The door creaked softly as Emberlyn stepped into the quiet home, the faint scent of her mother's cooking still lingering in the air, a warm trace of herbs and roasted meats that clung to the wooden walls like a comforting memory. She slipped off her worn boots, her fingers briefly brushing the mud-caked leather, and called out, her voice soft but steady.
"I'm home."
A rush of footsteps echoed from the sitting room, hurried and uneven. Her mother appeared almost instantly, her brows furrowed tight, worry clouding her usually gentle face. She clasped her hands together, as though trying to hold herself still.
"Emberlyn! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was? You've been gone all day without a single word! I thought—" Her voice broke, trembling with the weight of the unspoken. She pressed her palm to her chest, as if to steady her frantic heartbeat. "I thought something happened to you."
Emberlyn's throat tightened, her chest aching with the guilt she could never seem to shake. Still, she forced a small, tired smile. "I'm fine, Mother. Really. I should've checked in. I'm sorry."
Her mother's arms trembled slightly, the lingering aftershocks of the fear she'd bottled up all day. "You can't do that to me, Ember. Not when the forests you entered are crawling with monsters. Anything could've happened. Anything."
Before Emberlyn could offer a word of comfort, her father's voice cut through the tension from the next room, smooth and dismissive, as if the entire concern was little more than an overblown inconvenience.
"You're overreacting."
He stepped into the hall, folding his arms and leaning lazily against the doorway. His face was calm—stone-like, practiced, unreadable. The kind of expression a man in noble circles was expected to wear.
"She was with Finnor," he said simply, as though that alone settled the matter. "Nothing was going to happen to her."
The name hit Emberlyn like a stone to the gut. Her stomach churned, her fingers twitching before curling into a fist so tight her nails dug deep into her palm.
Finnor.
The man who had abandoned her.
The one who left her to die when she tried to save those helpless adventurers. His footsteps retreating, uncaring, echoed in her memory louder than the monstrous roar that had filled the skies that day. She could still see the massive, blood-red bat, its wings blotting out the sun as it descended upon her. She still remembered how her feeble wind magic had sizzled uselessly against its hide, the way her breath had caught in her throat, sharp and panicked. And she could still feel the hollow, soul-crushing silence when she realized—he was gone.
He had left her without a moment's hesitation.
Her jaw tightened, biting hard on the inside of her cheek to keep herself grounded. She couldn't afford to speak of it. Not now. Not with so much hanging on the line.
For her family's future, she would bury it.
For now.
Back at the academy, the examinees gathered in the locker room, the clatter of boots and rustle of fabric filling the air as they changed into their assigned assessment garbs. The clothes were light and practical, tailored for movement—simple dark trousers, sleeveless tops, and boots with good grip. A thin, leather-bound belt hugged their waists, and a magic counter—a faintly glowing crystal—had been affixed to each of their shoulders to track their performance.
As they filed out onto the training grounds, the sheer size of it struck them all. The sun hung high, casting the vast, open field in golden light. Several running tracks stretched out like winding serpents across the dirt. Obstacle courses, sprinting lanes, and wooden walls loomed in the distance. To the left, rows of stone pillars stood unevenly spaced, likely for agility and reflex drills. The air smelled faintly of sweat, churned dirt, and distant pine from the bordering trees.
"So this is the training grounds for academy students, huh? It's massive," Satoshi said, his voice edged with awe as he scanned the expanse.
"I wonder what they'll have us do..." Silune whispered nervously, her hands fidgeting at her sides.
"Don't worry, Silune," Alessia chimed in, resting a reassuring hand on her friend's shoulder. "I heard mana users like us aren't graded too hard in the physical aptitude tests. We're usually in the rearguard as magic knights or adventurers. The expectations are lower for us."
Silune let out a soft breath. "At least that's a bit of relief."
"So what you're saying is that I have to outperform everyone here just because I don't have mana or a magic affinity?" Satoshi asked, quirking a brow.
"Sadly, yes," Alessia said with a small, apologetic shrug. "For this test, it'll be like a knight's trial for you. You'll have to shine."
"Great," Satoshi smirked. "Just what I expected."
A man approached them—tall, broad-shouldered, with a fierce presence. His armor was worn but meticulously maintained, his beard neatly trimmed. His sharp eyes, like a hawk's, swept over the group.
"I am Sir Garrick Thornewald, your physical prowess examiner for today," he announced, his voice firm but not unkind. "This assessment will test your strength, agility, reflexes, and endurance."
His gaze lingered on the mages in the group. "Though most mana users are deployed in the rearguard during combat, you must still possess the physical capacity to defend yourselves, or at the very least, to outmaneuver your enemies. Even you have a minimum standard to meet."
A chorus of groans rippled through the crowd.
"That's not fair!"
"Why do we even need this? We're not frontline fighters!"
"This is going to be miserable..."
"Well, we've got our work cut out for us, right, Silune?" Alessia said, chuckling despite herself.
"I don't even want to imagine it, but let's do our best," Silune answered, her laugh shaky but genuine.
"Bring it on, Sir Thornewald," Satoshi said with a confident grin.
Sir Garrick gave a slight nod. "You'll be doing a series of tests. Strength will be measured through pushups and sit-ups. Agility, through sprints and short dashes. Reflexes will be gauged using magic. And your endurance will be tested by a long-distance run, for which this field has been designed to provide sufficient challenge."
He gestured toward the faintly glowing counters on their shoulders. "These magic counters will record your repetitions and performance automatically. You will not be able to tamper with them. Now—begin!"
The test of strength started.
The ground filled with the sound of strained breathing, groaning, and the rhythmic thumping of hands meeting dirt. One by one, the examinees began to fall apart.
Some couldn't even make it past five pushups.
Silune struggled, her thin arms trembling beneath her as sweat dripped steadily from her brow. "Come on… just push… don't give up…!" she grunted, her arms quivering violently until, at last, she collapsed onto the dirt. Her magic counter flickered—seven.
"I… I tried my best," she panted, her chest heaving.
Nearby, Alessia gritted her teeth, pushing through the burn in her arms. "I can't give up yet," she whispered, willing herself through each excruciating movement. Her arms finally buckled at thirteen. She dropped to her side, breathing heavily.
Kielbasa, his face scrunched in discomfort, fell at sixteen. He sat back on his knees, wiping the sweat from his brow and muttering to himself, "Well… that's about the average. Should be enough to pass."
But then his gaze drifted to Satoshi—and his heart stopped.
Satoshi's movements were steady, fluid, as if his body hadn't even registered the strain. His breathing remained calm, his arms rising and falling with perfect rhythm.
The magic counter on his shoulder ticked past one hundred—and kept going.
Kielbasa's jaw clenched tight. "What the… How can a commoner be so powerful?" he muttered under his breath, the bitter taste of envy rising in his throat. "This isn't natural…"
Around them, other examinees stared in disbelief.
"Is that number real?!"
"How is he still going?!"
"Wait… is he even human?"
Garrick who was observing the test, crossed his arms with a satisfied smirk. "Looks like this one has what it takes to become a real knight."
Kielbasa's stomach twisted. He could feel the weight of his own mediocrity pressing down on him. His hands curled into fists. No… I won't let some commoner outshine me. Not here. Not in front of everyone.