Chapter 39 – The First Trial
The corridor leading to the Great Hall was crowded even at this early hour; students waited along the walls, whispering, some checking their notes one last time, others just staring into nothing and counting their breaths.
When Seryn descended from the northern stairway and joined the crowd, the tension in the air was almost as tangible as mana. No one laughed. Today, humor had been traded for silence.
Kai waved from under a pillar.
"Here," he said. "Ready to die. I think my stomach officially resigned."
Rien leaned against the wall, watching people quietly. His eyes were sharp, gauging every movement.
"Theory," he said. "At worst, it'll cut paper. The field test will be worse."
Kai sighed. "You really don't know how to comfort people, do you?"
Seryn approached them.
"Three exams," he said. "We're facing only one today. Not the place to fall."
Kai opened his mouth. "Do you ever get scared? Can I borrow some of that cold-blooded attitude?"
"I never said I don't get scared," Seryn replied. "I've just seen worse things than exams."
The sentence hung in the air for a moment.
Kai's joking expression softened. Rien looked at Seryn without looking away, then gave a small nod.
"That's it," he said. "That's the real difference."
At the far end of the corridor, something shifted. Two Academy attendants opened the heavy door. The crowd straightened.
"Inside," one of them called. "Quietly and in order. Your seats are numbered."
---
The Great Hall looked very different from a ceremony day.
Desks were arranged one by one with space in between. High above, near the dome, a complex net of golden lines glowed faintly.
Anti-cheating formations. And more.
As Seryn stepped into the hall, he glanced up. The lines did not just run horizontally; they also descended vertically. Above each desk, there was a small focal point—as if a thin, invisible thread had been tied to every student's head.
Kai muttered under his breath:
"Is it just me, or does it feel like someone wrapped a rope around our throats?"
"Worse," Seryn said. "It's less like a rope and more like a net that leaves no marks."
Rien tilted his head, eyes tracing the joints of the formation.
"The center… podium opposite the doors," he said. "Whoever reads the questions is the central hub."
"And not just the teacher," Seryn added.
Along the side gallery, behind the marble railing, figures in white and gold stood watching. Temple priests. Among them, a familiar face: Inquisitor Atheon. Beside him, an imperial inspector in polished armor and a colder gaze.
Kai exhaled. "Perfect. Temple watching, Empire watching. All we need now is a ticket price and it's a play."
Rien started walking toward his designated row. "Let's at least not collapse on stage."
Seryn sat at his numbered desk. A blank sheet lay before him, ink on the left, pen on the right. On the front edge of the desk, a small stone was embedded, pulsing with a faint light. One of the lower anchors of the formation.
The net above hummed just below perception. When Seryn placed his hands on the desk, a subtle tingling went through his fingertips. It was reading his mana flow.
He found himself more interested in the net than in the exam itself.
War was no longer fought only on open fields. It could be fought on paper too.
At the podium by the doors, Eiren Vos appeared—the strategy instructor, now standing as the one to open the exam. Behind him stood Calden, adjusting his posture as his eyes ran along the side lines of the formation. Seraphine stood toward the back, near the Temple gallery but a step ahead of them—aligned with them yet apart.
Eiren's voice filled the hall:
"Welcome to your end-of-term theory exam. This is not only a measure of knowledge, but also of how clear your minds are. The rules are simple: no talking, no mana use, no markings on anything but your paper. The formation above tracks unusual mana surges and any attempt at outside help."
He stressed that line deliberately.
"Remember: anyone who cheats today doesn't just lose grades. They lose the road ahead."
Seryn glanced briefly toward the priests in the gallery.
For them, this exam was more than numbers. Every "abnormal" signature could turn into a future file.
Eiren gestured; attendants began distributing the papers.
A sheet landed in front of Seryn.
---
"Section I – Fundamentals of Aura, Mana, and Ritual Interaction."
Five questions. Three classic, two case-based.
First: "Name three critical anatomical areas where aura and mana pathways intersect, and explain their practical impact."
Second: "List two advantages and two disadvantages a ritual-enhanced student may experience in basic mana control training."
Third: "In a short comment, explain why spells that require extreme mental focus are more dangerous in crisis situations."
Seryn's lips twitched slightly.
This part wasn't hard. The danger lay in knowing too much.
He lifted the pen.
He answered the first question briefly and clearly, sticking to the narrative the instructors wanted: verified, non-controversial knowledge.
He paused at the second.
"The advantages of ritual enhancement…"
He wasn't writing about himself, but the words still dragged his experience onto the page. Stronger muscle tissue, faster reflexes, more stamina. But when he reached the disadvantages, the pen hesitated.
"Mana flow hardening… difficulty relaxing without external aid… the body's own warning threshold dulled."
Bits of his own life crept between the lines.
For the third question, the phrase "crisis situation" took him back to that night—demonic assault, the B-class commander, the sky tearing, Valen's light turning the heavens white.
But what he wrote stayed simple:
"When the mind is bound to delicate spellwork, the noise and fear of crisis can easily shatter that structure. The fewer steps and words a crisis spell has, the safer it is."
The second section was strategy.
A small map, a bandit ambush scenario, a convoy escort plan. Familiar flavors from Eiren's classes.
"Instead of using a classic closing formation," Seryn wrote, "leaving two squares empty lets you choose where the ambush will land. Matching the enemy's surprise with your own requires deliberate gaps."
Eiren would be pleased when he read that line. The man loved "planned emptiness."
When the third section began, the stone embedded in the desk vibrated faintly.
A new layer activated.
"Section III – Mana Signature Analysis and Theoretical Harmony."
No normal questions. Just one instruction:
> "Follow the simple breathing exercise below for three breaths and describe the mana flow you feel in three sentences, in your own words. Time: five minutes."
Everyone must be grabbing their pens right now, he thought.
Some would write what they truly felt. Others would write what they believed the instructors wanted to see.
But the real exam wasn't on the page. It was hanging above.
Seryn closed his eyes.
He inhaled: four short.
Exhaled: two short.
The gray hum in his chest stirred. Instead of crushing it, he built a thin wall around it—like hiding inside a more "normal" pattern.
The focal points of the formation pulsed above each student like small, blinking hearts.
As he wrote, he listened to the net's rhythm.
One. Two. Three.
Not individually. Collectively.
When a signature aligned with normal mana flow, the net created a short "match" imprint and moved on. When something abnormal happened, it lingered.
Seryn kept the gray resonance from spilling beyond his breath.
It wasn't overwhelmingly strong—but it was different. Different got noticed.
My job is not to be noticed, he thought.
He wrote three sentences:
"Mana circulates along my chest line like water learning the shape of its surroundings. It creates a faint heaviness in my knees but no pressure on my thoughts. As I maintain my focus, it expands and contracts gently with my breathing."
No more. No less.
Right then, he felt a small ripple in the net above his head.
The formation was trying to read him.
Instead of retreating completely, he shifted the gray line by the tiniest margin—no more than a hair's width. Too slight for human notice; enough to register as "noise" to a mechanical net.
The stone in the desk hissed softly, then returned to its steady pulse.
Like a short, static-filled interruption.
Up in the gallery, one of the priests bent over his crystal.
"Interference at one desk," he whispered.
Atheon lowered his head to see.
"Name?" he asked calmly.
The priest touched the relay rune. The focal point drifted briefly toward the northern rows, then stabilized.
"Daskal… Seryn."
Atheon's lips curved.
"Of course," he murmured. "Even in an exam hall, his presence refuses to be quiet."
The priest added, uneasy, "But the formation isn't broken. Just… a short disruption."
"Then ignore it," Atheon said. "We're not looking for what breaks. We're looking for what bends."
Down below, Seryn opened his eyes.
The stone was calm again. The net hadn't lingered too long. He had likely looked "normal enough."
They'll leave a note on my file, he thought.
"Signature anomaly. Recommend repeated observation."
Not a disaster. He'd been observed for years anyway.
---
The final part of the exam consisted of short, written questions about history and institutions.
Empire–Temple relations, the limits of the Academy's autonomy, old wars.
Seryn wrote carefully.
He answered like someone who knew the truth but refused to show emotion. His sentences stayed in the center: neither too critical nor too reverent. Clean, balanced lines.
When a mana wave rang through the hall like a silent bell, the time was up.
Eiren's voice rose again:
"Drop your pens. Hands off the papers."
Attendants moved between the desks, collecting sheets. Some students' hands were trembling. Some bowed their heads as if in prayer, others stared up at the ceiling.
As he stood, Kai grimaced.
"That was murder," he said. "This is what they call 'theory'?"
Rien's lips were pressed in a tight line.
"The strategy questions were clear. But the mana harmony part…" He shrugged. "It doesn't matter what any of us wrote. They'll look at the signature."
Seryn said nothing.
He was almost sure his paper was already on a different pile. Maybe another desk, another floor… maybe already heading toward Valen's office.
As students started filing out, he turned toward the side gallery.
Seraphine stood differently than the priests. They were seated; she remained standing. Their eyes didn't meet, but Seryn thought he caught a fleeting shadow on her face—and then a brief trace of relief.
The formation didn't explode, he thought.
So I stayed on the right edge of the line.
---
In the corridor, as the crowd dispersed, Kai came up beside him.
"Confess," he said. "You deliberately left some questions half done."
"One," Seryn replied.
"Which?"
"The open-ended case question about ritual and mana interactions. If I answered fully, it would be too obvious how much I understand."
Kai stared.
"You… held back on purpose?"
"Sometimes being incomplete is safer," Seryn said.
Rien added, "Smart. Anyone too 'obviously capable' becomes a problem for both the Empire and the Temple."
Kai ruffled his hair. "Well, then I'm the safest person alive. I left a lot blank."
"Trust me," Seryn said with a small smile, "your kind of 'blank' is different."
Rien actually laughed.
"At least someone here is perfectly balanced."
---
That afternoon, no official scores were posted.
But news traveled faster than magic in the Academy.
"I bet Calden is keeping a private list," Kai said over dinner. "Top ten, top fifty, and the hopeless bottom."
Rien stirred his soup slowly. "The unofficial list is the dangerous one. If your name is on it, they keep watching you after the exam."
Kai froze with his spoon halfway. "Then I'm safe."
As Seryn stood to leave, he scanned the hall.
Some faces were relieved. Others hollowed out by dread. Some were clearly sure they'd answered everything and were quietly thanking the divine. Others carried the weight of unanswered questions like stones in their chest.
Inside, he carried a different kind of weight.
What percent of his real ability had he shown? And was that the right ratio for survival?
He was honest with himself.
Today, the exam had not been about knowledge for him. It had been about visible footprint.
And he had tried to keep that footprint as thin as he could.
---
That evening, Valen sat alone in his study.
Several sheets lay on his desk, each marked with a small red stamp at the corner.
In Eiren's hand, a short note:
> "Minor formation fluctuations recorded.
File: Seryn Daskal – additional observation recommended."
Valen stared at the paper for a long time.
More than the words written on it, he read the ones that weren't. No "danger". No "non-compliant". Just "extra observation."
So, he thought, you still haven't decided what he is.
He looked out the window.
In the northern tower, a single window lit up briefly, then went dark again. Seryn's room.
"He's walking the edge," Valen murmured.
"And walking the edge is harder than falling."
---
That night, Seryn sat at his desk.
He replayed the questions in his mind, but he was thinking less about the paper and more about the net.
"I saw you," he whispered. "And you saw me."
The gray light in his chest warmed for a moment.
Not joy. Not fear. Something in between.
The first trial was over.
But the first battle had only just begun.
Three exams.
One finished.
Two to go.
He picked up his pen and wrote a title on a fresh page:
> "First Trial Notes – Not power, but trace."
Then he began to write.
---
💬 Author's Note:
This chapter focused less on raw power and more on "visibility" and "footprint." Seryn is no longer just trying to survive; he's learning how to choose what others see. In the coming chapters, as the control and field tests unfold, both Temple and Empire will take one step closer to defining—or misdefining—what his gray light truly is. ⚔️