Potential Measurement (1)
The end of their journey approaches already.
"There's the Midland wall!"
Georges St. Pierre, looking bedraggled from all the trials along the way, points toward the long horizon line visible below in the valley. Downstream of the Dort River, which originates from the Midgard Mountains in the central region. A high, long wall comes into view across the plains formed by layers of red sedimentary soil. The great empire of Midland. A massive nation sprawled across an 80-meter-high sedimentary hill. From the volcanic zones in the east to the cold climates in the south, this vast empire claims nearly all the land on the central continent fit for human habitation.
"The scent of dragons is getting thicker. Thicker than ever before."
Cliche mutters in a low voice as he gazes at Midland's western gate. Among all the lands he's set foot on so far, this is the one most deeply tied to dragons. A faint thrill of joy begins to stir in his chest.
"What a long journey it's been. Though for some reason, it felt a bit short."
"Yeah, it took us almost two weeks."
"We got lost in some deep mountain valley along the way, fought for our lives against monsters unknown to humanity, got chased by natives preserving an ancient civilization intact... so many things happened, yet here we are, arrived at last."
"Yep. Really long, rough, and boring. Would've been nice if we could just skip it."
Georges and Cliche banter back and forth as they start descending the mountain. They haven't even entered Midland Academy yet, but just arriving here makes all their efforts feel rewarded.
Passing through the gate, Cliche and Georges board a gondola on the central canal and head straight for the heart of Midland: the capital, Benechiol.
Midland boasts the most advanced culture on the entire continent, and without a doubt, its epicenter is the capital, Benechiol.
"Wow! It's really pretty."
Georges sheds her usual stoic demeanor, marveling purely and innocently. Gripping the gondola railing, her eyes sparkle, reflecting the sunlight dancing on the rippling water.
The capital Benechiol sits in a gently sloping basin, so as you enter the city roads, the entire urban landscape below comes into view at once. Bustling streets teem with crowds, magnificent buildings rise high. Countless aerial bridges connect them, with evergreen vines draping thickly from the supports year-round. And at the base of all these structures lies not earth, but water. Innumerable canals weave through alleys and between buildings.
Plop! A single grape drops from a vine clinging to the church's massive clock tower wall, splashing into the water below.
Snap! A carp surfaces, snatches the grape, and vanishes beneath again.
Such scenes are commonplace throughout the city, earning Benechiol the nickname "City of Water."
In the heart of Midland, amid a vast sedimentary plain, lies a pristine freshwater lake. Its 112 islands are linked by some 400 bridges. White buildings pierce the sky above the water, connected by myriad spans. Ivy hangs in lush cascades, fruit trees thrive in lakeside gardens. Canals crisscross not just between islands but the whole city, serving as vital thoroughfares that create this unique, breathtaking urban tapestry—hence the "City of Water" moniker.
This enchanting metropolis floats dreamily on water, so canoes gliding through alley canals are a common sight. The most frequent transport on the waterways slicing between bridges and buildings? Small boats, naturally. Canal-side vendors hawk trinkets from their vessels everywhere.
Bridges overhead for foot traffic, vines heavy with fruit dangling below, and tangled canals beneath. The sight evokes a fairy-tale world, beautiful and fantastical.
Thus, Midland—especially Benechiol—thrives as a hub of water and land transport, fueled by rich culture and booming horticulture with year-round fruits and flowers. Theaters, museums, clock towers, temples, opera houses, the imperial library, coliseum, and grand public baths abound among the cutting-edge cultural facilities.
"But if we're talking the most famous..."
Unlike her usual self, Georges flushes with excitement, pulling a guidebook from her pocket. She turns to Cliche, eyes gleaming.
"It's the Academy we're enrolling in!"
The Academy. Where the world's elite royals and nobles gather to study. Typically divided into knight studies and magic studies, each further split into elemental basics or 18 weapon types.
But.
"Doesn't matter to me."
Cliche's goal is crystal clear. This thick dragon scent must be wafting from the Wanggabi Stone in Midland. The question is how to get a look at it...
"Smashing our way in would cause diplomatic issues, right?"
"Of course."
"Ugh."
Cliche strokes his chin, pondering. Georges soothes him masterfully.
"Don't worry, Captain. They say top performers at the Academy get access to the Wanggabi Stone. With your talents, you can sightsee it to your heart's content."
"Hope so."
Soon enough, Cliche and Georges disembark the gondola onto the docks. They hail a carriage, cross two bridges, and the grand gates of their new Academy come into view.
"Must be because today is the absolute last day for enrollment—look at all these people."
Georges marvels at the long line waiting at the gates.
"Why the queue?"
Cliche asks lazily, and Georges explains politely.
"Midland Academy measures potential and assigns classes based on the results: S Class, A Class, B Class, C Class for leveled learning. They're probably running a bit late with all the testing."
The word "measurement" draws a blatant grimace from Cliche.
"What, solving test problems and fitness checks?"
"Well, Rok's knight academy did it that way individually... but I hear Midland uses a super-efficient modern method. I've only read about it, so..."
Sure enough, as Georges says, the line is long but shrinking fast.
"Yes! A Class!"
"Unbelievable! Me in C Class? No way! My dad and tutor called me a once-in-a-century genius in our family!"
"B Class—I'm satisfied. B Class at the great empire's Midland Academy is huge."
In truth, S, A, B, C Class don't come with major perks or penalties. Just differences like mandatory night self-study, vacation supplements, or meal times. (Though top-tier S Class does have special privileges.)
But for young students, the pride of a higher class matters a lot. Cheers and groans mix everywhere.
Finally, Georges and Cliche pass the main gate to the central training grounds—the potential measurement site.
A circular field carpeted in green grass holds a single small chair at center, surrounded by the full Academy faculty. An elderly man in a floppy hat with a long white beard—clear, kindly eyes behind thick glasses. Principal Dumbledore II personally fits the measurement tool on students.
Said tool? A hat with a face.
"A Class!"
The hat's wrinkled face twists grotesquely, croaking the assignment in a raspy voice. High-potential students strut off proudly with gear for the dorms.
Fair enough—attending Midland Academy alone grants near-noble status anywhere; A Class is truly brag-worthy.
Meanwhile, faculty murmur among themselves.
"Heard the news?"
"Rumors say Midland's youngest princess is enrolling?"
"Mm, yes."
Academy rules require identity proof at admission, then total secrecy. But rumors leak. Per admissions office intel, a princess is among the newbies. Thus, professors greet them extra tensely.
"C Class!"
The hat declares firmly; the boy slumps, grabs his kit, and trudges to the shabbier dorms. Quality varies by class.
Then—trip! Someone sticks out a foot. He tumbles forward.
Boys hidden behind a pillar snicker down at him.
"Hey, buddy? We're B Class. Higher than your C Class, as you know."
"Different dorms and classes, but let's get along."
"We'll see each other plenty in general classes anyway. Lighten up~ Just a prank."
The freckled ringleader cackles. Bullying happens everywhere.
And now, it's Georges's turn for the hat.
"Hmm, looks familiar. No copyright concerns?"
"Nah, shape's subtly different."
Chatting idly, they step forward. As Georges reaches center, murmurs rise.
"Hey, who's that hick?"
"Look at the rags. From far away, huh?"
"Some backwater minor nation."
"Cute face, though. Boyfriend material? Fun to toy with."
"Bet on her potential? I say C Class."
Upperclassmen spectating the freshies jeer, arms crossed, dismissing her shabby attire.
But.
"S Class!"
The hat barely touches her head before barking it decisively. No hesitation.
First time it's been so instant—professors' eyes bulge. S Class is rarer than five a year. Usually, it deliberates a full minute, weighing potentials across fields against distributions.
This? Unprecedented.
"Remarkable potential. Congratulations."
Principal Dumbledore II even shakes her hand personally—her talent is that immense.
"Thank you, sir."
Georges salutes crisply, military-style. Knight faculty gasp in awe.
"Our motto: polish raw gems into jewels. This one's already a gem."
"Future pillar of Midland."
"And so handsome... sigh."
"Teaching talents like this is why we do it."
Professors nod, exchanging blessings.
Georges receives her S Class student ID, uniform, textbooks, and amenity-packed survival kit.
Whoa, rich country perks— they give everything.
She gapes at the bag stuffed with premium cosmetics, casual clothes, towels, toiletries, bath goods—nothing missing.
Meanwhile.
"Hey! I'll show you to the dorms."
"Hi, newbie! Into clubs?"
"Study group? Hit me up."
Popular upperclassmen swarm her. Her Academy life looks anything but ordinary.
Meantime, the admissions director checks papers and calls the next.
"Next. Cliche."
The crowd stirs—different vibe from Georges's moment.