Exam. (4)
A week into the exam, the mages began to drop out one by one. Their rankings became starkly clear based on how far they got.
The bottom ranks stalled at problems 1 through 4, the mid-tier at 5.
The top ranks split between those who completed 6 or challenged 7, while the elite divided further by whether they'd solved more than half of 7 or finished it entirely.
No one spoke of problem 8.
Yet for every student, simply experiencing the exam had become a badge of honor. It was a privilege only 150 out of 300 debutante mages could claim.
Senior mages, even active professors, had been asking about it.
······And today.
Noon on Saturday, when all exams at the Imperial University Tower had ended.
Sylvia was lost in problem 8, oblivious to the passage of time.
Her disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes were utterly unlike her usual self, but she refused to halt her mana surge.
She'd devoted nearly five straight days to it.
In that time, she'd already inscribed more than seven magic circles on her answer sheet.
Problem 8 wove a multitude of complex spells together, so she'd painstakingly extracted each one and transplanted it onto the sheet.
Seven circles so far—and who knew how many more remained.
No wonder the answer sheet seemed so vast.
“······!”
As she worked on the eighth, pain stabbed her head and eyes. Sylvia hastily staunched the nosebleed threatening to drip. A smear could ruin the sheet.
She hurried out of the exam room. In the hallway, blood droplets fell, and she caught her reflection in a tower window.
Wretched.
Haggard.
“······.”
I might actually die like this.
Just a short break.
Sylvia tidied herself with a light cleanse spell.
At the tower elevator, a face she hadn't seen in ten days was dozing off, head nodding.
“Excuse me.”
“Ah, uh, oh, y-yes. Lady Sylvia, are you heading out?”
“Yes.”
“Understood.”
She rode the elevator out of the tower.
Thankfully, the surroundings were quiet. Sylvia walked to a nearby park and sank onto an empty bench.
“······.”
A garden lay right before her.
The university grounds' garden was ordinary.
Grass, flowers, and trees grew from the soil, nourished by the sun and sky above. Even their growth stemmed from that celestial bounty.
The garden, like problem 8, was the result of independent elements uniting as one.
So perhaps grand magic wasn't so different from tending a garden.
Her father had once said that even a thousand Soda-rank mages couldn't manifest grand magic, that thirty professor-level mages were needed for the same, but an archmage could do it alone.
That was why, for nearly sixty years, there had been only one: Demakan.
Now over a century old, he could probably glance at problem 8 and unravel it effortlessly.
“······.”
Sylvia closed her eyes briefly.
She opened them.
The sun had shifted. Puzzling over the lapse magically, she jolted upright in shock.
She'd fallen asleep.
“······!”
Sylvia raced back to the tower and checked the clock.
4 p.m.
Exactly 31 hours and 59 minutes until midnight Sunday.
She sank into her chair, slashing mana and her mage's pen across the page.
A trial of a dozen spells meshed like gears.
Sylvia methodically dismantled their links, isolating and analyzing each.
Unknowing what these circles would become, daring no guesses, she pressed on in ultra-focused trance.
Tick-tock-tick-tock──
The clock seemed sped up, just for her.
Her mana—some ten thousand strong—drained ceaselessly, fusing into the sheet.
At last.
“······Eleven.”
Eleven completed sheets in total.
She laid them on the floor, scrutinizing sequence and fusion structure.
Magic circles etched on the enchanted paper: one, two, three, four······
Eleven cores linked perfectly.
One deep breath.
She poured her mana into this spell, into 150 hours of toil.
───!
The inscribed circles resonated with her soul.
Rumble······.
A heart-shaking tremor.
In that instant, eighty percent of her mana vanished.
The exam room transformed.
“······.”
An unfamiliar landscape overwhelmed the space. The manifested magic stretched beyond walls and ceiling.
This realm severed from the world in a blink.
──Cypress trees and wheat fields swayed together on the earth, while vivid winds coiled and fierce starlight boiled in the sky. A humble village traversed by footbridges, hills of vegetable patches swirled by windmills, sunflowers glimpsed afar—all breathtaking.
A space crafted by Deculein's hand. A tribute to the young mage who solved eleven formulas.
“······.”
To Sylvia, it was······ a painting ablaze with dazzling hues. An oil canvas shimmering hot like spreading pigment.
Art that chilled her to the soul.
“Sylvia.”
A voice drifted in like wind from somewhere. Sylvia's eyes widened as she turned.
In the fantastical fusion of magic and oil, Deculein stood at the center. Impeccably suited as ever, perfection bordering on the ethereal.
He regarded her.
“Congratulations.”
······Kim Woojin's soul harbored a fierce passion for art, at least.
A greed he clung to amid the world's grind. A dream that 'that guy' had helped him keep.
Lacking talent, he never reached his goal, lingering in obscurity instead. Yet those memories fused with Deculein's trait, Aesthetic Sense.
Gaining the artistic gift he'd craved, in this alien world—not Earth—he recreated era-defining masterpieces from memory. He painted his homeland's art as magical illusions.
Starry Night, Road with Cypress and Star, Sunflowers, The Vegetable Garden with Donkey Bridge······.
These paintings' creator: a man writhing in endless pain and sorrow.
An unacknowledged outsider in life.
Tormented between death and madness, birthing primal beauty therefrom.
Vincent, the painter.
His life's canvases burned fiercer than any—ecstatic, sublime.
“······.”
Sylvia gently closed her eyes.
They remained vivid. Scorching as a fresh wound.
All of it, magic.
Every color, an element.
Unseen fields seemed alive, and she, amid the oil's heart, felt her soul quiver.
The quiver spread as resonance.
······Then.
“Thank you.”
Deculein spoke incomprehensibly.
“······?”
Sylvia turned to him. Unknowing what warranted thanks, she saw his sincerity.
“Well done.”
A landscape his own mana couldn't replicate, yet one he yearned to witness once.
Thus, he was grateful to her.
How she'd interpret it, he didn't know—but she nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Sylvia turned back, surrendering to the magic: its wind, scent, hues, motion, light. Long savoring.
Suddenly, heat trailed her cheek.
Moist warmth.
A single tear, lost since her mother's death.
“······.”
Wiping it, she turned.
Deculein was gone.
······She'd wanted to thank him back.
Knock knock—
Allen opened the exam room door.
Coffee bitterness filled the air; Ifrin sat inside.
An ordinarily messy room. Her strewn answer sheets bore many transplanted circles.
She'd approached Sylvia's level but ultimately failed.
“Debutante Ifrin. Time's up.”
“!”
Ifrin flinched, looking up at him.
“Ah······. Already?”
She scratched her hair, smiling bitterly.
“Too bad.”
Allen just smiled back. Ifrin hesitated, shy and regretful, then spoke.
“But, Assistant Professor, this exam······.”
“Ah, yeees. Here you go. Professor Deculein said to give you a new sheet with the safe. It'll need a drop of blood, though.”
Four had solved up to 7, but only two filled all eleven days.
Ifrin was one; she deserved reward.
“Phew······ Thank you.”
She sighed in relief, pricked her finger, gathered pens, clothes, and all, then exited.
Allen escorted her to the elevator.
“Great job, Ifrin.”
“······Thanks so much, Assistant Professor Allen. And the exam sheet too.”
Ifrin bowed deeply—her backpack slipped past her crown, then back up.
“Hehe. No problem.”
At the approaching 30th floor elevator, Allen grinned.
“The sheet'll arrive in three days—study it anytime. I'll enclose ten magic answer sheets too.”
“Oh, really, thank you······.”
“Just don't obsess.”
Ding─
The elevator arrived.
“What you haven't learned yet, what you haven't grasped—you can do it all laaater. It'll all work out eventually. Don't stress if it doesn't click day by day······ At least week by week?”
Allen's face said even he wasn't sure. But grasping the gist, Ifrin smiled and nodded.
Her smile seemed bright.
“Yes. I'll tackle it once a week, steadily.”
“······Yeees.”
Allen watched her enviously, for some reason.
“Take care~”
Ifrin waved until the doors shut.
However.
Ding─!
As they closed, her smile vanished. Blood trickled from clenched molars—bitten all day, nearly loose.
“······Hah.”
She slumped into the elevator corner, shoulders shaking, then punched the wall.
Ding─!
“Hngaaah!”
She thought it broke.
But the doors opened normally. Past midnight, yet at 25, countless mages boarded.
Soda-rank or higher, under professors. No—slaves.
Ding─!
Stopped at 21,
Ding─!
at 19,
Ding─!
at 12.
Ding─!
At 5.
The elevator brimmed with thirty mages.
“When do we even sleep, seriously.”
“Hey, don't push—someone's in the corner······.”
“Right? Grading's insane.”
“Ow······ Stop······.”
“Finish this, and complaints'll flood in.”
“Save me······”
“Yeah. Accept 'em, and the prof'll flip over his pride······.”
Ding─
Nearly crushed, Ifrin reached the first floor.
“······Hng.”
Stumbling out in near-anemic dizziness, she exited the tower.
Staggering weakly, her legs froze at the threshold.
She couldn't go farther.
Could only stand.
“Hey, Ipi!”
Across: the club she'd impulsively founded and joined.
Its members waited.
“······.”
Ifrin couldn't hold it.
Her cheeks ballooned like steamed buns.
The dam she'd barely held burst.
“Ipi~ Don't cry. Let's eat. Got Roahawk boar at our spot.”
“Roahawk······.”
Her friends approached the dazed girl; soon they walked as one.
“But no crying, or no share.”
“······I'm not crying. When have I ever?”
······Darkness fell on the ever-radiant Imperial Palace.
Ministers donned black-and-white robes; palace gates sealed shut.
In the vast throne hall,
Imperial Guardian Knights, ministers, grand officials, and bureaucrats knelt in ranks, the central carpet—traversable only by the emperor—between them.
Emperor Krevaim sat his throne. Yet veiled, unseen.
He wished to depart seated.
The hall drowned in silence. No breath from Krevaim.
Ministers and knights stifled tears; choked sobs leaked.
The emperor wouldn't endure today; per his will, his body would rest in a simple wooden coffin.
For three days, gates would stay shut; after nine, the succession rite. Hostage princes, princesses, and house heads would gather······.
······In this moment, death imminent.
Succession rank one, Sophien Yekater Augus von Zifreine, pondered deeply in her chambers.
“······Your Highness.”
Her knight, Kairon, spoke. Sophien's languid gaze met his. Crimson pupils sank sleepily beneath narrowed lids.
“Shouldn't we call you Majesty now?”
“His Majesty has not yet passed.”
Sophien chuckled softly.
“No, it's been over six months already.”
“······.”
Silent, Kairon drew documents from his robe. Study materials.
“This month's assignment.”
“Throw it.”
“It's homework.”
“You always bring burdens. So vexing.”
“Try it. It's a famous one.”
Sophien, succession assured, shone in every field.
Sword in hand, she'd ascend to Valhalla; book, become sage; magic, rival archmages.
The issue: her laziness.
Past her early twenties, she showed no passion for any pursuit.
Yet flawlessly poised.
Keen on politics, attentive ear. No rash judgments, detached from emotion. Decisive cuts, no petty favors, grudges sharper than blades.
Potential eclipsing Emperor Krevaim in all—true imperial makings.
“Hm.”
Sophien eyed Kairon's stack.
“Magic.”
“Yes.”
Then its author.
“Deculein Grahan von Yukline?”
“You know him.”
“Of course. The one defending Altiegue at Verhert. Most displeasing. No, has the fool lost his mind? Why back Altiegue suddenly?”
“······He was never well-regarded.”
Kairon smiled wryly. Sophien tossed the papers.
“Still, read it.”
“Why.”
“Auctioned on Floating Island—30,000 elne now.”
“Why.”
“Limited stock, but Imperial Geor Gong insists Your Highness would benefit—by fiat—”
“Why.”
“······Read or not, as you please.”
“Why.”
“······.”
Sophien laughed silently.
“I'll read later. Why not give to Kreto?”
“Prince Kreto bid himself.”
“Figures. Always needlessly self-reliant.”
Succession rank two, her brother Kreto: a Lumiere-rank mage fond of magic.
“Anyway, Kairon. Once I ascend, what would you do with Altiegue? Ah, 'We' now?”
Kairon gave no answer. Sophien twisted her lips.
“You always say, 'Knights don't meddle in politics.'”
“'Knights speak sparingly.'”
“Same thing. You clam up on politics alone. Otherwise, you'd never shut up. You all spout brilliantly when blades are at your necks. Not one exception.”
“······.”
Kairon regarded her.
To him, her pupils held a gaze beyond victory. Some called it innate dignity; but to Kairon, with her since thirteen, it was just rotten mackerel eyes.
Boom─────
The hall drum resounded.
Kairon bit his lip.
“Your Highness, it's time.”
“Very well.”
Sophien rose. She strode with unmatched poise and grandeur—imperial from birth.
Knight Kairon followed with measured steps.