"As you all know, the Nalanda Institute has stood for over five hundred thousand years, producing countless outstanding figures throughout history," the instructor's voice carried across the vast training ground where the swordsmanship test would soon begin.
He was a man in his mid-thirties, with a well-built, imposing frame that seemed carved for battle. His striking red hair contrasted sharply with his jet-black eyes, and a deep scar ran from his cheek up to his right eye—a mark that spoke of experience and survival rather than mere decoration.
"I won't go into lengthy explanations," he continued, pausing as his eyes swept over the gathered youths. "But remember this—today, we are here to measure only one thing: your talent."
The ground buzzed with anticipation. Rows upon rows of students stood ready, their faces tense with excitement and unease. At least two hundred had gathered—nobles and commoners alike—divided into groups of ten, each preparing to prove themselves.
I was placed in the third group, which held a balanced mix of commoners and nobles. In this era, commoners had more opportunities than ever before to rise in society, yet the shadow of suppression from the nobility still lingered. Here, however—within the walls of the Nalanda Institute—none of that mattered. The only currency of value was talent.
For instance, a student gifted in literature could secure a prosperous future; the academy itself would provide financial support to nurture such promise.
"First, I will examine the grade of your mana cores," the instructor announced, his gaze steady as it swept across the crowd. "Based on that, you will be assigned to your respective classes. There are three divisions: C, B, and A.
Class C is reserved for those with mid-grade talent.
Class B, for students of high-grade ability.
And Class A—for the exceptional few who possess both a superior mana core and swordsmanship skill."
He paused deliberately, letting the words sink in before continuing.
"Those who show only low-grade talent will be eliminated from this examination. However, you may return to retake the entrance test under a different discipline as your main focus, with swordsmanship relegated to secondary study. Do you understand?"
His voice carried like a hammer striking steel, leaving the training ground in tense silence.
"Yes!" everyone responded in unison, voices ringing with enthusiasm.
As I glanced around, I saw a tapestry of emotions painted across the students' faces—some were visibly nervous, others restless with anxiety, while a few brimmed with unshakable excitement. Yet, among them all, one figure drew my gaze more than any other.
"Edward von Zenithara…" I muttered the name under my breath with a sigh.
He was destined to become the next Sword Saint—a title so rare it appeared only a handful of times in the annals of human history. Sword Saints were those who had surpassed True Severance, a feat so arduous that few could even dream of reaching it.
There were other exalted titles as well. Those who walked the path of magic and transcended True Severance were known as Eternal Mages. Cultivators who attained the Fifth Severance were granted the titles of Sword Master, Spear Master, Archmage, and so on.
But beyond the sword and magic paths, no others had ever truly surpassed True Severance. That was why no recognized titles existed for practitioners of other weapons—the records of history were empty in that regard.
Although he was only thirteen—the same age as me—he had already reached the Second Severance, an achievement nothing short of astonishing. It was said that in the last hundred thousand years, no one had ever been born with greater talent than him… not even the current Sword Saint.
Hmm… I wasn't particularly fond of fighting, but the thought of crossing swords with him stirred a quiet thrill within me. Perhaps today might grant that opportunity. After all, that was why we had been instructed to change into our training gear.
"Alright, everyone," the instructor's voice boomed, commanding the restless crowd into silence. "When I call your name, step forward and place your hand on this orb. It will determine the grade of your mana core."
With a flick of his wrist, he drew ten perfectly round, crystalline orbs from his subspace ring. They glimmered faintly with an inner light, as though alive, pulsing with mana. He handed them to the assistants waiting nearby, each pair carrying one orb to the assigned groups.
Two assistants were stationed with every group, their task clear: oversee the testing and record each result without error.
"Group One, step forward!" one of the assistants called, his voice echoing across the training ground.
"Group Two, here!" another followed, guiding the next set of students.
Finally, the two assistants assigned to my group raised their voices. "Group Three—come here!"
At their command, I—and the rest of my group—moved as one. It wasn't just me answering the call, but the entire group responding in unison, the air around us buzzing with nervous energy.
"I will call you one by one. Step forward when your name is called and place your hand on the orb. Is that understood?" the female assistant explained, her tone calm but firm.
"Yes!" all the students replied in unison.
"Then let's begin… Akon Tuk, come forward."
At her call, a boy of about thirteen or fourteen stepped out from the line. His movements were stiff with nervousness as he approached the assistants.
"Place your hand above the orb," she instructed.
The moment his palm hovered over it, the orb flared with a steady blue glow.
"High grade," she declared, her voice even and unshaken.
The boy let out a breath of relief and quickly returned to his group. A high-grade mana core was not uncommon, but for the very first student to display such talent drew a ripple of whispers among the candidates. The assistants, however, remained impassive. They were already aware of how many high-grade students had applied—such details were noted on the registers long before the test began.
One by one, names were called and students tested, the glowing orbs flashing with colors that decided their futures. Finally, the assistant's voice rang out again:
"Vern Kael, come forward."
At her words, I stepped forward, my pace steady and unhurried. Each step carried me closer to the assistants, but I felt no unease. My expression remained calm, composed, as though this were nothing more than routine.
Following her instructions, I placed my hand on the orb.
Light blossomed instantly—swirling between orange and blue. Orange meant a mid-grade mana core, yet within it, streaks of blue pulsed stronger, more dominant. The hue shimmered in an uneasy balance, as though caught between two verdicts.
"Hmm?" the female assistant hummed, her gaze fixed on the shifting light inside the orb. She leaned toward her colleague and spoke in a low whisper. I couldn't catch the words, but their expressions told me enough—they were uncertain, maybe even puzzled, by what they were seeing.
The orb's glow still flickered between orange and blue, refusing to settle into one color, as though it couldn't decide where I belonged.
After a short discussion, one of the assistants excused himself, hurrying away across the training ground. I remained there, my hand still resting lightly against the orb, calm on the outside though aware of the attention gathering around me. Students from my group were whispering now, craning their necks to see what was taking so long.
The assistant soon returned, but he wasn't alone. Walking beside him was the instructor—the scarred man with fiery red hair and coal-black eyes. His presence alone quieted the murmurs in the air.
"Hmm…" The instructor studied the orb carefully, arms folded across his broad chest. The scar across his cheek and eye tugged faintly as he narrowed his gaze. "I've seen this color a few times in my life, but it's rare. Very rare."
He straightened and gestured toward me. "Let me check it myself. Give me your hand."
I complied without hesitation, extending my hand toward him. His grip was firm but steady as he examined my mana flow, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he released me and spoke in a tone that carried finality.
"Register him as high grade."
No further explanation. No room for questions. With that, the instructor turned and strode away, his steps heavy and decisive, leaving the assistants to handle the rest.
They wasted no time, scribbling notes onto their registers before nodding at me. "Go and stand with the high-grade students," one of them instructed.
I obeyed, walking toward the group as countless eyes followed me—some curious, some envious, and others sharp with hostility.
After a while, the test concluded. Out of more than two hundred hopefuls, only one hundred and thirty students passed. The rest, faces pale with disappointment, filed out of the training ground in silence.
Among the successful, forty were marked as high grade, while the remainder fell into the mid-grade category.
The instructor stepped onto the raised platform, his presence immediately commanding attention. His scarred face was as unreadable as stone, his black eyes sharp beneath the fiery red of his hair.
"My name is Vikel Robert," he declared, his voice carrying across the silent field. "I will be responsible for the students of Class A and Class B. Those of you in Class C—proceed to Room 50 of Building Two. Further instructions will be given there."
The mid-grade students departed as instructed, leaving only the high-grade candidates gathered beneath the platform. The air grew heavier with their absence, the weight of expectation settling in.
Vikel's gaze swept across us. "You are all aware of being placed in Class B. But I suspect none of you know how one earns the right to join Class A, do you?"
A murmur ran through the group. When he paused, many nodded hesitantly.
His lips curved in the faintest of grim smiles. "Simple. You will fight for it."
A sharp gasp broke the silence.
"We have to fight?" one student muttered, disbelief in his voice.
Another, bolder than the rest, nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm. It's a good method…"
Soon the group was buzzing with hushed discussions. Some looked nervous, others excited, while a few clenched their fists in anticipation. To me, however, it seemed perfectly logical.
Vikel raised his hand and the voices died instantly. "But understand this—it does not matter whether you win or lose." His eyes narrowed, his tone like steel. "What we will judge… are your skills. If you win, yet display nothing but brute force, you will not be chosen. If you lose, but your skills reveal true promise, you may yet be selected. That is how Class A is decided."
The murmurs rose again, sharper this time. Some were relieved, others confused.
"Skills over victory?"
"That means even defeat might not matter?"
"Then we'll have to show everything we have…"
"Enough," Vikel cut through their voices with a single word. Silence fell.
His gaze shifted, sharp as a blade, and his next words struck like a hammer on steel.
"Now step forward when I call your names… Vern Kael and Edward von Zenithara."
The air grew taut with tension. A ripple of excitement surged through the gathered students, all eyes snapping toward me and the boy everyone already called the future Sword Saint.
The stage had been set.