The hall was majesty.
A single, enormously—almost ridiculously—sized chandelier made of numerous glass petal layers hung from far above the sculpted ceiling, engulfing the hall in its magnificent glow.
The whispers and discussions blended into an indecipherable noise.
"The Acceptance Letter is just the start. The examination will be the true determinant of your admission into Ileum Sefera. Good luck—you will need it."
That was all the man standing on the platform said, right after which the murmurs grew louder.
Sat in the most discreet corner of this hall was a young man whose eyes were shut the entire time.
He seemed deep in sleep.
But his hand rested firmly on the sword in his lap as he leaned forward, hugging it.
"Proceed to the test chamber. The examinations begin now!"
With that, chaos ensued—people rushing for the hall, having some sort of mindset that being first would offer some sort of advantage.
Within moments the hall emptied out, and all that remained was that young man.
His chest rising and falling rhythmically.
"You."
A voice said, seemingly directed at him, and then a touch followed. The next instant he shot up, his gaze falling on the ceiling.
Amber eyes. Deep amber eyes, and black long hair tied into a bun.
But something seemed wrong with his black hair.
At the corners it seemed to be corroding.
Fading into an aged grey.
"The exams have begun in the next hall. You should go."
The person speaking was a student from the looks of it. There was no uniform, but the young man looked about the same age as him.
"..."
Without a word he stood up with his sword, his bland, dead eyes fixed on the path ahead.
His steps were disconnected and somewhat robotic.
"You know, you could at least say thank you."
He didn't respond.
"Yeah, ungrateful brat."
He reached the second hall. The place was jam-packed with applicants.
They seemed to be in queues of ten, the lines proceeding slowly.
"A double digit? Holy smokes! Now I'm getting anxious."
Someone laughed from up ahead.
Before long he realized what was going on.
This was a test of strength.
The first of the three tests.
Ahead were devices—or rather, relics created for this sole purpose. All you had to do was use every single drop of strength you had to punch it. Utilization of zen energy was allowed. In fact, it was advised. When punched, the relic would assess the level of strength behind the punch and provide a value for it.
This, as well as the tests to come, was what would be compiled to grade an individual and also determine what class they were in.
The young man joined up behind the third queue absentmindedly.
Just as before, his eyes closed automatically.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD! SOMEONE CROSSED A THOUSAND!"
"DAMN IT! WHAT SORT OF BAD LUCK IS THIS?! I MEAN, I HEARD SOME MONSTERS WOULD BE JOINING UP THIS YEAR, BUT I REALLY HOPED IT WASN'T GOING TO BE THIS BAD."
"WHO GOT THAT SCORE? THE PRINCE?"
"YOU WISH. SOMEONE SAID IT'S A SCHOLARSHIP STUDENT!"
"A COMMONER?"
The young man's eyes slowly drifted open.
He looked at his arm.
How much time do I have left?
The young man wondered, completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him.
His arm quivered a bit, after which veins of the purest black ran through his arm, contrasting sharply with his fair skin.
The veins spread slowly and grotesquely, bulging and pulsing, eventually stopping some distance before his wrist.
He let out a slow breath, then covered his arm with his sleeves.
"WHAT?! SOMEONE TOPPED THE THOUSAND SCORE?! THIS IS A NIGHTMARE. THERE'S NO WAY I'M GETTING MORE THAN DOUBLE DIGITS!"
"Hahaha, why did I bother applying to study here? With monsters like this, there's no way I'm making a mark here."
So loud.
The young man thought, annoyed by the continuous whining of the side characters around him.
It annoyed him for some reason.
But he couldn't tell exactly why.
Maybe he just hated the context in general.
The line went on and on.
Surprises popping up left and right.
But just the same were the disappointments.
"52! HAH! Even if you're the emperor's son, you won't get into even the most crappy of academies with a score like that."
It continued in this pattern until, eventually, the young man stood before the device.
It wasn't anything fancy, just a rectangular object placed vertically, a flat surface at its center which took the brunt of the attacks. But it was cushioned up to prevent injuries. There were a lot of runes on it, glowing faintly. Attached at the top was a device that would show a number when punched.
There was a staff member standing beside the device, a scholar from how he was dressed—blonde hair neatly combed, dressed in a sort of uniform, and two huge circular glasses.
"Name, admission ID," the staff inquired.
"Lorel, number 103."
The man wrote that down before nodding for him to proceed.
Sighs.
Lorel let out a soft breath. He closed his eyes, unsheathed his sword, then took a stance before the device.
"Hey, what's that bastard doing?!"
"Is that even allowed?"
Murmurs went on, but the staff said nothing.
Lorel enhanced himself with zen, channeling it through the blade of the sword. The metal trembled in response. He then opened his eyes.
Slash.
He slashed against the device, sheathed his sword, and walked away.
"Four hundred. That's impressive."
"I never knew you could use a weapon. But now that I think about it, there was never a rule against that."
"You're right. It just says hit the relic."
While this went on, the staff guarding the relic jotted something down, then glanced at the receding figure of Lorel briefly.
What are you doing here, banished prince?