The question echoed in Indra's mind, an incessant loop of pure bewilderment. He wasn't a scholar like the Clan heirs, who had been weaned on energy treatises since the cradle. He wasn't a power prodigy like Ye Chen, a Master who already breathed the aura of higher levels. He was a newcomer, a low-level Graduate who, until a month ago, believed the world was made of physics and mundane concerns. How could his answers, which he had judged to be merely... adequate, competent enough to pass, have placed him at the apex of that mountain of names, above all the other candidates, including those whose surnames carried the weight of centuries of tradition and power?
The fleeting satisfaction he'd felt upon finishing the exam evaporated, replaced by a deep unease. He hadn't just passed. He had stood out glaringly, luminously. And in the world of shadows and backstabbing of the Esoteric Society, being a beacon wasn't always an honor. Often, it was the quickest way to attract arrows.
As he stared at the scoreboard, a hundred hypotheses fired in his mind, each more implausible than the last. Maybe the cognitive artifact had glitched. Maybe there was another Indra Shuemesch on the list. Maybe it was a different kind of trial, testing how he handled the pressure of first place. Nothing made sense.
Soon enough, the reality around him began to solidify. The other candidates gathered in front of the scoreboard, after getting over the initial shock, began to follow the direction of his fixed gaze. Whispers arose, like snakes slithering across the hall floor. Heavy, calculating looks landed on him, scanning him, dissecting him. No one dared make a direct fuss after Shirayuki's icy reprimand, but the suspicion and disbelief were palpable in the air.
"Must have gotten an Apprentice-level test..." — someone whispered.
"Lucky guy. Gamed the system. But the next phase is what matters."
"Who is that? From which Clan? Shuemesch... never heard of it."
Indra caught fragments of the conversations. Their explanation was simple, logical, and the only one that made any superficial sense. Perhaps he really had been lucky enough to receive more basic questions, and his direct approach, without unnecessary philosophical flourishes, had been rewarded with a top score on an easier set of questions. It was the only plausible option his tired mind could accept.
But it was fine. The result was there, immutable. Spending mental energy fighting it was useless. The best and only option was tactical acceptance. He took a deep breath, the hall's cold air filling his lungs and bringing a renewed focus. If anyone confronted him, his response would be simple, almost dismissive:
'I answered what was asked of me. If the questions were easy, that's not my fault.'
He turned and left the main hall, feeling the stares burning into his back.
His destination was the refectory. He needed to find Sophie. He needed guidance, a beacon in this sudden fog of unwanted attention. More importantly, he needed to find out what the hell came next.
The Academy's refectory was a cathedral of stone and soft light, with long tables of dark oak and the heavy aroma of exotic meats and Other Side herbs. When he entered, a new wave of glances turned his way. Some curious, others openly hostile, others just assessing the new piece on the board. He ignored them all, a skill he was being forced to rapidly perfect. He released his Energy Sense, a subtle web of perception that stretched across the crowded hall. It immediately collided with dozens of other Senses, an invisible network of mutual vigilance where everyone spied on everyone. It was the natural environment of Paranormals.
Then, he found her. A familiar energetic signature, a serene and imposing Magic Power in a quieter corner. Sophie was sitting alone at a table for four, fiddling with her smartwatch, a complex hologram hovering above her wrist.
Indra approached and sat down across from her without ceremony. Sophie turned off the smartwatch, and the hologram disappeared with a subtle click. She then looked up at him, and a mocking, sharp smile lit up her face.
"My number one nerd took his time getting here." — she said, her voice a mix of provocation and affection.
"Were you busy? Perhaps delayed by a line of admirers?"
Indra let out a deep sigh, the weight of fatigue and bewilderment evident in his shoulders.
"How long are you going to waste on little jokes?" — he said ironically.
Sophie let out a low, melodious laugh, resting her chin on her right hand.
"I'm just breaking the ice. It's a bit uncomfortable sitting with someone who's receiving so many stares they could melt steel." — her heterochromatic eyes sparkled with amusement.
Indra agreed with a tired nod.
"Fair enough. And you? Aren't you a little... curious?" — he tilted his head in the general direction of the main hall.
"About how... this happened?"
"Curious? No." — she replied, with an air of false innocence.
"I'd rather just think that, with the incredible and incomparable tutoring I provided, you naturally blossomed into an unmatched genius. It's the expected outcome, considering how magnificent I am as a mentor."
This time, it was Indra who let out a short, genuine laugh.
"When did you become such a joker?"
"Just lightening the mood." — she retorted, her expression turning serious for a second, though her eyes still shone.
"Because the conversation from here on out will only be about how you, my dear first-place finisher, are going to avoid being massacred and dismembered by the other 1,036 participants who now know your name and your face."
Indra felt a visceral chill run down his spine.
"That was... a bit too direct."
"But true." — she completed, without blinking.
"Do you have any idea what's next?" — asked Indra.
Sophie shook her head.
"No concrete information. But I can tell you what it won't be: another written test. Prepare to sweat, bleed, and maybe cry. It will probably be combat-related, in one way or another."
Indra sighed again, a sound that was becoming a refrain in his life.
"Then maybe I should pray I don't run into a too-powerful opponent right away.I don't want all the hell I went through with Aleksei to be for nothing."
The mention of the veteran's name made Sophie's eyes narrow, a spark of genuine curiosity replacing the amusement.
"Speaking of which... what kind of training did you have with Aleksei, exactly?"
Indra felt a sudden chill, different from the previous one. Flashes of pain, of absolute exhaustion, of being crushed repeatedly just to learn to get up a millisecond faster. His face grew slightly pale.
"It's better... better left unrevealed." — he said, his voice a bit rougher.
"I'm still trying to get over some of the... details."
Sophie studied him for a moment, her expression softening into something bordering on understanding. She made a face as if amused, but there was a tacit respect in her gaze.
"Alright. But one day, you'll have to tell me. Detail by detail."
Indra just nodded, grateful she wasn't pressing.
Sophie then took her chin off her hand and stretched slightly.
"Now, speaking of more immediate needs... go get us some food. It's been forever since I ate anything from the Academy cafeteria. I'm nostalgic for the sweet taste of... institutional youth." — she made a funny grimace.
Indra laughed again and stood up.
"As you wish, Esteemed Captain." — he said, with a tone laden with heavy irony.
As he turned his back and started walking towards the long buffet counter, he clearly heard her voice whisper, full of amusement:
"Brat."
The smile was still on his lips as he headed for the giant table laden with food. He picked up two large plates and began analyzing the options. There was a profusion of Other Side delicacies: stews that glowed softly, meats from creatures with impossible colors, pulsating roots. But in one corner, there was a more familiar section, with dishes from the Mortal Plane.
Indra filled Sophie's plate with a deliberately bizarre selection of the most vibrant and dubious-textured esoteric foods he could find, a small act of silent revenge for the jokes. Then, he started assembling his own plate, opting for a more conservative approach.
It was then that his hand reached for a tray of brazilians cheese breads, still warm and smelling invitingly of home. At the exact same instant, another hand, clad in an elegant black leather glove, moved with the same intention and speed. Both hands stopped in mid-air, side by side, hovering over the brazilians cheese breads, Indra's fingers inches from the gloved fingers of the stranger.
Indra froze, his curiosity instantly piqued. Most Paranormals born on the Other Side turned up their noses at "primitive" Mortal Plane food. And cheese bread... that was specifically Brazilian. His mind, still alert, fired the obvious question:
'Who is this person? Could they also be from the Mortal Plane?'
Indra turned his head, his black eyes meeting the source of the gloved hand. The man was of identical stature to his, a mirror in height, but a complete contrast in everything else. His hair was jet-black, medium-length and perfectly styled, framing a face with sharp yet serene features. He wore an immaculately white overcoat, a stain of near-offensive purity in the crowded, earthy refectory. For a moment that seemed to stretch in time, Indra's black eyes and the man's deeply unsettling purple eyes met, each reflecting a cautious strangeness.
The man broke the silence with a small, polished smile.
"Please, go ahead." — he said, his voice smooth as velvet, but with a resonance that seemed to vibrate slightly in the bone. Indra found the man deeply strange — the combination of supernatural elegance with the mundane choice of cheese bread was dissonant. He nodded his head in a gesture of silent thanks, taking a few cheese breads. The man then did the same.
Indra moved aside, towards a pile of ham and cheese sandwiches. His hand reached out, and again, like a choreographed shadow, the black leather-gloved hand appeared beside his, hovering over the same tray. Indra looked sideways, and once more the purple eyes stared back at him, the same smooth, impenetrable expression painted on the man's face. He seemed about to speak, but Indra was faster, a deliberate replica of the previous gesture.
"You first." — said Indra, his voice neutral.
The man's expression didn't change, but he took a sandwich.
"Thank you."
Indra then took his.
The situation was beginning to lose its air of chance and take on one of deliberate absurdity. Indra walked once more, this time to a tray of chicken pie. Determined to break the pattern, he reached out his hand. And, like an infallible reflex, the gloved hand appeared again, side by side.
This time, their voices came out in unison, a chorus of surreal politeness:
"You can go first."
The synchronicity made them pause. They stared at each other, and for the first time, the man's mask of smoothness cracked enough to reveal a spark of genuine confusion, a feeling Indra fully shared. After a short, awkward impasse, Indra decided to take the initiative. He moved his hand forward, but at the same instant, the man's hand made the same movement. They simultaneously withdrew, like two fighters gauging each other's timing. Indra tried again, and once more, their hands moved in parallel, almost touching over the pie.
Indra couldn't help but think the situation had crossed the line from strange into the territory of exasperating comedy. Realizing that courtesy would only keep them trapped there forever, he stepped forward with determination and took a piece of pie. The man, reacting to his movement, did the same.
Indra then moved to the last stop: a decadent chocolate cake. This time, he didn't reach out his hand. He stood still, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. To his growing disbelief, the man didn't move either. Indra narrowed his eyes and looked directly at him. The man in the white overcoat was alternating his gaze between the cake and Indra, clearly waiting for Indra to make the first move. They had thought of exactly the same tactic.
Indra cleared his throat, a rough sound that broke the tense silence. Feeling deeply embarrassed by the pantomime, he said.
"Please, have a slice."
The man inclined his head.
"My thanks."
He took a slice of cake. Indra averted his gaze, feeling his face grow warm, and took his own. It was then that the man's soft voice filled the space between them again.
"Indra Shuemesch... quite interesting. Different from what I expected from someone from the Mortal Plane."
Indra went still, his hand freezing in mid-air over the cake. He looked directly at the man, who maintained his casual expression. Surprise gave way to a quick, cold analysis.
'How does he know my name?'
The obvious answer came quickly: the scoreboard. But knowing the name was one thing; recognizing his face in a crowd, and with such certainty, was another. This man was no ordinary candidate. Perhaps he was someone high-ranking with access to his registration data. And that meant this whole ridiculous dance around the buffet — the cheese bread, the sandwiches, the pie — hadn't been a coincidence. It had been a calculated approach.
The man seemed to read the distrust in Indra's eyes. His smooth smile remained.
"No need to worry.I was just curious about what the boy under Sophie's tutelage was like. It would be good to have a conversation."
A bolt of understanding hit Indra.
'Sophie.'
Of course.The half-demon Captain of the Tenth Legion was a notorious figure. Rumors about her taking in a complete stranger from the Mortal Plane would certainly have spread. The man's explanation was plausible, perhaps even the most likely one. Indra's caution didn't diminish, but the immediate tension did.
"I see." — said Indra, his voice still a bit reserved.
"And what would you like to talk about? And, since we're at it, it's normal for people to introduce themselves before asking questions."
It was a subtle reminder that the man held all the informational advantage.
The man gave a low laugh, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as Indra.
"Fair enough. People call me Grisham." — he paused, his purple eyes assessing Indra.
"I have a few simple questions. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
Indra nodded. One part of him warned of the dangers of getting involved with mysterious figures, but another, more pragmatic part recognized the value of making connections — especially with people who seemed to have influence.
"Ask away."
Grisham began, his voice losing a bit of its smoothness and taking on a more investigative tone.
"What did you think of the Written Exam?"
Indra shrugged, an honest answer coming out before he could polish it.
"Aside from one or two questions... most were quite easy."
A gleam of satisfaction ignited in the depths of Grisham's purple eyes. He nodded.
"And the Practical Class in the Vallencourt Forest.I heard you went in as an Awakened and came out a Graduate in three days. What happened to achieve that?"
Indra felt a chill run down his spine. The memory of those days was a fog of pain, fear, and fierce determination.
"A few... not very pleasant encounters." — he replied, his voice lower.
"I was forced to evolve to survive."
Grisham nodded again, as if this answer also fit perfectly into a puzzle he was assembling. His third question was broader.
"And the Other Side? What are you finding it like?"
This question made Indra stop. He looked at his plate, then at the bustle of the refectory, and beyond, at the stone walls separating the Academy from the bizarre vastness of the Other Side. His mind was flooded by a torrent of conflicting feelings. The way he was introduced to that world had been brutal, painful, and sudden. Everything he knew had been ripped from him in a single night. He had studied the Realms, the energies, the creatures, but it was academic knowledge, colorless. He had never truly explored. He had never set foot on the plains of Rodínia or faced the dangers of a Red Zone of his own volition. Deep down, beneath the layer of caution and trauma, there was an itch, a deep, almost primal curiosity. Despite knowing it was a place where he could easily die, the mere idea of the Realm of Phenomena, the other civilizations, the indescribable wonders and horrors, stirred something in him.
"Amazing."
The word left his lips before he could contain it. It was short, direct, and absolutely precise. A small, but genuine smile of anticipation touched his face as he visualized the possibilities.
Upon hearing the answer, Grisham's smile widened, becoming an almost mirror reflection of Indra's. There was a shared glint of enthusiasm in that moment, a mutual recognition of the attraction to the unknown.
Grisham nodded, satisfied for the last time.
"One last question, then. What do you want, Indra Shuemesch? What is your ambition?"
The question hit Indra like a bucket of ice water. Ambition? He had never stopped to define it in grandiose words. Survive? It was an instinct, not a goal. Explore? It was a desire, not a mission. He wrestled with his own confusion, feeling the expectation in Grisham's gaze.
"I want... to get stronger." — he finally said, the phrase sounding vague and unsatisfactory even to his own ears.
Grisham frowned slightly, his smooth expression finally showing a crack of perplexity. He clearly expected an explanation, a reason, a purpose behind the strength.
"Is that all?" — he probed.
Indra felt that any elaboration would be a lie. His truth was simple, almost primitive.
"Yes."
Grisham studied him for a long moment, his expression becoming enigmatic again, a veil descending over his thoughts. He finally nodded, a final gesture that denoted neither approval nor disapproval, merely acceptance.
"Thank you for your time. It would be good to meet again."
He then walked past Indra, his movement fluid and silent, picked up a glass of orange juice, and, in a matter of seconds, was absorbed by the crowd, disappearing like a ghost.
Indra stood for a moment, the plate of food now feeling heavy in his hands. The entire encounter had been profoundly strange. He picked up his own glass of juice and started heading back to Sophie's table, but his mind couldn't detach from the image of Grisham's purple eyes. There was something behind them, something deep and hidden that the polite conversation hadn't touched. A stubborn unease settled in his chest. In the world of the Esoteric Society, mysterious figures rarely appeared without reason. And he had the nauseating feeling that, somehow, he had just become a piece in Grisham's game, whatever it was.