The adrenaline did not fade slowly. It crashed.
An hour after the exam concluded, Vane sat on a wooden bench in the locker room. His hands were shaking. The tremors were not from fear. They were the aftershocks of mana exhaustion. His channels felt raw, as if he had pumped liquid glass through his veins instead of energy.
The locker room was crowded. Dozens of other first-year students were stripping off damaged armor and comparing injuries. The air smelled of sweat, antiseptic spray, and bruised egos.
Usually, the noise was deafening after an exam. Students would boast about their kills or complain about the unfair difficulty.
Today, the room was quiet.
Whenever Vane moved, heads turned. The whispers were low, but they carried across the tiled floor.
"That's him."
"The Rank 1? I thought he was a fraud."
"He isn't Rank 1 anymore. Did you see the board?"
"Doesn't matter. He beat the Warlord on points. He survived the monster."
