ervandel, Grand Rector of the Imperial Academy.
He did not write the law. He followed it. He obeyed only the Emperor and the system.
His voice was low, but it cut through the air:
"Today, twenty stand. Only twenty.
You are no longer noble heirs. No longer commoners.
You are the blade of the Empire.
This is not an honor. This is proof—that you are worthy."
He stepped back. Silence hung like a noose.
The Emperor turned to Soren. "Aren't you curious to see him fight?"
Soren remained still. "If he loses, I have no successor.
If he wins, the world has a new problem."