Chapter 2: Entrance Exam, Exit Logic
The Royal Academy of Magic was many things.
Elite. Expensive. Ridiculously large.
But above all, it was dramatic.
Alaric stood at the edge of the entrance exam field—an arena surrounded by stone pillars, floating banners, and way too many people pretending they weren't watching him.
On a raised platform, the exam proctor—a lean man in golden robes—announced the rules with all the flair of a theater actor on opening night.
"Applicants will show their control over mana in a basic casting demonstration. You will form a simple spell circle, channel your element, and launch the attack at the target dummy. Style and power will be graded. Begin!"
Alaric blinked.
"That's it?"
Celine Ardent—his sharp-eyed, sword-happy carriage companion—stood a few meters away. She didn't look at him, but her mana flared the moment her name was called.
Fire erupted from her palm, shaped into a perfect spiral, then launched forward like a comet.
Boom.
The dummy caught fire. The crowd murmured in approval.
Celine walked off without a glance.
Alaric clapped softly. "Bravo. Very sparkly."
Then it was his turn.
He stepped forward.
Whispers immediately rippled through the crowd.
> "That's the Veyron kid."
"The one with zero mana?"
"Is he lost?"
The proctor frowned. "State your name and casting element."
"Alaric Zevran Veyron. Element: None."
A few nobles laughed. Even the examiner gave a pitying look.
"You… still wish to attempt the exam?"
Alaric tilted his head. "Should I pretend?"
The man cleared his throat. "You must at least attempt a mana channel."
Alaric nodded.
Then stared at the target dummy.
And did absolutely nothing.
No chant. No circle. No gesture.
Just a calm, blank-eyed stare.
The dummy shook.
The examiner frowned.
Then the dummy flew backwards off its stand, cracked in half, spun twice in the air, and landed in a heap of splinters.
Silence.
Someone coughed.
The examiner checked his scroll. "...You didn't cast anything."
"Correct."
"There's no mana trace."
"Correct again."
"...How did you destroy the dummy?"
"Strong eye contact."
More silence.
Celine, watching from the shade, sighed loudly. "Idiot."
---
Alaric stepped down from the stage.
Behind him, the shattered dummy floated into the air, reassembled itself, and gently tapped the next applicant on the shoulder.
The applicant screamed and fainted.
Alaric smiled faintly.
"Oops."
---
Far above the exam field, in a tower filled with windows and staff who judged everything, three professors stared at a replay crystal in silence.
The image showed Alaric.
Standing still.
Doing nothing.
Then a target dummy violently unassembled itself for no reason.
One professor, a short man with an enchanted monocle, leaned back in his chair.
"...No mana signature. No incantation. No mental chant. No movement."
The woman beside him frowned. "It's not divine magic either. There's no ether reaction."
"Then what was it?"
The third, the dean, sipped tea and muttered: "Anomaly."
---
Down below, Alaric was handed a scroll.
The results were… unceremonious.
[Placement: Class F – Non-Mana Division]
Status: Fail-admit (Conditional)
Notes: Observe. Limit exposure. Definitely not a demon (probably).
He raised an eyebrow. "Class F?"
The clerk winced. "Yes. That's… the class for students with no practical magic ability. You're grouped with… alternative talents."
"You mean failures."
"Officially, we call it... foundational magic theory enhancement track."
Alaric nodded. "So, failures."
"Please don't say that out loud."
He walked out of the office holding the scroll and a tiny paper map of campus.
It immediately burst into flames from a nearby student's bad fireball control.
He watched the ashes drift past his face.
"…Class F it is."
---
His new classroom was in the farthest wing of the academy—through a hallway that squeaked, a stairwell that moaned, and a ceiling that leaked magical condensation.
The door creaked.
Inside were six students.
One was asleep with her feet on a desk. Elf ears, long silver hair, a total mess.
One was reciting lines into a spoon. Possibly for a play.
One had a book over her head and was clearly trying to hide.
The teacher hadn't arrived.
Or maybe had and quit already.
Alaric took a seat in the back.
He was there for five minutes before the sleeping elf suddenly sat up and pointed at him.
"You're haunted."
Alaric blinked. "Good morning."
"I felt your presence."
"Please un-feel it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You have no mana. But something else is squirming around you."
"That's just my charm."
She stared a little longer. Then flopped back into her chair.
"This class is cursed."
Another girl nodded solemnly. "I heard the last teacher exploded."
"I heard one of the students imploded," the elf added.
Alaric crossed his arms behind his head.
"Well," he muttered, "sounds like home."
---
The lecture room smelled like dust and mild regret.
Alaric sat in the back row of Class F, watching the other students either sleep, fidget, or stare at the ceiling like it owed them something.
Their instructor hadn't shown up. Again.
Until now.
The door slammed open with theatrical flair.
A man in a heavy coat stomped in, arms full of papers, cloak slightly singed, eyes twitching from caffeine or trauma—or both.
He dropped the stack of scrolls on the desk. "Good morning, degenerates."
Alaric raised a hand. "Are we allowed to call you that too?"
"No. I'm legally protected." The teacher pointed to his badge. "Professor Gaelin. Welcome to your first and possibly final session of Foundational Magic Remediation Theory."
"That sounds made up," someone whispered.
"It is," Gaelin said. "Because this class is made up. Just like your chances of surviving a casting accident."
He picked up a long, half-burned wand and drew a crude circle in the air. "Let's begin with the basics: spell stability."
The chalk snapped midair.
Half the floating diagram flared—then fizzled.
The wand sparked.
A faint hum started from somewhere behind the professor's desk.
"...That's not normal," he muttered.
The hum got louder.
Alaric casually looked under his desk.
A rune plate embedded in the floor—some kind of ancient training aid—was glowing very, very red.
"Oh good," he said. "A malfunctioning mana node."
"WHAT?" Gaelin yelped.
Alaric pointed calmly. "Under your desk. Probably unstable. Might explode."
The elf girl in the front row blinked. "Explode? Again?"
Students dove under chairs.
Gaelin sprinted toward the door.
The hum grew into a whine. The rune started pulsing—red to white.
"Should we be running?" someone shouted.
Alaric stayed seated.
He sighed.
Lifted one finger.
And whispered:
"Compression Field: Inward."
—A telekinetic bubble formed around the unstable rune, folding its pressure in on itself until it collapses safely instead of blowing up. Like squeezing a balloon into a raisin.
The rune shrank.
Then popped softly, like a hiccup.
Silence.
No explosion. No fire. No death.
Gaelin peeked back inside.
"…Who did that?"
Everyone pointed at Alaric.
Even the elf.
Alaric folded his hands behind his head. "Lucky guess."
Gaelin stared. "You don't even have mana."
Alaric shrugged. "Maybe I'm cursed."
The professor walked slowly to his desk. Sat down.
Then looked at his notes. "Okay. I've updated the seating chart. You're all failures. Except for that one."
Alaric blinked. "Wait, I don't want—"
"Too late. You're now my teaching assistant."
"...I just got here."
"Congratulations on the promotion."
The class stared at him.
The elf girl raised her hand. "Are you haunted and promoted?"
Alaric sighed.
This was going to be exhausting.
Alaric was sipping lukewarm tea in the library when the ambush arrived.
It came in the form of two honor students wearing perfectly pressed uniforms, identical sneers, and matching levels of smug.
"Alaric Veyron," one said with all the authority of someone who'd never been punched, "you've been challenged."
Alaric glanced up. "That sounds like a you problem."
"It's a formal duel request," the other said. "You embarrassed our instructor."
"Which one?"
"Professor Gaelin."
"…He tripped over a floating quill."
"You controlled that quill!"
"I call it fate."
The two students dropped a scroll onto his table.
Duel Notice: Class A vs Class F – Demonstration Bout. Witnessed. Graded. Optional... unless you refuse.
Alaric blinked. "Is this extortion dressed up in magical ink?"
"You'll attend, or forfeit. Publicly."
He leaned forward. "Can I just skip to the part where I ruin your day?"
The smug duo narrowed their eyes. "You won't be so confident when you're eating dirt in front of the academy."
---
Later that day, the sparring arena buzzed with students.
Class A sat polished and glowing under the sun, all golden badges and practiced hair flips.
Class F sat in the shade, collectively wondering how they got roped into this.
"I thought this was a strategy seminar," muttered one girl.
"It is," Alaric said. "Their strategy is humiliation."
"Sounds effective."
Gaelin, who had been bribed with tea and personal shame, stood in the middle.
"Match rules," he called out. "First team to disable all opposing members wins. No fatal spells. No fireballs to the face."
Someone in Class A raised their hand. "Can we use advanced formation glyphs?"
Gaelin shrugged. "Sure. They won't help."
Alaric looked across the field at his opponents. Flashy robes. Mana auras leaking like perfume. One kid actually had sparkles.
He stepped forward, alone.
Someone from Class A laughed. "Just one of you?"
"I'm saving time," Alaric said.
The crowd chuckled.
The lead duelist from Class A smirked. "Fine, then I'll be the only one you'll need."
He raised his hands.
Glowing circles appeared beneath his feet. Wind gathered. Runes lit. The air shimmered with heat and—
Thunk.
His staff flew out of his hands, bent in half, and bonked him on the back of the head before clattering to the floor.
Everyone froze.
Alaric lowered his hand.
"Vector Grip – Lateral Redirect."
—Grab an object mid-cast and help it go somewhere very inconvenient.
The boy groaned and collapsed.
"Next?" Alaric asked.
Another Class A student shouted, conjuring a flame orb the size of a dinner plate.
Alaric waved his hand once.
"Neural Lock – Tap Level."
—Just enough to make you forget what you were doing for three seconds.
The spell fizzled.
The student spun in a circle, sat down, and began applauding his own feet.
By the time the third one lunged with a sword, Alaric had already whispered:
"Trip."
No technique. Just telekinetic ankle guidance.
Face met dirt.
---
Ten minutes later, Class A was unconscious, dazed, or asking for new careers.
Alaric stood alone in the center of the field, adjusting his sleeves.
Class F stared.
Someone started clapping.
Then the elf girl shouted, "HE'S DEFINITELY HAUNTED!"
Applause followed.
Gaelin sighed loudly. "Fine. I'll revise the chart again."
---
Alaric didn't return to class after the duel.
He didn't go to the cafeteria either, despite craving a scone.
Instead, two silent upper-year students escorted him through the central spire of the Royal Academy—past floating libraries, rune elevators, and increasingly nervous staff.
He was shown into a tall, circular office with velvet curtains and a massive fireproof desk that already had scorch marks on it.
The headmaster sat behind it.
He was old.
Old in the way stone was old. His beard was trimmed, but his eyes gleamed like they'd already fought a dragon and won the argument.
He gestured to the chair across from him.
Alaric sat, casually.
"Do you know," the headmaster began, "how many rules you broke during that duel?"
Alaric tilted his head. "None were clearly written."
"Correct," the man said. "Which is more worrying."
There was a long pause.
"I've seen many prodigies," the headmaster continued. "Talents who moved mountains. Chanted three spells at once. Summoned spirits."
"Impressive," Alaric said. "I once made a tutor resign with a floating spoon."
"Yes. I received a letter about that."
The headmaster steepled his fingers.
"No mana. No chant. No formation. You dismantled Class A in less than ten minutes using… something."
"I call it 'thinking hard.'"
"Others call it terrifying."
The man stood slowly and walked to the window.
"You don't match any known affinity. You don't draw on internal or external sources. And yet…"
He turned back to face Alaric.
"You are shaping force and bending matter with a precision mages can't replicate. That makes you dangerous."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Is this the part where I get expelled?"
"No," the headmaster said. "It's the part where I promote you."
Alaric blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
"You're now the tactical assistant for Class F. You'll attend advanced dueling seminars, mentor during field training, and report to me directly if anything... odd happens."
"That sounds like work."
"It is."
"I don't like work."
The headmaster smiled. "Then do it well enough that no one bothers you again."
Alaric stared at him for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
"Fine. But I expect a better chair."
"Done."
"And a scone."
The headmaster paused.
"…Two."
Alaric smiled.
"Deal."
---
Back in Class F, the elf girl was stacking chairs for no reason.
When Alaric walked in, someone asked, "So what'd they say?"
He shrugged. "I've been upgraded."
"To what?"
He sat down.
"Problem solver."
---
Far below the academy, in a hidden chamber filled with glowing crystals and whispering glyphs, an ancient eye opened.
A voice echoed into the dark:
"The Mindborn has been found."