Chapters 78-80

Of course the day I want to release three chapters they end up being 7k words...

Chapter 78

Fatty's fist slams into the scarecrow with a force that shakes the ground beneath us, and an enormous shockwave blasts outward so hard that it knocks a few Squires off their feet while everyone's clothes flap wildly in the sudden gale. For a split second, an overwhelming aura crashes over us all until the world plunges into darkness, but then daylight snaps back just as quickly as if nothing happened.

I can't believe what I just saw, and I doubt anyone else here can wrap their heads around it either because that hit was on another level entirely.

The impact kicks up a massive dust cloud that billows everywhere, and now I'm left wondering what Fatty will look like once it clears since he might have morphed into some legendary warrior who was hiding his true strength all along. That strike was unreal, and I'm bursting with pride while the crowd around us starts whispering in awe.

Everyone assumes Fatty will emerge looking smug and superior, like an expert who had been playing weak the whole time, and the comments don't disappoint as voices pipe up.

“He was holding back!" 

“That guy's a monster in disguise!"

“No wonder the Valemont picked him—he's been sandbagging!”

But when the dust finally settles, I just stare deadpan, and so does the entire crowd, because Fatty is hunched over on his knees with sweat pouring down his temples in rivers while he pukes up his massive lunch all over the square's cobblestones.

This isn't at all what I pictured, and it's clear from the stunned faces around me that nobody else expected a victory hurl either since we all figured on some heroic pose instead of this mess.

Lucen Margrave opens his mouth to mock Fatty with a sneer already forming.

“Well, isn’t that—”

“Hey, Margrave, look at that,” I cut him off by pointing straight at the scarecrow where the glowing number 7832 flashes bright and clear. 

Murmurs of incredulity rise from the crowd.

“That’s the top score any Squire has hit this year,” one says. 

“It's the kind of power you'd see from someone gunning for full Knight status,” another, a Squire, mutters. 

Lucen Margrave squints hard at me and Kai, his voice sharp as he snarls, "You think this changes anything, Valemont bastards? My little sister, Elara Margrave, is in your class, and she's the strongest talent our family's seen in ten generations. She'll crush you both before the year’s out." He spins on his heel and stalks off.

A single Diamond coin flies in the air and lands between my feet.

Not bad for ten minutes of work, I smile, picking it up.

* 

“He’s really something,” I say, and I keep my eyes on Kai because I still cannot understand how a nineteen-year-old carries that much muscle and yet moves like a dancer.

“The Margraves are our sworn enemies,” Kai replies, and resignation drags on every syllable although the courtyard shines with morning light.

The giant pats my shoulder, and the jolt rattles three vertebrae, and he adds, “We will attend classes together, and Royal blood gives us precedence.”

I have never thought about it, but if I actually were to accept the Valemonts’ proposal, I’d be a Prince.

Prince Jacob Cloud, I smirk, it has a nice ring to it.

But then I remember that I’d have to change my last name.

“Jacob,” Thorne says, stroking the back of his giant white tiger’s neck, “you’ll have to make a choice. Margrave will come after you, personally or through others, simply because you’re associated with us. If you don’t become a Valemont, I can shout as many threats as I want, but the family won’t come to your rescue. And Margrave knows the rules. He can’t kill any Valemont unless he wants a war. But our friends, servants, and allies? Those are free game on both sides. No one goes to war over a lost friend.”

Suddenly, I feel a sweaty hand on my neck and someone, moving in front of me, saying, “I would!” 

My older half-brothers look in confusion at Fatty.

“You’d go to war for a friend?” Thorne asks, skeptical. 

“For Jacob. I’m his Squire! If anything happens to him, I’ll kill those bastards! I’ll avenge him after they have decapitated him, even if they were to burn him with the heat of a thousand suns and scatter the ashes in the sea! I’ll pick every little speck of Jacob’s dust, bake it into a cupcake, and eat it! That way, our bond would last—“

I kick the Fatty’s in the buttocks and let him faceplant in the courtyard. 

“How did you know he was going to be any good?” Kai asks, ignoring the scrambling Fatty. 

“I have my own little secrets,” I wink at them. 

“Take this,” Kai says, offering the Diamond coin. 

“No, I couldn’t,” I shake my head. “Let’s split it.” 

Thorne, who has been observing the exchange from the side, raises an eyebrow. I know because I just ran a little Echo Pulse. He might have been expecting me to try and take advantage of Kai’s generosity. 

“But you—“ Kai tries to protest.

“We’re both first-year students. You might be a Prince, but didn’t you just say you don’t just get resources that easily? I mean, not heaps of Diamond Coins, at least.”

Kai nods uneasily, as if he’s not ready to accept that he’s not exactly filthy rich. But for someone who grew up on Bronze coins at best, I’m more than happy like this. 

In a short ten minutes, I pocketed five hundred Platinum coins. 

“Listen,” I say to Kai, who towers over me and makes me keep wondering what sort of food they fed this guy, “let’s be friends, right?”

“Friends?” Kai smiles. “We’re brothers!” 

“Yeah—but, let’s also be friends.”

I’m a little uncomfortable saying this because, to be honest, growing up, I didn’t really have friends. I had colleagues, acquaintances, but never people who quite understood my dream of becoming a Knight. 

So, it’s my first time trying to… just make friends. 

But I like Kai and Thorne so far, so maybe we can start there. 

“And Thorne, I’ll consider your offer. I feel honored that your family has offered me the opportunity to become part of your family. But I must tell you, I love my father. He raised me on his own and taught me everything he could—little, allegedly, since he was a common miner. But he tried. Mother is…” 

I see Thorne sighing.

“A Princess—or a Prince—has duties to the Kingdom. When she met your father, after our own father’s passing, she could never have agreed to recognizing you. Not because she didn’t want you, believe me. Our Royal Grandmother, however, would have decapitated her. At court, your father would have been Mother’s greatest weakness. And you, being born out of wedlock, are the same. You two would have been targets. You don’t know it, but Mother did both of you a favor.”

I bite my lower lip. 

I know the guy’s coming from a good place, I understand what he’s trying to say, and I don’t really blame him for it.

Prince Thorne Valemont—that’s who he is.

But I’m Jacob Cloud—son of a miner and lucky son of a bitch who found a Rainbow Skill. 

Without the powers coming from that, they would have never recognized me as part of the family. And I get it. 

“Royals have duties,” I smile tiredly, “maybe that’s not something I’d like—something I’d want, too. Maybe it’s good to be a bastard son who spent most of his life in shitholes. I could have a son and still see him every day, no matter what, until the day someone takes my eyes from me.”

Both Kai and Thorne seem to perceive my bitterness and say nothing, they just nod, and soon we say goodbye. 

We set off along the colonnade, and our steps echo beneath stone arches that display reliefs of past champions. Fatty recounts every rumor about the first-year trials even though nobody asked, and he waves his arms until he nearly smacks an old professor who carries scrolls. 

The professor mutters about reckless youth, and Fatty bows so low that his forehead thumps a column. I laugh, and the sound feels strange, because laughter rarely visited the mines.

I gesture for Fatty to stand, and he scrambles upright although dust cakes his cheeks. I want to register at the Academy before sunset, and bureaucracy waits for no one.

*  

Now that I have a Squire, I head for the main registration hall, walking beneath a colonnade that opens into a vast vaulted chamber carved from obsidian-veined stone. The crowd inside is no joke. Lines of first-years coil like serpents across the floor, each recruit clutching a folder, scroll, or letter of recommendation like it’s their last meal. The air smells of mana ink, old parchment, and nervous sweat.

Fatty stays half a step behind me as we move through the mess. 

An older Squire waves us toward an open registration desk. Behind it sits a clerk with a bowl haircut and a mole on his cheek that pulses faintly with embedded runes. I hand over my folder.

“Name,” he drones.

“Jacob Cloud,” I say. “Knight-candidate. I have two letters of recommendation.”

He raises an eyebrow and leans forward with a little more interest. “Two?”

I nod and slide both across the desk—first Sir Greyson’s, then the one from Sir Renquell. He snatches the first, opens it, and reads. The man’s eyes flick from line to line, and I watch his expression shift from disinterest to mild approval.

He nods once. “Greyson’s endorsement is solid,” he mutters. “He’s not royal, but he’s respected.” Then he sets the first scroll down and opens the second one.

The moment he sees the seal on Renquell’s letter, he straightens in his chair. The faint buzz of idle chatter around us fades. Even a few of the other clerks look over.

“Wait here,” he says.

He lifts both letters and walks them down a long aisle toward the raised platform at the end of the hall. Sitting at a wide desk inscribed with mana channels and bound by dozens of warding spells is a tall, bony man dressed in robes marked with the triple tower of the Academy. His white hair falls straight to his shoulders, and thin glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. 

“That’s Elder Lioren—head of first-year intake and,” Fatty says, “if I remember correctly, a total stickler for protocol.”

Is that an Elf? I think to myself, squinting to look at his ears. 

The clerk hands over the letters and steps back. 

Elder Lioren examines the first, makes a small note in a glowing ledger, then lifts Renquell’s scroll with a pair of silver tongs. 

He doesn’t even touch it. The crowd has quieted further now. 

I can feel the tension ratcheting up behind my ribs.

The Elder pulls out a crystalline lens bound in three iron rings. He sets it above the scroll, and a thin beam of mana arcs from the lens into the wax seal. The color flickers red for an instant.

My heart stutters.

Then it shifts to green.

Elder Lioren’s face wrinkles into a frown as he reads. His lips press together like he’s just bitten into something sour. 

He reads the letter again. 

This time more slowly. Then he lifts his eyes and motions to me directly.

“Knight-candidate Cloud,” he says, his voice carrying over the chamber. “Approach.”

Chapter 79

I walk forward without hesitation, but I feel the weight of every gaze in the room. Fatty stays behind, clinging to me like I’m his a shield.

What kind of Squire are you?! Didn’t you say you’d step into a thousand suns or whatever, you ungrateful bastard?!

I stop in front of the Elder’s desk and nod nervously. 

“Elder Lioren.”

He stares at me through his lenses. 

“You received a recommendation from Sir Renquell, Elven Wandering Knight. Are you aware that Sir Renquell is currently under censure for violations of deployment protocol and insubordination during a campaign of my kingdom?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m… sort of aware? I didn’t have the details, sir.”

“And yet he offered you an endorsement?”

“He witnessed my capabilities in person.”

“Good, good,” Elder Lioren says but he looks more than peeved. 

This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?

*

Elder Lioren smooths the edge of Renquell’s parchment with gloved fingers while his jaw goes rigid. He sits straight as a pike, and his thin shoulders rise and fall with deliberate control because he refuses to breathe like a commoner in front of the intake hall. The green glow on the seal still throbs, yet the color offends him since it confirms the letter’s authenticity. A traitor who once flaunted every procedure now dares to vouch for a human whelp, and the audacity leaves Elder Lioren simmering.

He lifts his gaze to Jacob Cloud and finds a boy who stands in a plain wool cloak that lacks any rune-thread or reinforcement weave. The cloth hangs limply and gathers lint near the hem. Nothing about the outfit speaks of discipline or noble lineage. Elder Lioren’s nostrils flare while he wonders whether Renquell sent the boy as some private joke. The idea that the Wandering Knight might be laughing somewhere makes Elder Lioren’s pulse hammer.

The elder adjusts the mana lens so the crystal ring bends light across Jacob’s face, and he studies every angle because he wants proof that the candidate falls short. During the inspection his eyes pause at the small Clearwater pin on Jacob’s lapel. A faint silver-blue sheen marks the enamel, and the symbol stirs an unwelcome memory that spreads through Elder Lioren’s thoughts like smoke through rafters.

A noble lady in Clearwater had lodged a petition at the High Court for a a helper during a trial of theirs and a Knight candidate had been sent. 

Word reached the Elven enclave at the Academy that a young candidate was slain in Clearwater, far from any of his people. 

Elder Lioren dismissed the chatter at the time, yet the fragments of conversation now lock together. 

Jacob Cloud. 

That was the name. 

Elder Lioren feels his brow crease while he compares the news in his mind with the living boy before him.

A prickle of outrage runs along his scalp when he concludes that the youth was both the rumored fatality and the killer of an Elf during a sanctioned trial. Elven circles held Knight canditates in high regard because they examined combatants with fairness. 

Jacob Cloud chose to kill regardless of his opponent’s race. 

The elder touches the rim of his spectacles, and cold spite settles in his chest.

He turns the lens aside, stands, and folds his hands behind his back as he addresses the silent hall. “Candidate Cloud,” he says, and his smooth voice carries like a bowstring release, “you claim a merit that should exempt you from the standard examination. You cite one letter from Sir Greyson and another from Sir Renquell. The first indicates solid field performance, yet it remains unremarkable. The second comes from an elf who disgraced himself with insubordination and left comrades to die.”

The elder circles the desk because he wants distance that turns the platform into a dais above a supplicant. “Tell me,” he continues, “why would such a man certify you as worthy of bypassing every measure that guards this Academy against impostors?”

Elder Lioren clasps both scrolls, one in each hand, and he lifts them so the hall can see. 

“These documents hold weight only when the signatories honor their oaths to crown and court. Sir Renquell has broken his. Therefore, his sponsorship does not elevate you. You will undergo the assessment that every first-year student faces.”

He lowers the letters and plants them on the desk with controlled force; the parchment edges scrape stone, and the sound skitters across the vaulted chamber. “You will complete the three trials and I’ll administer them myself.” 

Jacob draws one steady breath, and his shoulders square although the tension around his mouth betrays unease. He nods once, keeping his gaze level with the elder’s eyes. Elder Lioren notes the restraint, and he savors the control he exerts over the moment because Jacob Cloud now understands that no clandestine recommendation will carry him past the gate.

The elder gestures toward the northern arch where proctors stand beside runed doorways. “Report to Station One,” he orders. “Present the identification slate, then await further instruction. Dismissed.”

Jacob steps back, and his boots click against the inlaid floor while he turns. Fatty scrambles to follow him, and the quick shuffle of the squire’s shoes echoes through the hush. Elder Lioren watches until the pair vanish behind the column nearest the arch. Only then does he release a breath he had locked behind his teeth, and the exhale feels crisp as winter air against his tongue.

He returns to his seat, settles the mana lens upon its cradle, and strokes a finger along the polished edge of Renquell’s scroll.

I will never allow this dog to enter the Academy. 

*

I square my shoulders because confusion will not help me, and I nod toward Fatty, who twitches when I meet his eyes. 

He grips the strap of his satchel so hard that his knuckles whiten, yet he still falls in behind me without a word. 

Elder Lioren rises from his chair, and he makes a small beckoning motion that feels like a leash. I follow because resistance would waste time that I do not have.

The elder guides us through a narrow arch on the northern wall, and the noise of the registration hall dies behind a slab of rune-worked oak as heavy as a vault door.

We reach a low threshold that opens into a chamber no wider than a city tavern, and four staff members stand along the walls in crisp gray uniforms with wands held at parade rest. 

A waist-high pedestal of black basalt waits at the room’s center, and an overhead crystal glows with steady white light. Elder Lioren lifts a sealed copper tube from an attendant, and he slides the parchment inside onto the pedestal. He breaks the sigil with one practiced twist, and he unrolls the sheet until a schematic of concentric runes fills the stone. Scarlet ink traces a lattice that ends in the angular character for Fireball, and the air warms when the diagram finishes unfurling.

“Candidate Cloud, this is the first of your three trials,” Elder Lioren announces in a voice that rings off the stone. “This is to test your theoretical knowledge. You bristle with Fire Mana—you have a fire based Class, right?” 

I nod. 

Elder Lioren’s eyes narrow, and he leans closer so the light from the overhead crystal makes the lines in his face stand out like cuts in stone. 

“Then you should know what makes a Fireball efficient, and what holds it back. I will read the Notation aloud, section by section, and you will tell me every flaw you can find. You may ask for any passage to be repeated once, but you may not look at the diagram after I finish.”

I’ve heard of Runic Notation by Sir Greyson when he tried to explain me what kind of things I’d be learning in Ytrial. 

Apparently, Runic Notation is the standard for passing down knowledge on how to reliably improve and level up Skills. For low-level people, Tutors are the way to go, especially minor nobles. But, when it comes to higher-level Skills and Royals, Runic Notation is the standard. A Royal Family will apparently have a library with thousands upon thousands of scrolls full of Runic Notation on the most common Skills and how to level them up to level one hundred. 

Some of the best Dungeons, it seems, not only drop Skill Crystals, but also Runic Notation of the Skills inside of them. 

It’s rumored that some of the best Knights in the world might spend a decade chasing down the Runic Notation of a Mithril Skill. 

That’s also when I realize something. 

If Runic Notation is so valuable… it should fetch quite a price even for relatively low-level Skills that wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion… right?

A business plan begins to take form in my head. 

I’ll be needing lots of funds to buy up the Platinum version of my Skills, and unless I want to stage more and more bets, I need a better way to do so. 

Apparently, the kind of scholars who’re high-level, experienced, and knowledgeable enough to produce their own Runic Notation are so rare to be virtually extinct. There’s a series of Classes each year in Ytrial, but only the first year’s one is mandatory. The rest are simply too difficult for the majority of students who have no interest in such theoretical, scholarly pursuits. 

*

Elder Lioren sets his fingertips on the edge of the black basalt pedestal and studies Jacob Cloud with a predatory calm that he only reserves for moments of real consequence. He knows this test is not only difficult; it borders on unfair, and that is exactly what he wants.

“You might not know Runic Notation, but you’ll find it’s pretty easy,” Elder Lioren says. “But this is the first test, a test of theoretical knowledge.”

Jacob looks back at the Elder with a neutral expression.

This kid has no idea what kind of test this even is! Look at his stupid face! To identify the flaws in a Fireball spell as a first test! How devious of me! Hahaha!

“Fret not, this test is actually quite easy,” Elder Lioren repeats. 

Easy! Pfff. The kind of scholars who study this subject are at the peak of the knowledge hierarchy. For this idiotic kid to be able to discern any flaw whatsoever in a Silver Skill, I’d eat my own beard if he could do that!

The Elder’s lips curl in a faint smirk. 

This was beyond advanced material for an incoming student, especially someone of a dubious background like Jacob. This would be more suited for a year-end final test than an entrance one. 

But Elder Lioren wouldn’t let some Elf-killer, some filthy rat who got recommended by that traitor, Renquell, enter the Academy under his watch. 

*

Lancelot stands at the edge of the chamber, gripping his shirt so tightly that the knuckles show white through his fingers. Sweat dampens his brow, and his stomach knots as he watches Jacob step closer to the basalt pedestal. He tries to swallow, but his throat feels too dry.

Elder Lioren taps his finger against the copper tube while impatience tightens his jaw. He expects nothing from Jacob Cloud except a muddled guess or a blank stare. The Runic Notation for Fireball sprawls across the parchment in interlocking circles and angled glyphs that only a scholar with years of study would recognize. He believes that Jacob will trip over the first question or stammer some half-remembered answer. If the boy manages even that, it will only confirm Elder Lioren’s conviction that Renquell’s letter was a farce.

A pair of junior instructors, both standing by the back wall with arms folded, watch the scene unfold. One instructor, a thin man with spectacles that never seem to sit straight on his nose, wonders why Elder Lioren is wasting everyone’s time with an assessment this harsh. 

This trial is more suited for a second-year finals exam than an entrance test. 

The woman beside him, whose hair is braided so tightly it gleams under the crystal lights, frowns while she recalls that her own entrance test had only required a basic Flame Arrow demonstration—no Runic Notation involved. 

I would have never passed this at this young man’s age. I’m not sure I know anyone who would have. 

Elder Lioren’s thoughts flicker as he considers how best to humiliate Jacob in front of the assembled staff. He intends to expose every gap in the boy’s knowledge, and he already anticipates the sour satisfaction that comes from watching a would-be Knight’s confidence collapse under the weight of failure.

Neither instructor sees a path to success for Jacob Cloud, and both assume that Elder Lioren will declare the test failed within a minute. The silence of the room thickens while Jacob studies the runes. 

Every expectation in the chamber leans toward disaster, and even Lancelot, whose faith is blind and stubborn, cannot imagine his friend passing this ordeal.

Yet Jacob stands at the pedestal and shows no sign of panic. His eyes move over the schematic, and his breathing remains steady as he listens for the next instruction. He does not speak or ask for help, and he simply waits while everyone else braces for the moment when he will either blunder through some half-baked answer or admit that he does not know what he is looking at.

Every thought in the room drifts toward the same conclusion: Jacob Cloud is about to fail, and fail so badly that even Renquell’s endorsement will look like an embarrassment.

“Care to start, Elder Lioren?” Jacob asks innocently. “Aren’t you supposed to read it?” 

Elder Lioren frowns and nods. 

“Are you ready?” the Elf smiles deviously. 

“I think so,” Jacob shrugs. 

“First, you have the mana intake spiral, where three veins—the Outer Intake Vein, the Central Containment Vein, and the Ignition Vein—spiral together to draw in and prepare the mana. After that, the conversion sequence channels raw mana from the Rising Sun through the compression point in the Median Heart Veins, then pushes the compressed mana into the Palm Veins for release. The secondary channels include a stabilizing mesh of minor veins to prevent turbulence, a side vein for venting excess heat, and a terminal focusing vein that directs the spell’s force outward. The whole circuit is completed by looping the containment flow back to the intake vein. This configuration is supposed to create a standardized Silver-rank Fireball, but the pattern follows conventions from two generations ago, before the current safety reforms.”

Elder Lioren lets the last word hang in the air. He rolls the wand in his palm and looks down at Jacob. “Identify every flaw in the structure,” he orders, his tone hard as flint. “You may ask for one repeat. When you are finished, step away from the diagram and explain your reasoning.”

Elder Lioren folds his arms and keeps his gaze fixed on Jacob. The silence in the chamber draws out as Jacob stands before the diagram of interconnected veins.

Jacob speaks up, his voice even. “The Fireball spell’s structure starts with the intake spiral—three veins: the Outer Intake, Central Containment, and Ignition Vein. Mana is drawn in, stabilized, and then compressed through the Rising Sun before it’s routed to the Median Heart Veins for power and the Palm Veins for release.”

He glances at the diagram, then points. “There’s a redundant vein here,” he says, tapping the channel that loops from the Central Containment Vein back to the intake. “It doesn’t improve stability, and instead it slows the channeling rate by a measurable amount, about three percent on average.”

Jacob continues, and the room quiets further. “The mana loop connecting the Rising Sun and the Palm Veins is too long. If you move the intersection closer to the Median Heart Veins, the efficiency increases by about five percent. The output can go even higher, maybe ten percent, if you condense the flame inside the upper branches of the condensation veins instead of letting it dissipate too early.”

He pauses only long enough to meet Elder Lioren’s stare. “There’s also a critical safety flaw in the current setup,” Jacob says, and he gestures to the compression node. “If the mana pressure spikes—say, if the caster is under duress or channels too much at once—the lack of a relief path in the third vein set means the energy can backfire through the ignition point. That could injure or even cripple the caster’s heart channels. It’s rare, but it’s possible.”

The two junior instructors at the wall exchange a look. The man with the crooked spectacles leans forward, squinting at the diagram, while the woman frowns as she runs the numbers in her head.

Jacob stands straight and nods to Elder Lioren. “You might want to update the third vein set and add a relief channel. That would eliminate most of the risk without changing the base output.”

Elder Lioren’s smirk disappears. His lips tighten, and his eyes widen a fraction. The point of his left ear quivers as he processes the analysis.

Jacob gives a small shrug. “Is that enough for you, Elder Lioren? I could keep going, but I agree this was on the easy side. There are a few more inefficiencies if you want me to point them out.”

The elder’s hands curl behind his back, and a faint pulse shows at his temple. Easy? You son of a #####! Not even my grandson could have rattled off all this stuff so quickly! 

He gives Jacob a short, stiff nod.

One of the junior instructors steps forward and claps Jacob on the shoulder. “You passed. That was the best analysis I’ve ever heard from a first-year.”

Elder Lioren’s jaw tightens, but he inclines his head. “There are still two more trials,” he says, his voice clipped. “Do not get comfortable yet.”

He turns, signaling the staff to prepare the next room.

Chapter 80

Elder Lioren clears his throat and forces a thin smile. 

“That was merely the obvious, Candidate Cloud. Any serious student could have noted those issues. This hardly warrants special praise,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.

The junior instructors by the wall stare at him.

The man with the crooked spectacles adjusts his glasses. Shameless old geezer. Does he really think anyone believes that? This boy should be skipping Runic Notation 101 after that.

The woman with the braided hair glances at Jacob, then at Lioren. 

If that’s ‘obvious,’ I’m the Emperor’s wife. He found a flaw you missed. Just hand him the damn passing mark and make him a Knight Apprentice!

A third instructor folds his arms. 

Elder Lioren has no shame at all. He’d choke before admitting a first-year just outclassed him.

Elder Lioren keeps his gaze on Jacob, though his left eyelid twitches. He glares and sweeps an arm at the next doorway. 

“We will move on to the second trial,” he snaps, striding ahead.

*

“Aren’t you worried at all?” Fatty asks me.

“About what?” I ask back, as we’re made to wait in the chamber.
They need time to arrange the second trial, it seems.

“He didn’t seem happy when he read your recommendations. Did you make them up? Especially the second one.”

“I think we were just unlucky,” I reply. “Elder Lioren is an Elf, and out of all the races, he’s the worst officer we could have met.”

“Why?” Fatty asks, confused.

“Well, first of all, that recommendation letter was from Sir Renquell, the Wandering Knight. Ever heard of him?”

The way Fatty’s eyes go wide tells me that he has.

“Wow, that’s really unlucky. Anybody else would have ushered you in without a word. But… he does look like he has way more beef with you than that.”

“Well,” I cough, “I might have killed an Elf?”

“What?” Fatty’s eyes go wide. “You killed an Elf?”

“Well, sort of. I mean, who doesn’t kill an Elf every now and then?”

“YOU KILLED AN ELF?!”

“A high-court-approved Knight candidate Elf.”

“YOU KILLED A HIGH-COURT-APPROVED KNIGHT CANDIDATE ELF!”

“It happens,” I say, defensively.

“It doesn’t!” Fatty shouts back. “Oh my—you don’t know what that means! Elves are—OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?! THEY’RE GONNA KILL US!”

“I mean, are they?” I shrug. “I know Elves won’t like that, but—”

“Oh my God, I gotta go,” Fatty says, starting to walk away.

I grab him by the oversized collar of his shirt and say, with a wide, sly grin, “Brother, you’re not going anywhere. You owe me.”

“W—what?”

“I told you I would teach you. You’ve got talent, but without me, that’s nothing. You’re mine, Fatty. Plus, we’ve already submitted the paperwork. Did you even read it? You know that a Squire betraying his Knight can legally be executed?”

“You wouldn’t!” Fatty says, turning as pale as a sheet.

“Would too,” I wink at him. “Now, don’t worry about it. We’ll make friends. I have a good feeling about this.”

“You antagonized Lucen Margrave the first time I saw you!”

“The first day at Ytrial, I suppose,” I say, scratching my chin.

“Holy Mother, please have mercy upon me,” Fatty says, tears filling his eyes.

“Heh, come on. As long as there are no Infernals around, we’re done getting enemies.”

“What did you say?” Fatty’s prayer is interrupted as his attention snaps back to me.

“Me? Nothing. Why? What did you hear?”

“INFERNALS?! YOU OFFENDED INFERNALS?! HOW?! HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND THEM?!”

Pork chop has a point, though, I hear Baalrek’s voice in my head. You will need allies, Jacob Cloud. And I’m not sure what my people will think of you.

Can’t you put in a good word? I frown, ignoring Fatty’s shouting and focusing on King Baalrek.

Well, first of all, I’m not sure they remember me. King Baalrek’s voice turns pensive. And if they do… well… my legacy is…

Holy shit. Please don’t tell me that Infernals hate you or something.

Well, King Baalrek coughs mentally, hate might be too much. But I have been known to leave legacies around the world for my fellow Infernals.

Oh, so they should be grateful, right? You’re a Royal who left behind a lot of legacies.

About that… King Baalrek’s voice trails off for a moment. It might be the case that my trials were SLIGHTLY unreasonable. I have high standards, Jacob Cloud.

Oh no, I think.

I know where this is going.

The moment he mentions his trials, it reminds me that without the Rainbow Skill, King Baalrek’s trial would have absolutely killed me.

Oh no, please tell me you haven’t, like, slaughtered a bunch of your kind with your stupid trials.

The silence that stretches after my question is the answer.

Holy shit. Can’t I meet someone who’s not cursed or hated by literally everyone of their kind?

They do have a nice nickname for me—they used to, at least. Baalrek the Scourge.

Does the second part refer to Scourge for Infernals?

Well…

I’m starting to put every single Attribute into Luck from now on.

My heritage is worth the sacrifice of a few—a few ten thousand—lives.

Fuck.

Oh, by the way, if the Dragonkin find out about pork chop there, they’ll NOT be pleased. Just so that you know.

Fuck.

Yeah.

*

A crying Fatty trails dejected behind me.

Elder Lioren leads us through a side corridor that runs past the registration hall. He walks briskly, never looking back, and we have to hurry to keep up. At the end of the corridor, we reach a set of double doors made from reinforced ironwood, carved with the Academy’s crest. Elder Lioren pushes them open, and the faint scent of animals and hay fills the air.

On the far side of the hall, sunlight pours through high windows, and there is a beast pen enclosed by tall iron bars. A small arena sits at its center, ringed by wooden bleachers and sawdust scattered across the floor. Several junior instructors stand nearby, arms folded as they watch a pair of handlers move a large, scaled creature into a holding cage.

Elder Lioren gestures for us to step forward and fixes his eyes on me. “The second trial will take place here. Prepare yourself.”

*

Elder Lioren stands before the arena, his hands clasped behind his back while the junior instructors gather at his flanks. His gaze sweeps the scattered audience, then settles coldly on Jacob.

“As an incoming Knight-candidate, you must demonstrate practical combat skill,” Elder Lioren announces. He nods toward the pen. “You will subdue the creature before you. This is your second trial.”

All the junior instructors raise their eyebrows. 

One looks at the beast, then at Elder Lioren. Another mutters under his breath, though Elder Lioren pretends not to hear.

The thoughts ripple through the row of instructors.

Shameless old bastard, thinks the spectacled one. This is a Shooting Horned Lizard? That’s at least Intermediate Gold Rank in threat, no matter what its actual level is.

Who brings a monster like that for a first-year trial? another thinks. An Early Gold Rank beast would have been enough—a level in the low one-hundreds. That’s standard for this exam.

The lizard’s speed and reflexes are infamous. 

Most adults here would hesitate to face it alone. 

He’s trying to see Jacob fail.

A few students and idlers who came to watch the trials glance at each other in shock as the handlers shove the caged beast into the arena. When Elder Lioren announces the monster’s name, there’s a collective gasp from the crowd.

*

Lancelot tugs my sleeve, his eyes wide. 

“Should I get someone? A real Knight, maybe?”

I shake my head, keeping my gaze fixed on the pen.

Elder Lioren watches, and the thought crosses his mind: He should have listened to the Fatty while he still had a chance.

I roll up my sleeves, step forward, and face the gate. The handlers use a pair of magic wands to prod the Shooting Horned Lizard into a frenzy. The metal gate lifts with a clatter.

The beast barrels forward, its jaws opening with a guttural roar

I didn’t plan to show off much this early, but I don’t want a prolonged fight, I think. If the Elves want to bully me, let them know who they’ll be messing with.

The Shooting Horned Lizard bursts from the pen with a jolt that sends sawdust flying in every direction. Its scales glint like hammered bronze, and two serrated horns jut forward from its brow, each tipped with pale, venomous spurs. Thick cords of muscle bunch along its shoulders as it hurls itself across the sand, moving so fast the arena boards tremble with every step.

Its claws rake the ground and gouge furrows in the dirt while its tail whips side to side, smashing against the arena wall with a dull crack. Steam hisses between its jagged teeth, and its yellow eyes fix on me with a predator’s focus. 

In a single breath, the lizard closes the distance, lowering its armored head so that both horns line up with my chest.

I stand ready as the beast bears down, less than three paces away, the air between us swirling with heat and dust.

“Diavolo Draw,” I whisper under my breath, as the Hell’s Sword forms in my hand. 

*

Elder Lioren watches the arena, his arms folded and his jaw set. He did not expect Jacob to stay rooted in place. He’s actually going to stand there and take the hit? One strike, and the lizard will break him in half. That will avenge the dead Elf. That’s exactly what a rat like this deserves.

The junior instructors shake their heads. He’s about to die. Nobody survives a direct charge from a Shooting Horned Lizard, not even half-trained Knights.

The lizard lowers its head, and the horns glint as it lunges. Jacob does not flinch or raise a guard, and his eyes narrow with focus.

The Hell’s Sword forms in his hand. One strike, quick as lightning, cleaves through the Gold-rank beast. The Gold-rank lizard crashes behind him, its body slamming into the sand in two broken halves. Steam and blood hiss in the air. The ground shakes under the beast’s final convulsion.

A beat of total silence falls across the arena. Nobody moves, and nobody speaks. The dust has not even settled by the time the realization dawns—Jacob ended the fight with a single blow.

Lancelot jumps up, both hands in the air, and lets out a cheer before clapping his own mouth shut, staring wide-eyed at me. 

Jacob flicks beast blood from the edge of his sword and lets it fall to the side. 

Elder Lioren stares at the corpse and feels bile rise in his throat.

This cannot be happening. The upstart was supposed to fail.

Who the hell did Renquell send?!

He scrambles to save face and gestures sharply to the center of the arena.

He draws out a scroll, his hands shaking, and kneels to inscribe a magical array on the sand. He tries to steady his voice. 

“The third trial will begin immediately. A true Knight-candidate must demonstrate tactical skill and awareness in addition to brawn or knowledge. You will enter a simulated dungeon—one filled with only traps.”

He fumbles through a stack of scrolls, voice cracking before he finds the right one. 

“This array is a simulation, and you will face conditions appropriate for a trial.”

The junior instructors step forward, disbelief on their faces. The woman with the braided hair steps up first. 

“Elder, this isn’t right,” she says, pointing at the specific scroll in Elder Lioren’s hand. “These traps are meant for Platinum-ranked Knights, not first-year students.”

Another instructor speaks up, “He already passed every reasonable test. You can’t seriously expect him to run Platinum-tier traps.”

Elder Lioren whirls around, his ears twitching with anger. “You will know your place!” he snaps, his voice echoing. “The candidate has not yet earned admission. He will finish all three trials or leave as a failure.”

He looks back at Jacob, his eyes narrow with desperate malice. 

“Well, Jacob Cloud, do you wish to withdraw and save yourself the humiliation, or will you take the final step and attempt to pass the test required for entry?”

Jacob smiles back.

“What Rank did you say the trap were?”