Chapter 48: Entrance Exam (10)
Lucien stumbled out of the examination hall like a survivor from a forgotten war, drenched in ink, sweat, and a deep sense of existential disillusionment.
Frankly, it was getting hard to tell where the ink stains ended and where Lucien began.
His fingers were blue-black, his sleeves blotched with inky streaks, and there was a stubborn smear on his jawline that gave him the look of a sleep-deprived chimney sweep.
Around him, other examinees emerged in similar condition, shuffling zombies in ruined uniforms, eyes glazed and hands trembling, some muttering equations under their breath like they’d forgotten how to speak normally.
Lucien rubbed his temple and groaned.
“I’d kill for an elevator,” he muttered, staring bleakly down the long staircase that spiraled like a divine punishment.
They had descended five floors already.
The academy building was practically a vertical city.
His legs wobbled like pudding.
But just as the exhausted horde reached the ground floor, the crowd was brought to a sudden halt.
A stern-looking staff member raised a hand, voice amplified by a subtle enchantment.
“All examinees, return to the fifth floor. An announcement is to be made. Move along now.”
The collective groan that followed could’ve cracked glass.
Lucien briefly debated collapsing on the floor and letting the crowd trample over him, but in the end, he heaved his aching legs up the stairs again.
The fifth floor loomed once more lke the gates of purgatory.
They were herded into a colossal assembly hall this time, even larger than the testing rooms.
The vaulted ceilings stretched so high Lucien felt a crick in his neck just looking up.
Students filled the space, murmuring anxiously as the oppressive weight of anticipation returned like an anchor.
Then a man stepped up to the central podium.
Well-dressed, middle-aged, his posture so sharp it could cut steel.
His voice rang clear and steady, like a practiced orator.
He unfurled a list and began calling names.
One by one, students raised their hands, and were immediately teleported away in flashes of cold, silver-blue light.
Lucien actually jumped back in shock, stumbling into the student behind him.
His heart jackhammered against his ribs.
‘What the hell?’
The man continued, unfazed.
“These individuals were caught cheating. They will be dealt with accordingly. Let this serve as a warning, this institution has no tolerance for academic dishonesty.”
A hush fell across the room like a sudden snowfall.
Even the fidgeting students went still.
Then, after a moment, the man continued.
“For the rest of you: grading will be completed tonight. All examinees are to return here at dawn. Those who pass the written exam will proceed to the aptitude assessment. Dismissed.”
And with that, he stepped down and vanished behind the curtain.
Lucien stood frozen for a beat before the sea of students began to move again.
The tension finally released, replaced by stunned chatter and collective exhaustion.
Lucien weaved his way to the edge of the crowd, looking around anxiously.
‘Where’s Balt?’
A knot formed in his chest.
His gaze flicked to where the cheaters had stood.
‘No way. No way Balt would cheat, right? But… he did say his whole village was counting on him. That’s a lot of pressure. What if-’
His thoughts were abruptly derailed when he saw a familiar hunched shape emerge from the crowd.
“Balt!”
Lucien exhaled, relief crashing into him.
He very nearly hugged the poor guy but restrained himself at the last second.
Balt looked like he’d aged a decade in the span of an hour.
His eyes were red-rimmed, his posture slouched like someone carrying an invisible mountain.
Lucien stepped forward.
“I thought, hell, I thought they took you.”
Balt looked up with a snort and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cloak.
Lucien blinked.
“Wait, were you crying?”
Balt nodded.
“Right there in my seat. When I finished. Couldn’t stop it. Damn near ruined the last page with my tears.”
Lucien winced.
“The exam was that bad?”
“No,” Balt laughed hoarsely, voice cracking just a bit.
“No, that’s the thing. It wasn’t. I… I was happy. Just… happy it was finally over. I didn’t even realize how scared I’d been until it ended. I thought I’d fail. That I’d disappoint them. That I wasn’t good enough. But I did it, Lucien. I really did it.”
Lucien stared at him for a long beat, then chuckled, his own exhaustion melting just slightly in the warmth of that moment.
“You’re a mess, you know that?”
“You’re one to talk,” Balt said, wiping another tear.
“You look like you just lost a fight to a squid.”
The two of them stood there in the corridor, covered in ink and emotion, both a little broken but undeniably alive.
And, for the first time that day, Lucien allowed himself a small, real smile.
They’d survived the first round.
***
The rain had finally let up by the time Lucien and Balt returned to Ms. Mera’s quaint little inn, their bodies sagging with exhaustion but their minds still humming with adrenaline.
The scent of wheat pudding mingled with the lingering warmth of stew, wrapping the air in a comforting embrace.
The gentle crackling of the hearth and the soft clatter of cutlery from the kitchen set the backdrop for their collapse onto the couch in the shared living room.
Ms. Mera appeared from the doorway, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a neat bun and a ladle still in hand.
“I made you two some pudding, simple, but it’ll keep you steady,” she said, setting down two steaming bowls.
“I’m proud of how hard you’ve been working. But don’t stay up too late now. Dawn comes quick, and so do examiners with no mercy.”
“Thanks, Ms. Mera,” both boys mumbled in unison, too tired to stand but grateful nonetheless.
Balt was the first to speak again after she left, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe the fatigue off.
“I can’t believe we have to be up at dawn for the aptitude test,” he groaned.
Lucien tilted his head back with a sigh.
“Cruel. This is just cruelty in ceremonial robes. Who schedules a trial the morning after a three-hour quill marathon?”
Balt let out a sound that was half laugh, half death rattle.
“Welcome to Twilight Crown, where sleep is optional and sanity is frowned upon.”
Lucien cracked a dry smile.
“You sound like you’ve already accepted your doom.”
“I have,” Balt said flatly.
“At this point, they could say the test is wrestling a summoned demon in your pajamas and I’d just nod and start stretching.”
Lucien chuckled softly, then leaned forward.
“So, what do you actually think it’ll be?”
Balt’s spine straightened a bit.
His eyes lit with the flicker of thought.
“I’m betting on a mixed trial. Physical endurance, raw magical output, maybe a scenario where they throw a problem at you mid-spell to see if you panic or adapt. It's about proving you're not just a textbook caster, they want survival instincts.”
Lucien nodded, absorbing that.
“So… full-brain, full-body kind of nightmare. Should we bring gear? Stuff we’re used to using?”
“Definitely,” Balt said.
“Best case, it helps. Worst case, they confiscate it. Not bringing something you rely on would be like going into a duel with no pants, technically possible, but not ideal.”
Lucien smirked.
“That sounds like something that actually happened to you.”
“No comment,” Balt replied, already walking over to his pack.
He dug through it and pulled out a worn leather pouch, from which he produced a pair of gloves.
Not ordinary gloves, these shimmered faintly, silver-threaded circuitry woven into the fabric like an arcane schematic sketched by an obsessive madman.
They pulsed gently in response to the ambient mana, the lines glowing like veins of light.
Lucien raised a brow.
“Okay. Fancy. What do they do?”
“Focus tool for my barrier magic,” Balt said, slipping them on.
“They stabilize my casting, especially when I’m under pressure. Remember the umbrella shield I popped up when I found you on the ridge?”
“That was these?”
Lucien leaned in.
“No way.”
“Watch this,” Balt said. He moved to the side table, aimed his gloved hands at a candle, and gave a soft hum.
A clear, spherical barrier blinked into existence around the flame.
The fire died instantly.
Lucien blinked.
“Was that a vacuum seal?”
Balt scratched his head sheepishly.
“Yeah. I’ve been experimenting with shaping internal environments, suck the oxygen out, the flame dies. Simple science. Complicated spell geometry.”
Lucien whistled.
“Okay, I’m impressed.”
Balt grinned, eyes gleaming.
“Your turn. What are you bringing?”
Lucien reached into his satchel and pulled out his dog-eared notebook.
He tore out a page, retrieved a charcoal pencil from his sleeve, and quickly sketched a rune with the casual precision of long practice.
Balt leaned closer.
“Let me guess, blast glyph?”
“Wait for it,” Lucien said, placing the page on the table.
A moment passed.
The rune flared amber, and a gust of wind blasted outward, tossing Balt’s hair into a dramatic vertical poof.
“Gah-!”
Balt flailed, patting his head down.
“Seriously?”
Lucien was already laughing.
“Windburst rune. Compact but effective.”
“You little menace,” Balt muttered, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
“So that’s your game, paper and pencil spells?”
Lucien shrugged.
“Mostly area control. Runes, traps, pressure triggers if I’m feeling fancy.”
Balt narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion.
“So let me get this straight. I have to wear these custom-enchanted, mana-reactive, mind-link gloves forged by a retired royal enchanter-”
“-and I get away with notebook doodles,” Lucien finished with a smirk.
Balt threw his hands up.
“How is that fair? I’m out here cosplaying a tech-savvy warlock and you’re just casually scribbling doom on receipt paper.”
Lucien grinned.
“You’ve got showmanship. I’ve got efficiency.”
Balt pointed at him, mock stern. “You are quite unassumingly dangerous.”
“I try.”
They shared a laugh, the tension melting for a moment.
Then Lucien’s smile faded slightly.
“Still… you nervous?”
Balt hesitated.
“Yeah. I mean, this test, it's not just a test. It’s what decides if we belong at Twilight Crown or get sent home. No pressure, right?”
Lucien nodded.
“It’s hard not to feel like the entire future is balanced on how well we perform tomorrow morning. If we indeed pass the written exam that is”
Balt made a face.
“Which is exactly the kind of thing I don’t want to think about while eating pudding.”
Lucien chuckled. “Fair. Let’s not spiral. We’ve done the prep. We’ve survived worse. And hey, if we mess up, at least we’ll have some amazing disaster stories.”
“Like ‘That Time I Accidentally Cast a Windburst in the Dean’s Face.’”
Lucien raised his mug of water.
“To legendary failures.”
Balt clinked his against it.
“And improbable triumphs.”
For a moment, under the creaky roof of Ms. Mera’s inn, with pudding cooling on the table and magic still flickering in the air between them, the dawn didn’t feel quite so terrifying.
***
At the crack of dawn, the city still half-asleep and fog curling around the cobbled streets like lazy phantoms, Lucien and Balt arrived at the designated location: the front square of the Academy’s testing compound.
It was a sight to behold.
A horde of examinees had already gathered, the crowd buzzing with murmured theories, last-minute strategy-talk, and visible nerves.
The square in front of the towering ten-story building now resembled the staging ground of a chaotic militia.
Students wore everything from enchanted robes to half-plate armor.
Some carried wands, others bore staffs as tall as themselves.
A few had strapped longswords or daggers to their belts, and Lucien even caught sight of a boy with a literal tower shield slung on his back, trailing behind him like a turtle shell.
Another girl calmly stood polishing a war hammer the size of a small child.
Balt blinked, eyes wide.
“Are we giving an exam or storming a castle? This looks more like conscription day.”
Lucien adjusted his satchel.
“Honestly? Might as well be. I’ve seen less gear at a militia muster.”
The two weaved their way through the crowd, but their attention was soon caught by another curious sight, merchants.
At least half a dozen of them had set up temporary stalls right outside the testing grounds.
Makeshift kiosks boasted all sorts of wares: flint and steel, coils of rope, basic leather armor, alchemical potions with names like Focusfire Brew and Mana Bracer, enchanted paper charms, and even throwing daggers polished to a gleam.
Balt gawked.
“Is this a battlefield supply depot or a bloody festival? They even got potions that smell like fake courage.”
Lucien smirked.
“More like desperation in a bottle. These vendors know exactly what they're doing. Just dangle something that promises an edge, and students will burn through their life savings for a placebo with a pretty label.”
Balt clicked his tongue.
“That’s… kinda scummy.”
“It’s business,” Lucien said with a shrug.
“Supply and demand. You’ll be amazed what people will pay when they’re terrified of failure.”
Before they could dig deeper into the peculiar capitalism of fear, a subtle hum silenced the crowd.
A familiar presence stepped onto the raised pedestal at the far end of the courtyard.
It was him, the same well-dressed, stern-faced official from yesterday who had read out the names of the cheaters and watched them disappear with chilling finality.
His voice, magically amplified, cut through the morning haze.
“Listen well,” he said, calm yet commanding.
“I will begin reading names. If your name is called, come forward and stand behind me. If it is not, remain where you are.”
The air in the courtyard thickened.
Tension radiated off the students like static before a lightning strike.
Lucien glanced at Balt, whose jaw had set into a tight line.
Lucien felt his own fingers curl into anxious fists.
One by one, the names were called.
A slow trickle of students peeled away from the crowd to stand behind the examiner.
The group behind him steadily grew while the space around Lucien and Balt grew tighter, denser, more suffocating.
“Tristane Velour.”
“Eliya Fenn.”
“Balt Byrine.”
Lucien’s heart jumped. Balt blinked, then exhaled so hard his shoulders sagged.
He gave Lucien a half-smile and stepped forward, disappearing into the growing crowd behind the pedestal.
Lucien waited, breath held in limbo. Seconds passed like hours.
“Lucien Crowley.”
It took a beat before he processed it.
He moved, legs on autopilot, joining Balt with silent relief crashing down over him like a wave.
Finally, the list ended.
Those left standing in the main square were addressed next.
“To those whose names were not called,” the man said, his voice gentler now, “you did not pass the written exam. Do not despair. You are invited to return next year, better prepared and more resolute.”
The aftermath was quiet, no gasps or screaming.
Just soft sobs.
Some students clutched each other.
Others stared ahead in numb silence.
A few bowed respectfully before turning away, eyes hollow but proud.
Lucien could barely look.
Then the man turned to those behind him, those who had made the cut.
“You have passed the written examination,” he said, tone crisp once more.
“Now comes the Aptitude Trial. There will be no further explanation. From this point forward, your performance will speak louder than any word or recommendation ever could.”
His gaze swept over them like a blade.
“You are not competing with each other. You are competing against what you could be. The version of yourself that stands at the end of this road. That is your opponent. Chase them.”
A pause.
“Good luck.”
And with that, the group was led toward the great doors of the testing compound.
Lucien glanced at Balt, who raised his eyebrows and gave a dry, shaky smile.
“No turning back now,” Lucien muttered.
Balt smirked.
“Just don’t let your magical paper blow up in your face and we’ll be fine.”
Lucien chuckled under his breath, but the tension in his spine didn’t ease.
Not yet.
The real trial was about to begin.
***
