Viktor Garrick had barely vanished into the medical bay when the air in the Staging Hall began to vibrate. It started as a low thrum in the floorboards and rose quickly to a deafening, magically amplified resonance.

DOOOOOOOOOOM.

A massive, spectral horn sounded, signaling the absolute end of the Scenario.

3 Hours, 00 Minutes.

Ray looked at the empty teleportation circles. He expected them to flare, spitting out stragglers who had run out the clock.

They remained dark.

Slowly, the realization rippled through the room. Everyone who was going to make it out was already here.

The Staging Hall was filled with people, but it was a picture of defeat. There were the squads shivering under thermal blankets, thawing out from the Logic Trap. There were the squads huddled in circles, traumatized by the Panic Room. There were the Valor students nursing burns from the Mirror test.

Ray scanned the crowd. He counted heads.

Out of fifteen squads that had entered the Labyrinth, thirteen were sitting on the floor, broken by the dungeon’s mechanics.

Only two squads were standing.

Squad Alpha, battered and bloody, with half their members unconscious. And Team Chimera / SIS, standing in formation, dusty but whole.

A chill went through the room that had nothing to do with the temperature. The students looked at each other, the math settling in their minds with the weight of a stone slab.

“Only two?”

a girl from a failed Statecraft squad whispered, her voice trembling.

“Only two teams brought back the Sigil?”

“We failed,”

a Valor student muttered, dropping his head into his hands.

“We survived, but we failed. No Sigil means zero points for the Scenario.”

The murmur of panic grew. They were the top ten percent from all three colleges. They had survived the Thesis and the Practicals. But without the Scenario points, their chances of reaching the coveted 1st Circle of the College of Arcanum, Rank 1 Bronze Aegis of the College of Valor and Tier 1 of the College of Statecraft. The stipend that came with it, had just evaporated. They would pass the year, but they would remain Initiate students..

The Proctor’s voice boomed over the intercom, devoid of sympathy.

“The Scenario is concluded. The ranking list is sealed. All present Initiates, proceed to the Grand Hall for final assessment.”

Ray stood up from the bench. He brushed a crumb of oat bar from his tunic.

He didn’t need to say a word.

Darian Varrus stepped to his right, his dented armor clanking. Eliza Vance stepped to his left, her head held high. The Ramsey brothers fell in behind them, forming a solid rear guard.

It was a formation. A unit.

The other students in the room, the cold, the burned, and the broken, parted instinctively to let them through. Even the medics stepped aside.

They walked toward the heavy double doors leading to the Grand Hall. They didn’t shuffle like students hoping for a passing grade. They walked like the only people in the room who had solved the riddle.

Ray looked ahead, his face impassive, but inside, Ray’s archetypes shared a quiet toast.

The purge was over. Now it was time to collect the reward.

The Grand Hall of Solhaven Academy was usually a place of boisterous noise, clattering plates, shouting students, and the hum of wild magic. Tonight, it was a tomb.

The long dining tables had been cleared away. The student body stood in neat, military rows, organized by their Colleges. The air was heavy, suffocating under the weight of dashed expectations.

Ray stood near the front of the formation, flanked by Eliza and Darian. He could feel the tension radiating off the students behind him. They knew the math. They had seen the empty teleportation circles in the Staging Hall. They knew that for every one student standing in the front row, nine were standing behind them, staring at a year of stagnation.

Up in the velvet-draped VIP box, the faculty looked down upon their charges.

Headmaster Salome Andrade stood at the railing, her face an unreadable mask of marble. Beside her, Master Osmin Nobeos smoothed his robes, his expression one of sour disapproval, not at the students, but at the sheer messiness of the results.

And slumped in his chair, Master Caleb Zipkin rubbed his temples, fighting off a migraine that had nothing to do with magic.

Paperwork,

Caleb thought, staring down at the sea of heads.

So much paperwork. Re-evaluations. Remedial course assignments. Grievance filings from noble parents whose precious children failed.

He glanced at Ray, standing small and golden-haired in the front row.

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And you,

Caleb thought, a mix of pride and dread churning in his gut.

You’re the worst of them. You didn’t just pass; you broke the curve. Now I have to explain to the Board how a kid with a thimble of mana out-performed the heirs of the High Nobles.

The lights in the hall dimmed.

“Initiates,”

Headmaster Andrade’s voice boomed, amplified by the hall’s acoustics.

“The Promotion Trials are concluded. The wheat has been separated from the chaff.”

She raised a hand.

Behind her, a massive, floating slate descended from the ceiling, glowing with magical script.

The slate flared to life. It didn’t list scores; it listed status.

A collective groan, low and pained, swept through the hall.

For row after row of names, over ninety percent of the class, the status read:

RETAINED: INITIATE RANK.

They had failed. They would not be expelled, but they would not advance. They would spend another year in the dorms, without stipends, without privileges, viewed as the commoners of the Academy.

Then, the list shifted. A golden line appeared, separating the masses from the elite.

PROMOTION LIST

Only two squads worth of names appeared.

“The following students have achieved the rank of 1st Circle, Tier 1 or Rank 1 from their respective colleges,”

Andrade announced.

“Step forward.”

Ray, Eliza, Darian, the Ramsey brothers, Viktor Garrick, and the surviving members of Squad Alpha stepped out of the formation.

“And now,”

Andrade continued,

“The Top Three.”

The slate wiped clean, displaying only three names in large, glowing letters.

RANK 3: VIKTOR GARRICK.

Viktor walked up the steps to the podium. He moved with a stiff, bruised dignity. He accepted the Bronze Badge from Master Osmin.

Viktor didn’t smile. He gripped the silver badge so hard his knuckles turned white. To a scion of House Garrick, Silver was not a victory; it was a public insult. He glared at the floor, burning with the humiliation of being third.

RANK 2: ELIZA VANCE.

Eliza stepped up. She wasn’t brooding. She was beaming. She accepted her Silver Badge from Master Avis Beland the college of Statecraft dean with a graceful curtsy.

In the stands, Ray could see Vailes and Esha Vance standing up, clapping wildly, ignoring the decorum of the nobles around them. Esha was openly weeping. Eliza had done the impossible: she had beaten the magical elite with pure intellect and strategy.

RANK 1: RAY CROFT.

The name appeared in gold.

A ripple of whispers went through the crowd.

The Heretic. The Engineer. The boy who sat on the bench and ate a snack.

Ray walked up the steps. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. He stopped before the Headmaster.

Andrade looked down at him. For a fleeting second, the marble mask slipped, and Ray saw a flicker of genuine curiosity in her emerald eyes.

“First Rank,”

Andrade announced.

“Scenario Completion Time: New Academy Record.”

She held out a badge. It wasn’t bronze. It wasn’t silver.

It was the Gold Badge of the First Rank, a symbol reserved for the singular top performer of the year.

Behind him, on the giant slate, the system updated his profile. It didn’t list him as “Undeclared” anymore. It assigned him a moniker based on his Thesis and his performance in the Labyrinth.

RAY CROFT: THE ARTIFICER.

Ray took the Gold Badge. It was heavy, warm to the touch.

“Your stipend has been authorized,”

Andrade said quietly, for his ears only.

“Two thousand Marks a month, deposited to your academy student account.”

Ray let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a year.

Two thousand.

Additional monthly funds. It was enough to buy reagents. It was freedom.

He bowed.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

Ray moved to step down, but Andrade raised a hand.

“Remain, Artificer.”

Ray froze. Eliza and Viktor stopped as well.

“You have proven yourselves beyond the general curriculum,”

Andrade addressed the hall.

“The time for general studies is over. You will now receive your College Designations.”

She turned to Eliza.

“Eliza Vance. Your thesis on economic warfare and your negotiation tactics in the Logic Trial make you a natural fit. You are promoted to Tier 1, College of Statecraft.”

Eliza bowed, accepting her new sash.

Andrade turned to Viktor.

“Viktor Garrick. Your raw power and adherence to traditional spellcasting structure are exemplary, if blunt. You are promoted to 1st Circle, College of Arcanum.”

Viktor nodded sharply, stepping over to stand behind Master Osmin. He belonged there. It was his birthright.

Then, Andrade turned to Ray.

The silence in the hall stretched. Ray was an anomaly. He had no large mana pool. He wielded no sword. He fit nowhere.

Andrade looked at Master Osmin.

“Initiate Croft,”

Andrade said slowly.

“Your thesis argued that magic is a mechanic to be engineered, not a gift to be inherited. You defeated the Labyrinth not with mana, but with tools, runes, and applied theory.”

She paused.

“You are not a soldier of Valor. You are not a diplomat of Statecraft.”

She gestured to Master Osmin, who looked like he had just bitten into a lemon.

“You are a researcher. A dissector of mysteries. Therefore, you are no longer an ‘Undeclared Scholar.’”

Andrade’s voice rang out.

“Ray Croft. You are promoted to 1st Circle, College of Arcanum.”

The shock in the room was palpable. The College of Arcanum was the bastion of purity, of bloodline magic. Putting Ray Croft, the boy with the ‘fake’ magic glove, into Arcanum was like throwing a fox into a henhouse.

Master Osmin stepped forward to hand Ray his blue Arcanum sash. He held it out with two fingers, as if it were contaminated.

“Do not mistake this for approval, Initiate Croft,”

Osmin hissed under his breath.

“Your methods are heretical. But… effective. Welcome to the College of Arcanum.”

Ray took the sash. He looked over Osmin’s shoulder to where Viktor Garrick stood.

Viktor wasn’t angry anymore. He was smirking. A cold, predatory smile.

Good. You’re in my house now. Now I can watch you fail up close. Now I can disassemble your tricks.

Up in the VIP box, Caleb Zipkin groaned, sliding lower in his chair until his hat covered his face entirely.

Arcanum. They put the Artificer in Arcanum. He’s going to blow up the labs. I just know it.

The ceremony ended. The doors were thrown open, and the students spilled out into the cool night air of the courtyard.

Ray walked away from the crowds, seeking the quiet of the cloisters. The weight of the Gold Badge felt heavy and real in his pocket.

“My Lord.”

A deep voice rumbled from the shadows of a pillar.

Ray turned. Sergeant Svane stepped into the moonlight.

He was no longer wearing the grey wool of a servant, nor the plain steel of a standard guard. He was clad in armor of burnished gold, etched with the highest protective runes of the kingdom. A heavy cloak of crimson hung from his shoulders.

He wore the insignia of the Gold Aegis, Captain of the Guard.

Svane stood tall, his posture immaculate. He didn’t bow like a servant. He snapped a crisp, razor-sharp salute, a soldier greeting a superior officer.

“A good day for promotions, my lord,”

Svane said, a hint of a proud smile touching his scarred lips.

“You passed,”

Ray said, grinning.

“I had a good teacher,”

Svane replied.

A smaller shadow detached itself from behind Svane. Rina stepped forward, holding Ray’s old, travel-worn cloak. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was smiling.

“You did it,”

she whispered.

Ray took the cloak, draping it over his new Arcanum sash. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Gold Badge, letting it catch the moonlight. It matched Svane’s armor perfectly.

“We did it,”

Ray corrected.

“Your intel saved us, Rina. Your strength saved me, Svane.”

He turned, looking out across the academy grounds. In the distance, the Spire of Arcanum rose like a black needle against the stars. Lights flickered in the windows, laboratories, libraries, dueling halls.

It was his new home. It was filled with people like Osmin although hated his methods but still respected the effectiveness, and rivals like Viktor who wanted to expose him.

Ray smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous smile.

“The ‘Weakest Student’ is dead,”

Ray said softly.

He pinned the 1st Circle College of Arcanum pin to his chest.

“The Artificer has arrived.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep