The arena floor was a mosaic of blood, splintered stone, and cooling corpses by the time the healers arrived. They moved efficiently, weaving through bodies with glowing palms and tired eyes. Some injured students were hauled away on stretchers. Others were zipped into dark shrouds.
Caelum stood among the survivors—quiet, still, expression unreadable.
The girl he'd saved kept glancing at him from several paces away. Her arm had already been bandaged by a healer, but her expression remained shaken, as if she couldn't decide whether to fear him or thank him.
She'll choose fear, Caelum thought. Fear is the simplest emotion for the weak.
He didn't dislike fear.
Fear made people predictable.
A proctor with silver hair and a cold gaze strode toward the gathered survivors, carrying a sigil-etched slate.
"Candidates," she announced, "your entrance exam results have been recorded."
A hush fell.
"Remaining students: thirty-seven."
Nearly a hundred had entered.
"Those still breathing have officially passed the Practical Assessment and will proceed to the Evaluation Hall."
A ripple of relief washed through the exhausted group. Some fell to their knees. Others hugged each other or sobbed quietly.
Caelum simply watched.
Thirty-seven remain. Good. Fewer pieces to track.
He lifted his gaze to the stands.
The nobles were whispering. House retainers sent messenger birds flying. Some pointed at him—subtle, curious, doubtful.
He caught fragments of their lips moving.
"Is that really Veylor's boy?"
"He was supposed to be talentless."
"Must have been luck. Or fear."
"Veylor House will be embarrassed either way."
Caelum's fingers twitched once behind his back.
Yes. Say it. Believe it. The stronger their certainty, the more satisfying their confusion will be.
An instructor's voice broke the whispers.
"Move out!"
The gate leading out of the arena creaked open. Stone dust rained down as heavy chains pulled the reinforced door upward.
Students trudged forward, limping, dragging weapons, clutching injuries. Caelum followed, steps steady despite lingering pain in his ribs.
Beside him, a boy muttered, "Man… I can't believe I even made it out. Those things were everywhere. I swear one of them looked at me like I was already dinner."
His friend laughed shakily. "That's because you scream like prey."
Caelum did not respond. He had already categorized both as irrelevant for long-term plans.
But a voice suddenly spoke from behind him:
"You fought well."
He turned.
Seraphine Pyrell walked past the other students as if they were made of smoke. Her presence cut through the crowd—cold, quiet, impossibly composed. Her long black hair swayed behind her like trailing smoke, and her crimson eyes flicked over Caelum briefly, analyzing, dissecting, judging.
Deathfire energy clung to her like a veil.
Even injured students gave her a wide berth.
Caelum met her gaze with polite confusion.
"Did I?" he asked softly.
Her eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter.
"You did not move like someone with a Slate-tier Sigil."
Caelum tilted his head in a gesture that appeared shy, almost awkward.
"I… don't know what you mean."
Internally:
Good attention from a Pyrell heir is dangerous. But her curiosity is leverage. Let her underestimate the truth.
Seraphine's gaze lingered on him another second longer, then she walked ahead without responding.
The girl he saved earlier swallowed hard. "That was Seraphine Pyrell. She never talks to anyone…"
Caelum blinked as if surprised.
She shouldn't talk to me. Not yet.
The Evaluation Hall
They entered a massive chamber carved from black stone, illuminated by floating blue sigil lanterns. Screens made of glowing runes hovered in the air, displaying names and assessment categories.
Rows of robed examiners stood behind crystal devices that hummed ominously.
Students lined up.
Caelum scanned the devices as he walked.
High-frequency soul resonators. Sigil type detectors. Stability analyzers. Memory imprint readers…
If his Proto-Sigil was exposed here, he would instantly be flagged as:
forbidden
anomalous
unstable
or worse—"to be contained"
Caelum adjusted his breathing.
If this device detects the Residual Thread, I'll be dissected before classes even begin.
A healer waved the first student forward. Blue light washed over the boy as the resonator scanned his soul.
"Sigil: Iron-tier, Stormcall. Stability: 70%. Potential: B."
Approved.
One by one, students passed.
Some cried with joy.
Some cried with shame.
Some were pulled aside due to corruption or instability.
A girl screamed when her Sigil turned out corrupted. Guards dragged her away as she clawed at the floor.
Caelum watched with clinical calm.
Predictable. Weak souls break easily.
His turn approached.
The crystal device pulsed.
An examiner gestured. "Name."
"Caelum Veylor."
The woman's eyebrow twitched. Recognition. Disappointment.
"We expected more from your house," she muttered. "Step forward."
He did.
Light engulfed him.
It felt like needles pushing into his soul.
He felt his Proto-Sigil shift—like tangled threads curling inward, hiding, constricting. Instinctively. Protectively.
Good. It understands survival.
The device flickered.
Glitched.
Sputtered.
For a terrifying moment, Caelum felt one of the threads within him slip—projecting an outline of impossible, writhing geometry across the crystal surface.
The examiner's eyes widened.
"What—?"
Caelum lowered his head quickly.
"S-Sorry," he whispered, forcing a tremble into his voice. "I don't… feel well."
The device suddenly reset.
The projection vanished.
The runes returned to normal.
A new result flashed:
SIGIL: Slate-tier
TYPE: Support (Unclassified)
STABILITY: 42%
POTENTIAL: D-
The examiner's expression soured.
"Tch. Trash-tier."
She wrote a note and waved him away without another glance.
The noble heirs behind him snickered.
Pity.
Mockery.
Relief they were not him.
Caelum walked past them quietly.
Inside?
He smiled.
Perfect. A mask of weakness, validated by authorities. No one will suspect the truth.
The House Emissary
As Caelum exited the line, a tall man in silver-accented robes approached—bearing the Veylor house crest: a silver thread wrapped around a black sun.
He looked Caelum up and down.
"You survived."
Not praise. Not relief.
A statement of inconvenience.
Caelum bowed politely.
"Yes, sir."
"The House Head expected you to fail."
Caelum let his eyes widen—hurt, confused, small.
"Oh…"
The emissary frowned slightly, thrown off by the meek reaction.
"…Regardless. Return home tonight. You will receive instructions on your course placement. Do not embarrass the Veylor name further."
He turned and left.
Caelum's mask did not crack.
But inside?
Cold amusement flickered.
You wanted me dead. I lived. Now you fear what that means. Good.
Assignment Boards
The results were finally posted on the glowing boards:
Division: Support (lowest priority)
Combat Rank: F
Magic Rank: F
Strategy Rank: C
Overall Evaluation: F-tier Candidate
Students burst into laughter around the F-tier postings.
"That Veylor kid really is useless."
"He should've stayed dead."
"Trash."
Caelum read his rankings carefully.
Not a hint of emotion touched his face.
Support division will hide my growth. F-rank will keep enemies blind. Perfect positioning for a predator.
The girl he saved approached timidly.
"H-hey… you'll get better rankings during mid-year. You just need time."
Caelum gave her a soft, grateful smile.
"You're kind. Thank you."
Useful.
Easily manipulated.
Keep her alive.
Across the room, Seraphine Pyrell read her results—S-rank across all divisions—then looked at Caelum.
Just once.
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity.
Suspicion.
Recognition.
Interest.
A dangerous combination.
Caelum mirrored her gaze with a harmless, almost nervous smile.
Inside?
You noticed again. Good. Try to understand me. The more you try, the deeper you will sink.
Dismissal
An instructor clapped loudly.
"That concludes your evaluation! Report to your assigned dormitories. Classes begin tomorrow at dawn!"
Students scattered toward the exits.
Caelum walked slowly, letting the crowd move ahead of him.
When he reached the archway leading out of the hall, he paused.
A faint vibration thrummed beneath the stone.
Again.
An echo.
A thread pulling at his soul from below.
From deep within Ashthorne.
From something colossal and ancient under the academy.
Caelum placed his palm gently against the stone wall.
His Proto-Sigil stirred.
Reality trembled.
For a heartbeat, he heard—
A breath.
Not human.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Something in between.
A whisper scraped across the edge of his mind.
"…threadbearer…"
He closed his eyes.
So. It begins.