The number blazed across the silver pole—109.
A wave of stunned silence swept over the courtyard. Even the instructors—seasoned warriors all—were visibly shaken.
A girl. Sixteen years old.The first woman in academy history to hit a number that high.
"As expected of Valebrant's daughter," murmured a woman at the edge of the platform.
She pushed up her glasses, short blonde hair tucked behind her ears. In her forties, refined but stern—Liora Fenrigg, instructor of elemental combat and a trusted advisor to the principal.
"I'm sure her father would've been proud. Especially the Duchess."
Principal Thalres turned to her, his voice low. "Impressed, Miss Fenrigg?"
She gave a faint smile. "Not something you see every year. Maybe this batch will be different."
Another voice chimed in—a deep, gravel-coated baritone.
"I like strong students. I might take her under my wing."
Dorgan Voss stepped out from the shadows. Broad as a bear, arms scarred from years of battle. His grey hair was cropped close, and his military jacket clinked with old, weathered medals.
"Not you again," Liora sighed. "You've already got a full squad."
Dorgan shrugged. "Can't ignore raw talent."
Before they could argue more, the principal called out:
"Next—Prince Daranth Althoros."
The crowd quieted.
Daranth stepped forward slowly, every eye on him. He wore his smile like armor, but inside his chest pounded like a war drum.
He picked up the wooden sword, took a breath, and focused.
Breathe…Aether….Strike.
He lunged and slashed the pole.
A bright flash. Then the number appeared—100.
Cheers broke out across the crowd. Some nobles clapped. Others simply nodded in approval.
"You pass!" the principal declared.
"As expected of the prince," one teacher whispered.
But Daranth didn't look proud. His smile stayed, but his eyes twitched as he stared at the number.
Was that good enough?
He turned and walked away, pretending not to hear the praise.
"Wow, Prince! I didn't know you were that strong!"
"As expected from royalty!"
He kept smiling but deep down he wasn't happy with the result because it was an insult.
"Next—Ryven Thalor!"
Ryven stepped forward with confidence radiating off him. He rolled his shoulders, grabbed the sword, and didn't hesitate. A single clean strike.
The pole glowed bright.
111.
Gasps. Whispers. Even a few stunned stares.
"You pass!"
Lyssandra and Daranth both flinched.
He'd beaten them and Ryven grinned and turned to face the crowd. "See? Easy."
Lyssandra folded her arms, scowling. She didn't say a word, but the flicker of irritation in her eyes said enough.
"Another genius," Liora said, adjusting her glasses as Lucien stepped back. "This year's going to be interesting."
"The confidence he showed… I might take him as a student myself."
They turned toward the voice.
It was Zane Ellivar, another instructor. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, dressed in a long black coat that moved like smoke around him.
"You?" Liora raised a brow. "That's rare."
Zane didn't answer—just smiled faintly.
At the back of the crowd, the black-haired boy watched silently.
The strength of the noble houses was undeniable. Each strike had been like thunder. But instead of discouraging him, it only fueled his resolve.
I was right to come here.
Beside him, a girl with pale skin and snow-white hair was trembling slightly.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She flinched, then gave a nervous smile. "Sorry. I'm just… nervous."
"You don't need to be. I'm sure you'll pass."
She blinked, surprised by the calm in his voice. "T-thanks."
"Next—Lucien Eltair!"
Ryven's eyes lit up. "Finally. Let's see how far the prodigy's come."
Lyssandra watched intently. Lucien was always a mystery. Even she couldn't gauge his true strength.
Zane tilted his head. "That's the West Duke's son, isn't it?"
"Yes," Liora said. "He awakened early. A prodigy, through and through."
Lucien stepped forward calmly, picked up a wooden sword, and closed his eyes.
Without a word, a golden-yellow light began to gather around him.
Then—crack!
He struck the pole.
The number flashed: 120.
Shock rippled through the crowd.
Even the instructors stood stunned.
"You pass!" Thalres called out, eyes wide. "Unbelievable…"
He turned to the others, voice lower now. "This generation… might be the one. They may be the ones who end this nightmare."
Lyssandra clenched her fists.
120?
She had trained every day since she was a child—driven by the promise she made to her mother. And still, he had surpassed her.
Ryven let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Damn. He did it again. Still glad he's my rival."
Meanwhile, the principal glanced down at the final name on the roster.
His expression shifted.
"What is it?" Dorgan asked, noticing.
Thalres hesitated. "Nothing… just—this year really is going to be different. I didn't think this day would come."
Dorgan frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The principal took a breath. Then called out:
"Next… Kael Veyron."
Gasps rippled across the students.
"Wait—what?"
"Did he say Veyron?"
"Isn't that… the fallen house?"
Even the instructors stiffened.
"A survivor of the Northern Duke's house? That can't be."
Lyssandra turned sharply. Her eyes locked on him.
Him.
The black-haired boy she'd noticed earlier—the one with quiet eyes and a wooden sword.
Kael Veyron.
The last living member of a house once branded traitors. A house wiped out in a massacre. A boy tied to a history no one wanted to speak about.
He felt their stares—some pity, others disgust.
He didn't care.
Only one thing mattered: getting inside.
Kael walked slowly to the platform. He picked up a wooden sword, paused, then tossed aside the old, worn blade he had carried with him all this time.
A voice rang in his mind:
[Kael. Focus your aether. Don't falter. Let the energy flow.]
He closed his eyes, let the words settle in his chest.
[Now.]
He struck the pole.