Chapter 40: Entrance Exam (2)
Sir Richardson had set off at the crack of dawn, boots polished, hat firmly on, marching off to register Lucien for the entrance exam like he was entering him into a duel to the death.
Which, in a way, he was.
With the old knight gone, the estate fell quieter, as if even the walls were holding their breath in anticipation of the coming disaster.
Lucien stared down at the thick, folded syllabus left behind on the reading desk in his room, twenty-four parchment sheets stapled together with a brass pin, its index alone more intimidating than most contracts he’d seen.
It listed subjects with titles like Magitheoretical Fundamentals, Thaumaturgical Logic, Historic Magecraft and the Twelve Paradigm Wars, and ended with an ominous addendum:
Additional reading may be required depending on instructor preference and flux-year variations.
Vaelira had lingered behind after breakfast, watching Lucien with an unreadable look as he muttered aloud the names of subjects like he was trying to summon them into non-existence.
Together, they scoured the D’Claire Estate library for every book that even sounded remotely relevant.
Vaelira, having been raised in a world of constant assessments and pedigree politics, moved between the dusty shelves with the ease of someone who’d grown up memorizing the back of book spines the way other children memorized lullabies.
Lucien, by contrast, looked like a man trying to decipher an ancient prophecy written in a language only known to geese.
“I swear these titles are just synonyms strung together,” he muttered, holding up a book called Fundamental Principles of Structured Thaumaturgical Formalism and Layered Intent Weaving.
“That one’s mandatory,” Vaelira said, not looking up.
“Of course it is,” Lucien sighed.
By midday, they'd assembled two stacks of books nearly taller than Lucien himself.
But the estate library, as vast as it was, lacked several volumes clearly listed in the syllabus, specifically the newer, annotated editions published by the Imperial Arcane Council.
“There’s only one place in town that might have the rest,” Vaelira said.
Lucien groaned.
“Don’t tell me....”
***
The Town Library loomed ahead like a sleeping beast carved from oak and stained glass.
It was a beautiful building, ornate arches, ivy-wrapped windows, and a faint scent of forgotten knowledge drifting from its very stones.
This time, Lucien entered properly, through the front door, not tip-toeing in from the back entrance.
The warm smell of old parchment and lemon oil hit him immediately, along with a sharp voice that sliced through the air like a whip crack.
“Well well,” said Ms. Celeste, the head librarian, without looking up from her desk.
“The mysterious backdoor vagrant finally graces us with a legitimate entrance.”
Lucien coughed awkwardly.
“Good morning, Ms. Celeste.”
She adjusted her half-moon spectacles and looked up, her eyes narrowing.
“Morning it is. What’ll it be today? Daring Dukes and Decadent Desire, or shall I recommend The Swordmaidens of Sul-Vira?”
Lucien’s ears turned red.
“N-no, nothing like that today. I, uh… I need to study.”
Celeste leaned forward, one brow arched with the grace of a rising guillotine.
“Study? For what?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat.
“I need to prepare for the Twilight Crown Academy entrance exam.”
There was a long pause.
Then she laughed.
Loudly.
Wheezingly.
The kind of laugh that made you think she might’ve just cracked a rib.
Lucien stood there awkwardly as a student nearby glanced over in mild concern.
“Oh stars,” Celeste wheezed, wiping a tear off her eye.
“That’s good. You almost got me there.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
The laughter died as if someone had snapped a harp string.
Her face shifted into something unreadable, equal parts confusion, suspicion, and mild maternal horror.
“…You’re not,” she said at last, voice quiet.
Lucien shook his head.
Celeste’s mouth twisted slightly.
“Why?”
“I… I don’t really know,” Lucien admitted.
“But I need to. It matters to me.”
She exhaled, turning away and muttering something under her breath about “another lost fool chasing crown-shaped shadows.”
“Well,” she said sharply.
“You’re wrong about a great many things. But fine. If you’re this dead set on wasting your time, might as well waste it efficiently.”
She waved him over.
“Stay there. Don’t touch anything. I swear on the ashes of the Dewleaf Codex, if you ruin my shelf order, I’ll hex you into a thesaurus.”
Lucien obediently sat on a cushioned bench.
Time ticked by.
He watched her disappear behind a row of spellcraft manuals, muttering, climbing ladders, summoning trolleys with flicks of her wand.
He waited ten… twenty… thirty minutes.
Then, at last, the sound of rumbling wheels echoed down the aisles.
Ms. Celeste returned triumphantly, pushing a towering trolley stacked to the brim with tomes so thick and ancient, some had chained clasps and warning glyphs that buzzed faintly in protest.
She pulled out a small collection, three, maybe four books, each no larger than a tea plate and clearly chosen with care.
Lucien reached to take them.
WHACK!
He yelped as the sharp tap of her wand smacked his knuckles.
“Not those,” she said with a scowl.
“These are the books you don’t need. They are filled with fairy-tale fluff for children of noble blood. Glorified bedtime stories disguised as curriculum.”
She tossed them onto a side table, then gestured grandly to the rest of the trolley.
“That,” she said grimly, “is what you need.”
Lucien stared at the teetering wall of leather and ink.
“You’re… sure?”
“Positive. These are the kind of books that won't hold your hand. They’ll punch you in the throat and see if you get up.”
Lucien swallowed.
“Do you want a reading order?”
Celeste asked, already pulling out a scroll.
“Yes. Please.”
“Good. Because if you start with anything on the left side, you’ll die.”
Lucien nodded solemnly.
“Death is bad.”
“Correct. You’re not as hopeless as you look.”
He turned to glance at the trolley again.
It glared back.
And thus began Lucien’s impossible undertaking.
With a trolley stacked higher than his self-esteem and a librarian who regarded mercy as an outdated theory, he officially started his preparation for the Twilight Crown Academy’s written entrance exam.
One page at a time.
One headache at a time.
One smacked hand at a time.
And somewhere, deep down beneath the panic, was a flicker of something quietly burning.
Determination.
Or maybe just heartburn.
Time would tell.
***
The days bled into one another like ink soaking into parchment.
Lucien’s routine had become something out of a cautionary tale for future estate workers: wake at dawn, train until your limbs scream, supervise apple inspections till you question your own sanity, and then collapse in the study room only to rise again like a cursed revenant and bury yourself in scrolls, textbooks, and Ms. Celeste’s cursedly dense commentaries on magical law.
Sweat slicked his brow during morning runs.
Blisters bloomed on his hands from hauling crates.
But it was the academic grind that was killing him.
The kind of slow, soul-grinding kill that makes even the sound of turning a page feel like nails dragged across raw nerves.
And somehow, in this whirlwind of overexertion and information overload, he still managed to lug back more books from the town library with every trip like some scholarly mule.
***
Within the walls of the D’Claire estate, tucked behind the linen-drying lines and the warm glow of the kitchen, the maids huddled during break time.
Teacups clinked.
Gossip flourished like mold in unattended fruit.
“I swear on my grandmother’s butter churn, I saw Young Master Lucien talking to himself last night,” whispered Elsie, eyes wide, tone dramatic.
“It’s the books!”
Spat Marin, the head laundress, flailing a rag.
“He’s possessed by ‘em. Mark my words, you can only read so many before they start whispering back.”
“I think it’s heartbreak,” chimed Lara, dreamy-eyed.
“He’s always around Lady Vaelira, right? Maybe he’s trying to become a powerful mage for her sake. Like in those penny novels.”
“Oh please,” Marin rolled her eyes.
“He looks like a zombie that lost a bet with a ghost. Have you seen the way he walks lately? One foot in the grave, the other stepping in ink.”
“And what about the Everwinds, hmm?”
Elsie added, suddenly serious.
“Harvest’s nearly done. We’ve boxed apples tighter than a miser’s purse, but still no permanent deal.”
“Maybe Master Lucien’s plan failed,” whispered another maid.
“Or maybe…”
Lara leaned in, eyes sparkling, “he’s planning something grand.”
“Like collapsing from exhaustion and dying on the Everwinds’ contract forms?”
Marin deadpanned.
The maids erupted into hushed giggles.
Meanwhile, the estate’s resident subject of rumor staggered past the hallway, clutching a tower of books.
One of them slid out and landed on his foot.
He didn’t even flinch.
Just sighed and kept walking.
Elsewhere that night, in the cool calm of the outer courtyard where starlight kissed dew-damp stones, three people sat around a small table with cups of herbal tea between them.
Vaelira exhaled slowly, chest still rising and falling with residual tension from sword drills.
Sir Richardson, sipping his tea with a weathered grace, didn’t even look tired.
And Terrin, ever the observer, twirled a toothpick between his fingers.
“So… what’s up with Lucien?”
Terrin finally asked.
Vaelira and Richardson sighed.
Together.
Perfectly synchronized.
The sound of joint suffering.
Terrin blinked.
“That bad?”
“Worse,” Vaelira muttered, sipping her tea like it might contain answers.
Sir Richardson leaned back, voice low and rich.
“The boy’s trying to get into Twilight Crown Academy.”
Terrin’s eyes widened.
“But isn’t that the-?”
“Yes,” they both answered in tandem again.
“He needs a letter of recommendation,” Vaelira said.
“He has none,” Richardson added, as though reciting a eulogy.
“He could’ve gotten one from a master,” she continued.
“But no master will take him.”
Another sip.
“He tried writing to his father.”
“His father’s gone off to dig up forgotten ruins in another hemisphere.”
Terrin blinked.
“So... he’s gonna give the exam?”
A long, heavy pause.
“He’s studying like his life depends on it,” Richardson confirmed.
“Frankly, I’m beginning to worry about the library’s structural integrity.”
Terrin cackled, “Is that why I saw Ms. Celeste dragging a wagon full of books the other day like she was preparing for a siege?”
“You should’ve seen his face when she told him those were just the written exam books,”
Vaelira muttered.
“I think part of his soul tried to flee his body right then and there.”
Richardson chuckled softly but there was a glint of pride behind his gaze.
“Kid’s got heart.”
Terrin leaned forward, his smile warm.
“Maybe that’s enough.”
Vaelira stood, brushing dust off her coat.
“Maybe. But if he doesn’t sleep soon, that heart’s going to be pumping pure ink.”
She turned to go, her tone somewhere between exasperated and fond.
“I should go tell him to rest before his brain liquefies and oozes out his nose.”
“Should I bring a mop,” Terrin called after her.
“Or a funnel,” Richardson added, “in case we need to pour it back in.”
The two men laughed quietly as Vaelira disappeared into the night, following the scent of ink, candle wax, and youthful desperation.
And thus continued the Legend of Lucien Crowley, scholar, farmer, punchline.
***
Back in the estate library Lucien sat hunched over a fortress of parchment and hardbound books, his hair a mess, his sleeves rolled up, and his face buried somewhere between frustration and despair.
“I died,” he muttered to himself, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to peel it off.
“I fucking died. I was supposed to be free.”
He flipped another page with the exaggerated drama of a man on the brink of an existential collapse.
“Another world, they said. Reincarnation, they said. Magic. Swords. Dragons. Adventure.”
His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“And what do I get? Engineering entrance exam PTSD in fantasy cosplay.”
The book open in front of him might as well have been a brick: Tensile Strengths of Reinforced Dwarven Alloys: A Comparative Analysis.
He glared at it like it had personally wronged him.
“Because of course I needed a refresher in material science while living in a magic kingdom. Let me just fail metallurgy in two dimensions instead of one.”
Beside it sat another cheerful volume: Ley Line Weather Disruptions and Cyclical Energy Decay, which sounded magical enough at first glance.
But it wasn’t.
It was just climate geography.
Ley lines were essentially fantasy jet streams with a bit of ambient magical fluff sprinkled in.
The entire concept was little more than Earth’s meteorology with a sparkling new coat of magical terminology.
Lucien clicked his tongue in dismay.
“What’s next? Battle calculus?”
He paused.
“…Actually, that sounds kind of awesome.”
Still, he had to admit, grudgingly, bitterly, that it wasn’t as terrible as he’d feared.
Time-consuming?
Absolutely.
Mentally draining?
Without a doubt.
But insurmountable?
Not quite.
The math and science parts were challenging, yes, but nothing compared to the horrors he’d already endured in his past life’s academic gauntlet.
In fact, this world’s equivalent was closer to high school graduation or early college prep level.
The problem wasn’t the concepts, it was the time.
Juggling estate work, physical training, and now a full-blown study schedule didn’t exactly leave room for sleep or sanity.
And then there was history.
Lucien turned toward the leather-bound tome sitting like an immovable slab of doom at the corner of his desk.
The Grand Concords: A Compendium of Dynasties, Conflicts, and Coronations.
He cracked it open, half in defiance and half in dread.
“In the Year of the Second Emberfall, during the twilight of the Cerulean Reign, Lady Isthelle the Unyielding led the Forty-Nine Riders of Durnhal into the Valley of Red Wheat…”
Lucien stared blankly at the page, then slowly lowered his forehead to the table.
“Why is everyone’s name so similar sounding? Why did five wars happen over wheat tariffs? Why did the War of Twelve Princes have thirteen princes involved?!”
He groaned into the wood.
Unlike the math and science sections, there were no shortcuts here.
No real-world approximations.
Just pure, unfiltered memorization, names, dates, treaties, assassination attempts, scandalous duels, and kingdom-spanning affairs with unnecessarily dramatic consequences.
Entire paragraphs read like bad historical fanfiction written by someone with a grudge against punctuation.
He sighed heavily, resisting the urge to throw the book out the window and let the wind decide his fate.
Just as he began contemplating if repeated head-slamming might qualify as a form of magical meditation, a voice echoed from the hallway, firm, clear, and carrying the distinct tone of someone who’d had enough of his nonsense.
“Lucien,” Vaelira called out, “if you don’t stop now and get some sleep, your brain’s going to liquefy and leak out your nose.”
He froze, halfway to bashing his forehead against the desk again.
“…She’s not wrong,” he muttered.
He glanced around at the battlefield of books, ink-smudged notes, bent quills, half-filled candle stubs, and doodles of stick figures fighting dragons (and losing).
His handwriting was devolving into a language known only to cryptographers and deranged alchemists.
With a groan, he pushed back his chair, wincing as his spine creaked in protest.
His arms sagged, his eyes stung, and his legs moved like they were filled with molasses, but he was up.
Another night survived.
Barely.
He shuffled toward the doorway, muttering bitterly to himself.
“Twilight Crown Academy… you majestic, soul-grinding, backbreaking monument to elitist suffering…”
He paused just before stepping out into the hallway.
“…I’m gonna make you mine.”
***
