I walk forward without hesitation, but I feel the weight of every gaze in the room. Fatty stays behind, clinging to me like I'm his a shield.

What kind of Squire are you?! Didn't you say you'd step into a thousand suns or whatever, you ungrateful bastard?!

I stop in front of the Elder's desk and nod nervously.

"Elder Lioren."

He stares at me through his lenses.

"You received a recommendation from Sir Renquell, Elven Wandering Knight. Are you aware that Sir Renquell is currently under censure for violations of deployment protocol and insubordination during a campaign of my kingdom?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm… sort of aware? I didn't have the details, sir."

"And yet he offered you an endorsement?"

"He witnessed my capabilities in person."

"Good, good," Elder Lioren says but he looks more than peeved.

This is going to be a problem, isn't it?

* * *

Elder Lioren smooths the edge of Renquell's parchment with gloved fingers while his jaw goes rigid. He sits straight as a pike, and his thin shoulders rise and fall with deliberate control because he refuses to breathe like a commoner in front of the intake hall. The green glow on the seal still throbs, yet the color offends him since it confirms the letter's authenticity. A traitor who once flaunted every procedure now dares to vouch for a human whelp, and the audacity leaves Elder Lioren simmering.

He lifts his gaze to Jacob Cloud and finds a boy who stands in a plain wool cloak that lacks any rune-thread or reinforcement weave. The cloth hangs limply and gathers lint near the hem. Nothing about the outfit speaks of discipline or noble lineage. Elder Lioren's nostrils flare while he wonders whether Renquell sent the boy as some private joke. The idea that the Wandering Knight might be laughing somewhere makes Elder Lioren's pulse hammer.

The elder adjusts the mana lens so the crystal ring bends light across Jacob's face, and he studies every angle because he wants proof that the candidate falls short. During the inspection his eyes pause at the small Clearwater pin on Jacob's lapel. A faint silver-blue sheen marks the enamel, and the symbol stirs an unwelcome memory that spreads through Elder Lioren's thoughts like smoke through rafters.

A noble lady in Clearwater had lodged a petition at the High Court for a a helper during a trial of theirs and a Knight candidate had been sent.

Word reached the Elven enclave at the Academy that a young candidate was slain in Clearwater, far from any of his people.

Elder Lioren dismissed the chatter at the time, yet the fragments of conversation now lock together.

Jacob Cloud.

That was the name.

Elder Lioren feels his brow crease while he compares the news in his mind with the living boy before him.

A prickle of outrage runs along his scalp when he concludes that the youth was both the rumored fatality and the killer of an Elf during a sanctioned trial. Elven circles held Knight canditates in high regard because they examined combatants with fairness.

Jacob Cloud chose to kill regardless of his opponent's race.

The elder touches the rim of his spectacles, and cold spite settles in his chest.

He turns the lens aside, stands, and folds his hands behind his back as he addresses the silent hall. "Candidate Cloud," he says, and his smooth voice carries like a bowstring release, "you claim a merit that should exempt you from the standard examination. You cite one letter from Sir Greyson and another from Sir Renquell. The first indicates solid field performance, yet it remains unremarkable. The second comes from an elf who disgraced himself with insubordination and left comrades to die."

The elder circles the desk because he wants distance that turns the platform into a dais above a supplicant. "Tell me," he continues, "why would such a man certify you as worthy of bypassing every measure that guards this Academy against impostors?"

Elder Lioren clasps both scrolls, one in each hand, and he lifts them so the hall can see.

"These documents hold weight only when the signatories honor their oaths to crown and court. Sir Renquell has broken his. Therefore, his sponsorship does not elevate you. You will undergo the assessment that every first-year student faces."

He lowers the letters and plants them on the desk with controlled force; the parchment edges scrape stone, and the sound skitters across the vaulted chamber. "You will complete the three trials and I'll administer them myself."

Jacob draws one steady breath, and his shoulders square although the tension around his mouth betrays unease. He nods once, keeping his gaze level with the elder's eyes. Elder Lioren notes the restraint, and he savors the control he exerts over the moment because Jacob Cloud now understands that no clandestine recommendation will carry him past the gate.

The elder gestures toward the northern arch where proctors stand beside runed doorways. "Report to Station One," he orders. "Present the identification slate, then await further instruction. Dismissed."

Jacob steps back, and his boots click against the inlaid floor while he turns. Fatty scrambles to follow him, and the quick shuffle of the squire's shoes echoes through the hush. Elder Lioren watches until the pair vanish behind the column nearest the arch. Only then does he release a breath he had locked behind his teeth, and the exhale feels crisp as winter air against his tongue.

He returns to his seat, settles the mana lens upon its cradle, and strokes a finger along the polished edge of Renquell's scroll.

I will never allow this dog to enter the Academy.

* * *

I square my shoulders because confusion will not help me, and I nod toward Fatty, who twitches when I meet his eyes.

He grips the strap of his satchel so hard that his knuckles whiten, yet he still falls in behind me without a word.

Elder Lioren rises from his chair, and he makes a small beckoning motion that feels like a leash. I follow because resistance would waste time that I do not have.

The elder guides us through a narrow arch on the northern wall, and the noise of the registration hall dies behind a slab of rune-worked oak as heavy as a vault door.

We reach a low threshold that opens into a chamber no wider than a city tavern, and four staff members stand along the walls in crisp gray uniforms with wands held at parade rest.

A waist-high pedestal of black basalt waits at the room's center, and an overhead crystal glows with steady white light. Elder Lioren lifts a sealed copper tube from an attendant, and he slides the parchment inside onto the pedestal. He breaks the sigil with one practiced twist, and he unrolls the sheet until a schematic of concentric runes fills the stone. Scarlet ink traces a lattice that ends in the angular character for Fireball, and the air warms when the diagram finishes unfurling.

"Candidate Cloud, this is the first of your three trials," Elder Lioren announces in a voice that rings off the stone. "This is to test your theoretical knowledge. You bristle with Fire Mana—you have a fire based Class, right?"

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I nod.

Elder Lioren's eyes narrow, and he leans closer so the light from the overhead crystal makes the lines in his face stand out like cuts in stone.

"Then you should know what makes a Fireball efficient, and what holds it back. I will read the Notation aloud, section by section, and you will tell me every flaw you can find. You may ask for any passage to be repeated once, but you may not look at the diagram after I finish."

I've heard of Runic Notation by Sir Greyson when he tried to explain me what kind of things I'd be learning in Ytrial.

Apparently, Runic Notation is the standard for passing down knowledge on how to reliably improve and level up Skills. For low-level people, Tutors are the way to go, especially minor nobles. But, when it comes to higher-level Skills and Royals, Runic Notation is the standard. A Royal Family will apparently have a library with thousands upon thousands of scrolls full of Runic Notation on the most common Skills and how to level them up to level one hundred.

Some of the best Dungeons, it seems, not only drop Skill Crystals, but also Runic Notation of the Skills inside of them.

It's rumored that some of the best Knights in the world might spend a decade chasing down the Runic Notation of a Mithril Skill.

That's also when I realize something.

If Runic Notation is so valuable… it should fetch quite a price even for relatively low-level Skills that wouldn't arouse too much suspicion… right?

A business plan begins to take form in my head.

I'll be needing lots of funds to buy up the Platinum version of my Skills, and unless I want to stage more and more bets, I need a better way to do so.

Apparently, the kind of scholars who're high-level, experienced, and knowledgeable enough to produce their own Runic Notation are so rare to be virtually extinct. There's a series of Classes each year in Ytrial, but only the first year's one is mandatory. The rest are simply too difficult for the majority of students who have no interest in such theoretical, scholarly pursuits.

* * *

Elder Lioren sets his fingertips on the edge of the black basalt pedestal and studies Jacob Cloud with a predatory calm that he only reserves for moments of real consequence. He knows this test is not only difficult; it borders on unfair, and that is exactly what he wants.

"You might not know Runic Notation, but you'll find it's pretty easy," Elder Lioren says. "But this is the first test, a test of theoretical knowledge."

Jacob looks back at the Elder with a neutral expression.

This kid has no idea what kind of test this even is! Look at his stupid face! To identify the flaws in a Fireball spell as a first test! How devious of me! Hahaha!

"Fret not, this test is actually quite easy," Elder Lioren repeats.

Easy! Pfff. The kind of scholars who study this subject are at the peak of the knowledge hierarchy. For this idiotic kid to be able to discern any flaw whatsoever in a Silver Skill, I'd eat my own beard if he could do that!

The Elder's lips curl in a faint smirk.

This was beyond advanced material for an incoming student, especially someone of a dubious background like Jacob. This would be more suited for a year-end final test than an entrance one.

But Elder Lioren wouldn't let some Elf-killer, some filthy rat who got recommended by that traitor, Renquell, enter the Academy under his watch.

* * *

Lancelot stands at the edge of the chamber, gripping his shirt so tightly that the knuckles show white through his fingers. Sweat dampens his brow, and his stomach knots as he watches Jacob step closer to the basalt pedestal. He tries to swallow, but his throat feels too dry.

Elder Lioren taps his finger against the copper tube while impatience tightens his jaw. He expects nothing from Jacob Cloud except a muddled guess or a blank stare. The Runic Notation for Fireball sprawls across the parchment in interlocking circles and angled glyphs that only a scholar with years of study would recognize. He believes that Jacob will trip over the first question or stammer some half-remembered answer. If the boy manages even that, it will only confirm Elder Lioren's conviction that Renquell's letter was a farce.

A pair of junior instructors, both standing by the back wall with arms folded, watch the scene unfold. One instructor, a thin man with spectacles that never seem to sit straight on his nose, wonders why Elder Lioren is wasting everyone's time with an assessment this harsh.

This trial is more suited for a second-year finals exam than an entrance test.

The woman beside him, whose hair is braided so tightly it gleams under the crystal lights, frowns while she recalls that her own entrance test had only required a basic Flame Arrow demonstration—no Runic Notation involved.

I would have never passed this at this young man's age. I'm not sure I know anyone who would have.

Elder Lioren's thoughts flicker as he considers how best to humiliate Jacob in front of the assembled staff. He intends to expose every gap in the boy's knowledge, and he already anticipates the sour satisfaction that comes from watching a would-be Knight's confidence collapse under the weight of failure.

Neither instructor sees a path to success for Jacob Cloud, and both assume that Elder Lioren will declare the test failed within a minute. The silence of the room thickens while Jacob studies the runes.

Every expectation in the chamber leans toward disaster, and even Lancelot, whose faith is blind and stubborn, cannot imagine his friend passing this ordeal.

Yet Jacob stands at the pedestal and shows no sign of panic. His eyes move over the schematic, and his breathing remains steady as he listens for the next instruction. He does not speak or ask for help, and he simply waits while everyone else braces for the moment when he will either blunder through some half-baked answer or admit that he does not know what he is looking at.

Every thought in the room drifts toward the same conclusion: Jacob Cloud is about to fail, and fail so badly that even Renquell's endorsement will look like an embarrassment.

"Care to start, Elder Lioren?" Jacob asks innocently. "Aren't you supposed to read it?"

Elder Lioren frowns and nods.

"Are you ready?" the Elf smiles deviously.

"I think so," Jacob shrugs.

"First, you have the mana intake spiral, where three veins—the Outer Intake Vein, the Central Containment Vein, and the Ignition Vein—spiral together to draw in and prepare the mana. After that, the conversion sequence channels raw mana from the Rising Sun through the compression point in the Median Heart Veins, then pushes the compressed mana into the Palm Veins for release. The secondary channels include a stabilizing mesh of minor veins to prevent turbulence, a side vein for venting excess heat, and a terminal focusing vein that directs the spell's force outward. The whole circuit is completed by looping the containment flow back to the intake vein. This configuration is supposed to create a standardized Silver-rank Fireball, but the pattern follows conventions from two generations ago, before the current safety reforms."

Elder Lioren lets the last word hang in the air. He rolls the wand in his palm and looks down at Jacob. "Identify every flaw in the structure," he orders, his tone hard as flint. "You may ask for one repeat. When you are finished, step away from the diagram and explain your reasoning."

Elder Lioren folds his arms and keeps his gaze fixed on Jacob. The silence in the chamber draws out as Jacob stands before the diagram of interconnected veins.

Jacob speaks up, his voice even. "The Fireball spell's structure starts with the intake spiral—three veins: the Outer Intake, Central Containment, and Ignition Vein. Mana is drawn in, stabilized, and then compressed through the Rising Sun before it's routed to the Median Heart Veins for power and the Palm Veins for release."

He glances at the diagram, then points. "There's a redundant vein here," he says, tapping the channel that loops from the Central Containment Vein back to the intake. "It doesn't improve stability, and instead it slows the channeling rate by a measurable amount, about three percent on average."

Jacob continues, and the room quiets further. "The mana loop connecting the Rising Sun and the Palm Veins is too long. If you move the intersection closer to the Median Heart Veins, the efficiency increases by about five percent. The output can go even higher, maybe ten percent, if you condense the flame inside the upper branches of the condensation veins instead of letting it dissipate too early."

He pauses only long enough to meet Elder Lioren's stare. "There's also a critical safety flaw in the current setup," Jacob says, and he gestures to the compression node. "If the mana pressure spikes—say, if the caster is under duress or channels too much at once—the lack of a relief path in the third vein set means the energy can backfire through the ignition point. That could injure or even cripple the caster's heart channels. It's rare, but it's possible."

The two junior instructors at the wall exchange a look. The man with the crooked spectacles leans forward, squinting at the diagram, while the woman frowns as she runs the numbers in her head.

Jacob stands straight and nods to Elder Lioren. "You might want to update the third vein set and add a relief channel. That would eliminate most of the risk without changing the base output."

Elder Lioren's smirk disappears. His lips tighten, and his eyes widen a fraction. The point of his left ear quivers as he processes the analysis.

Jacob gives a small shrug. "Is that enough for you, Elder Lioren? I could keep going, but I agree this was on the easy side. There are a few more inefficiencies if you want me to point them out."

The elder's hands curl behind his back, and a faint pulse shows at his temple. Easy? You son of a #####! Not even my grandson could have rattled off all this stuff so quickly!

He gives Jacob a short, stiff nod.

One of the junior instructors steps forward and claps Jacob on the shoulder. "You passed. That was the best analysis I've ever heard from a first-year."

Elder Lioren's jaw tightens, but he inclines his head. "There are still two more trials," he says, his voice clipped. "Do not get comfortable yet."

He turns, signaling the staff to prepare the next room.

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