Section A wasn't just an exam wing—it was a cathedral of intellect and chaos.
A colossal dome of structured silence, illuminated by shifting bands of pale-blue aetherlight, stretched high above. The vast chamber contained rows of floating desks, each surrounded by a soft aura to prevent interference. Overhead, thousands of papers drifted in layered trajectories—some skimming just above heads, others orbiting near the ceiling. They moved like schooling fish, chaotic but never colliding, guided by invisible rules no one had time to question.
Interspersed among the fluttering exams were floating, semi-transparent ocular constructs—floating eye-like entities that hovered near examinees. Their purpose wasn't entirely clear, though rumor had it they observed for cheating, or maybe anxiety, or maybe both. They blinked independently, sometimes in synchronized patterns, as though evaluating unspoken thoughts.
Each candidate sat before a sleek, obsidian console—a shallow slab with a projected menu hovering above it. Topics rotated across the screen: Modulation Statecraft, Spectral Emotion Mapping, Chrono-Contextual Ethics, and more obscure options like Harmonic Field Weaving or Diplomatic Decryption Protocols. The examinees would scroll, select, and confirm. The moment they did, one of the floating papers would immediately peel out of the chaos and dart toward them like a hawk finding its mark.
Some received one. Others had three spiral around them. All landed without error.
The effect from above was surreal: a synchronized ballet of decisions and deliveries, quiet but charged with tension. No one spoke. There were no proctors yelling time limits. Just the constant rustle of movement, of mana shifting with nervous fingers and the click-click of rune pens against consoles.
Though the exams would continue for five days, the first day was the most crucial.
The Academy's artificial intelligence, an arcane-digital hybrid simply referred to as the Prime Evaluator, had selected today's trials based on candidate admission data—stated preferences, performance indicators, and, occasionally, gut-simulated instincts. It wasn't final judgment day, but it was the one that mattered.
After today, students would be free to attempt as many sections as they wished, testing their versatility or chasing redemption. But what happened in these first few hours would define initial ranking, House interest, and long-term attention.
Alex sat in his viewing box, high above, arms folded now—no coffee, no distractions, just the occasional twitch of a foot and his usual quiet scrutiny.
"Show me the Modulation Statecraft module," he said.
The glass adjusted, sweeping into focus the candidates preparing for the specialized trial.
A glowing platform hovered over an interactive map projection. Five students stood in a semicircle, faced with an illusory council made up of simulated nobles, warlocks, and aggravated spirits. Their task: defuse a fabricated diplomatic crisis between rival cities, each pulsing with different magical frequencies.
This was where the subtle minds would shine—or fracture.
One candidate, a cocky noble in polished robes, immediately began flooding the illusion with raw mana, his aura blazing like he thought intimidation counted as negotiation.
The simulation responded by starting a war.
Another student relied on illusions—crafting a shimmering version of a peace treaty, complete with ceremonial robes and a fake envoy—but the spell collapsed under scrutiny, earning laughter from one of the simulated spirits.
A third tried elemental finesse—cooling tension with waves of calming frost magic, only to accidentally trigger a territorial dispute when the frost crossed into another faction's sigil range.
Alex raised a brow.
"They gave her the Wrathbound variant? Harsh."
But then, something shifted.
A girl with dark braids and calm hands took a step forward. No flares. No power surges. Just steady pulsework and soft-spoken incantations. She layered her resonance tones to match the ambient field, adjusted her stance to counterbalance magical pressure, and—crucially—didn't say a word until the illusion's ambient noise calmed.
"Who's that one?" Alex asked aloud.
His assistant whispered, "Senna Vey. No House, rural background. Pre-admission evaluations flagged her as low threat."
Alex smiled. "I love when the paperwork is wrong."
Senna raised her hands again—not in command, but in listening. Her spellwork wasn't flashy. It was rhythmic. She didn't override the projection's logic—she mirrored it. Adaptation, not dominance.
The illusion shifted. A ceasefire. Council members began to nod. One warlock vanished entirely—a simulated sign of negotiated exit.
"Elegant," Alex murmured.
Another candidate followed after Senna, a boy with layered spectral tattoos that pulsed in sequence. He wasn't smooth—but he compensated with timing, matching harmonic surges like a musician reading discordant sheet music. His name blinked onto Alex's display: Riven Tol.
Not a natural diplomat. But clever. Adaptive.
Exactly what Alex was here to find.
Around the chamber, more variations bloomed.
One girl attempted to build a floating glyph array mid-negotiation, casting visual scripts between the factions, only to lose control of the rotating runes. It didn't end explosively—just embarrassingly. A faint pop, a puff of glitter smoke, and the illusion dismissed her.
Another used scent-based elemental cues to shift the mood—soft floral breezes, grounded sandalwood, brief flashes of storm-charged ozone. Her control was inconsistent, but her creativity scored points with one of the observing ocular constructs, which blinked green three times and moved closer.
One quiet candidate simply stood still for an unusually long time, then whispered a single phrase that caused one spirit to break off and leave in silence. No magic visible. No movement recorded. The effect, however, was logged as a pass.
Finally, the illusion around the central platform shimmered and reset.
A name appeared on the floating panel.
ALEX.
He stood.
There was no drama. No declaration. Just the clean movement of someone who had done this before—in some form or another—and who didn't plan to lose.
As he stepped onto the platform, the illusion adjusted. The factions pulsed differently this time—less aggressive, more entangled. The challenge was tailored to his profile.
He studied the simulation for exactly five seconds.
Then, without raising his hands, he adjusted his mana field just slightly.
A pulse—not of dominance, but of calibration. Each illusion adjusted in turn.
He spoke—not aloud, but through direct modulation. Not telepathy. Not command.
Recognition, the field shimmered. Acknowledgement. Conditional deference.
One councilor folded their arms. Another stepped back.
He expanded the signal slightly, embedding harmonic threads into the space between the avatars. A conversation began—not linear, not visual. But structured. Fluid.
[...]
It took two minutes.
The factions reached a convergence node. Compromise.
Alex exhaled. Just once.
And stepped off the platform as the simulation disbanded.
No cheering. No score. No dramatic pause. Just another set passed in a hall where everyone was too consumed with their own challenge to notice excellence—even when it passed right beside them.
A few of the ocular constructs blinked gold. One even paused mid-orbit.
But for most candidates, tense and laser-focused, the moment came and went like a whispered spell—acknowledged only in the raw data the Prime Evaluator would later crunch.
And that was fine by Alex.
Because the ones who mattered—the real evaluators, the ones in shadows and skyboxes—they would notice. His presence in this stage wasn't for applause. It was an investment. A reminder.
He could follow rules. He could submit. He could excel quietly.
Just long enough to earn control over his own fate.
He returned to his seat.
Didn't say a word.
But his fingers drummed once.
And his foot stopped twitching.