Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Exam Week

The examination hall was cold. Too cold. Like it had been specifically enchanted to kill motivation and suck the will to live out of your spine.

But there was no magic here.

No enchantments.

Just rows and rows of desks, plain white parchment laid out in front of each student, with neatly placed quills and inkwells. At the front of the hall, a large brass clock ticked slowly. Painfully.

Noel sat near the back, hunched over his blank sheet, glaring at the questions like they owed him money.

“Define the principles of cascading glyph delay in structured barrier spells.”

“Compare the theories of elemental origin proposed by Archmage Hurein and the dissenting school of Eastmar.”

“Detail the proper mana ratio for a triple-core fire focus spell designed to bypass enchantment resistance.”

Noel blinked once.

Then again.

Then lowered his head to the table in total, soul-drained silence.

‘Who the fuck is Hurein and why is he in my life?’

He sat up, grabbed his quill, and tried to focus. He’d studied. Sort of. More like crammed until his brain melted into his pillow.

Still.

He put down a few shaky lines. A decent definition. One comparison. But by the third question, the ink started to blur and everything on the page might as well have been written in ancient dragon.

His writing slowed. His jaw clenched.

The more he tried to remember, the more it slipped through his fingers like water.

He looked around.

Everyone else was scribbling away. Focused. Calm.

Elena looked like she was solving world peace in the top corner. Selene didn’t even blink. Marcus? Already on the back side of the sheet.

Noel looked at his own page.

Three lines.

That was it.

‘This is hell. No. This is worse than hell. At least in hell they let you scream.’

He scribbled something that looked like it might be a spell structure—but honestly, it could’ve also been a potato.

Then the proctor called:

“Ten minutes remaining.”

‘Ten minutes? Ten?! I haven’t even bullshitted half this page yet!’

He forced out another two paragraphs of pure panic-text, prayed for legibility, and dropped the quill just as the proctor shouted:

“Time.”

Quills down. Scrolls rolled. Noel sat back, staring into space.

Dead inside.

‘One exam down. Zero dignity left.’

The next morning, the training grounds were buzzing.

Students stretched, ran drills, adjusted gear. The sky was clear, the sun blazing down like it was personally invested in watching people suffer. Instructor Rauk stood at the front, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin already forming on his face.

“Physical assessment. You know the drill. No mana enhancements. No magical bullshit. Just you, your body, and whether or not you’ve been slacking off all semester.”

Noel stood near the back of the line, hands in his pockets, mind still partially traumatized from the theory exam.

‘Alright. No runes. No essays. Just movement. I can do movement.’

The test started simple—obstacle course.

Noel blitzed through it. Fast. Clean. Efficient. He didn’t show off, didn’t flip through the air or try to impress anyone.

He just moved.

And it worked.

Then came endurance. Push-ups. Pull-ups. Weighted runs.

Half the class looked ready to collapse by round three.

Noel?

Breathing hard. Sweating buckets.

But still going.

‘Let the smart ones take the top of the theory board. I’ll earn my rank on the field.’

Final trial: sparring.

Rauk tossed him a blunt wooden sword.

Noel caught it, rolled his shoulder once, and stepped into the ring.

His opponent came fast, wild swings and too much muscle. Noel didn’t block everything—but he didn’t need to.

He let the guy gas out.

Then struck—three clean hits, back to back, like clockwork.

Fight over.

He stepped out of the ring and caught a few looks from students nearby—mostly surprise. A couple nods.

‘Better than “that’s the weirdo from the library.” I’ll take it.’

Rauk walked by, grunting with approval.

“Nicely done T horne.”

Noel wiped sweat off his face with a smirk.

“Thank you, Instructor.”

The spellcasting arena was humming with tension.

Students lined the sides, watching as one by one, classmates stepped into the circle and tried not to embarrass themselves. The instructors sat at a long bench with evaluation crystals, scoring for control, efficiency, and stability. Power mattered too, but only if you didn’t blow yourself up first.

Noel waited silently near the edge of the staging area, arms crossed, trying not to think about the theory scroll that had murdered his soul 48 hours ago.

“Thorne,” one of the professors called out.

He stepped forward, into the ring.

The instructor gave him a list: minor elemental conjure, mid-range targeting bolt, shield stabilization, mana-weave construct.

Standard exam load.

He nodded.

Didn’t speak.

Closed his eyes. Breathed once.

And cast.

A perfectly-sized orb of water shimmered into existence over his palm—stable, clear, not a drop out of place.

Then a bolt of pure kinetic energy shot across the arena, striking the target dead-center without a ripple in the air.

Next came the shield—solid, consistent, no flicker.

Finally, the weave: he shaped raw mana into a basic construct and held it in the air, threads winding tightly like it had been stitched by a tailor.

When he finished, there was silence.

Then someone in the stands whispered, “Holy shit.”

One of the examiners adjusted their glasses, murmuring to another.

Noel stepped out of the circle like nothing happened.

‘Not flashy. But clean.’

The final phase of the mana manipulation exam was the one that broke most students:

Construct a complete spell circle from raw mana. By memory. No casting—just structure.

Every student was given a clean mana slate hovering mid-air in front of them—like writing in glowing ink, except any mistake could destabilize the circle and burn their score to the ground.

No spellbooks.

No cheat sheets.

Just knowledge. Precision. Nerves.

The instructor paced slowly across the room, voice cold and steady.

“You may choose the spell. But the circle must be complete. Symmetry, clarity, stability. Begin.”

Noel stood in front of his slate, hands at his sides.

He thought back to the training chamber.

To Daemar.

To that one spell.

Crimson Coil.

A spell just above his grade, woven into his brain like instinct after that night.

He raised his right hand.

Closed his eyes.

And began.

Lines of blue-white mana sparked to life at his fingertips as he started tracing the circle into the air—slow, smooth, deliberate. Every arc matched the one Daemar had drawn. Every stabilizer landed exactly where it should. The glyphs pulsed faintly as they locked into place, each one drawn with a confidence that didn’t belong to someone ranked Novice.

Noel didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t need to.

He felt the instructor stop walking behind him.

Felt the silence tighten.

Felt the mana in the room shift around his spell like it was recognizing something not supposed to be here yet.

He finished the final ring, exhaled—

And staggered.

A sudden pulse of pressure hit the center of his forehead. Blood trickled from his nose, slow and hot.

‘Fuck.’

He wiped it with the back of his sleeve, eyes still locked on the circle.

Stable.

Complete.

He lowered his hands, shoulders trembling slightly from the strain, but his face?

Unbothered.

The instructor said nothing.

Just wrote something quietly on his crystal slate and moved on.

Noel didn’t even blink.

By the end of the week, the academy plaza was buzzing like a festival square on execution day.

Students crowded around the two massive wooden noticeboards nailed into the stone walls outside the main administrative hall. The boards were freshly inked by enchanted quills that updated the names and scores with precise, almost smug strokes.

One board listed the Global Rankings—a combined score of theoretical and practical exams. The one that determined who stayed in Class A… and who got bumped down.

The second board listed Top Rankings per Discipline—physical, spellcasting, and mana manipulation.

Noel was late.

On purpose.

He didn’t want to push through crowds or deal with whispers. But halfway through his lunch, Roberto burst into the dining hall, face flushed, waving both arms like a lunatic.

“Thorne! Get your ass outside!”

Noel raised an eyebrow, wiping his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.

“Why?”

“You just—bro. Just come look.”

Minutes later, Noel stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, listening to the murmurs ripple like wildfire.

“Elena’s in the top five again.”

“Selene hit third overall. No surprise there.”

“Marcus made sixth.”

“Wait, Roberto made it to fifty-six? Damn.”

“Barely, man. That dude’s lucky he can swing a sword.”

Noel stepped closer.

Writing Rankings – Top 60 (Class A)

1st – Elena von Lestaria

2rd – Selene von Iskandar

6th – Marcus

56th – Roberto Gael

60th – Noel Thorne

He stared at it.

Dead last in Class A.

‘Figures. Written tests murdered me.’

But then he looked at the other board.

Discipline Rankings:

Physical Conditioning:

8th – Noel Thorne

Spellcasting:

4th – Noel Thorne

Mana Manipulation:

1st – Noel Thorne

2nd – Selene von Iskandar

‘Holy shit first’ Noel didn’t move.

‘This is no good. I was supposed to go unnoticed. Fuck’

The buzz from the plaza still lingered behind them as Noel and Roberto made their way down a stone-paved side street, away from the main academy square.

The sun was low now, casting long golden streaks across the rooftops, and the breeze smelled faintly of woodsmoke and roasted meat from nearby taverns.

They didn’t talk much at first.

Noel walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, face unreadable.

Roberto walked beside him, arms folded behind his head, grinning like an idiot.

“You know you blew up the rankings board, right?” he finally said.

Noel didn’t answer.

“You kicked Selene out of first place in mana manipulation. That’s like slapping a goddess and walking away.”

Noel let out a low breath.

“Wasn’t trying to slap anyone,” he muttered. “I was just trying not to die.”

Roberto laughed. “Well, you definitely didn’t die. Can’t say the same for the poor bastard who bet you’d end up in Class C.”

They turned a corner and the quiet little tavern came into view—stone walls, wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze, candlelight flickering behind the windows.

It was one of the few spots near the academy where students could relax without being watched.

Roberto opened the door and looked back over his shoulder.

“Drinks on me,” he said. “For the guy who scored dead last and still made everyone shit themselves.”

Noel raised an eyebrow.

Then smirked—just a little.

“Make it a strong one.”

They stepped inside.

And the door shut behind them.

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