Chapter 321 – Raelion’s Tests (Part 2)

Chapter 321 – Raelion’s Tests (Part 2)

 

“Can’t—can’t you check again?” The girl fluttered her eyelashes over her teary hazel eyes. Sitting between the bare walls of the room, her body flopped on the rim of the desk, lower lip quivering. “There must be some mistake. I’m sure my—”

“The reading is accurate. You got forty-six.” Jolene said, laconic. She not-so-subtly fixed the ‘Don’t Touch the Desk’ paper sign, ensuring it lay perpendicular to the scryer.

Why can no one read?

The day had just begun, and this was the fourth crier. Stifling a grumble, she plucked a cotton handkerchief from the stack in the drawer and sent it to the applicant with a gust. No snot would touch her desk this year—she had come prepared. “Here. Clean yourself. Was any number I said different from your status?”

“I— I’m— No… But—” She wiped her puffy cheeks, stammering.

“Then, there are no mistakes.” Jolene spun the paper chart to face the sobbing girl. The numerical values for each line of status were clearly represented. “If the spirit scryer made no mistakes. The rest is simple math.”

“No— No… You don’t understand! I— I can’t get rejected. My mother—”

Should have trained you harder.

“I didn’t set the standards.” Jolene tapped the array below the desk and waved off the crying girl. The door across the room swung open with the clack of the lock and hum of wards releasing. Light and cool air filtered inside. “If we have to drag you out, you’ll be barred from attempting the test next year.”

The sniveling applicant stared at her, motionless.

All the worst ones today.

“We’ve got a schedule.” Jolene raised three fingers and began counting down. “Three… two…”

The girl jolted upright, her eyes suddenly clear and staring daggers. “I— I— I’ll remember this!” She stormed out of the room, stomping her feet.

That always wakes them.

Jolene pressed her lips together, noticing the contaminated tissue abandoned on her desk. No manners at all. That girl should be thankful for the anonymity.

A spell chain formed in her mind. The cotton handkerchief fluttered upward, incinerated in a ball of blue fire, the ashes flying into a bin. Water condensed to scrub her hands and desk. The applicants’ chair straightened. Lastly, a gust cycled the air of the testing room.

“Ma’am?” The petite assistant examiner peeked in from the threshold, a clipboard in her hand.

“Candidate 1716, forty-five points. A demerit for attitude,” Jolene said. “Next!”

Five breaths later, the new applicant arrived—an older teen with short scruffy hair and baggy clothes. He flinched when the door clanked shut on his back, an unreasonable number of wards sealing the room.

“Take a seat.” She gestured to the empty spot.

“Uhm… thank you.” The chair screeched on the lacquered floorboards as he dragged it to sit. Jolene internally winced. From his slouched posture, he definitely wasn’t patrician—lower chance of a crier if he found he wasn’t special enough.

Bless the merciful moons.

Jolene leafed through the pages of her folder. Words flowed from her mouth, methodical and dry like the steps of a ritual. “You’re applicant 1717?”

“Y—Yes.”

“You’re looking to enroll in Artisan Studies?”

“Yes… I’m a goldwright and jeweler. An apprentice.”

He probably hadn’t owned the metals and gems he worked with.

“I see. Details aren’t necessary. The examiners outside should have explained how this test works. I’m bound never to reveal your information. Any questions before we proceed?”

“Uh, no.”

“Excellent.” Jolene aligned the square artifact and the value chart in front of him. “Here, you can reference the points. Feel free to run the math in your head and correct any mistakes.” Less than one in ten ever did. “We’ll start by measuring your grade. Lay your hand on the scryer and relax.”

Her mana flowed into the nebulous crystal with the aid of Artifact Mastery and Ether Analyst. She prodded at the applicant’s status, drawing out the relevant information and avoiding those forbidden by contract.

Yellow ★: 5 points. Course relevant skills: 18 points. Voluntarily offered skills: 2.6 points. Boons: 10 points. Profession skill slots: 12 points; Attributes per level…

The values added in her mind to form a complete picture. An average candidate pursuing an uncommon field. Less competition and less demand. While Raelion wasn’t the pinnacle for most Artisan Studies like it was for Mana Studies, it still ranked near the top. Only a handful of specialized Houses surpassed the academy, and no unbound commoner could access those.

A minute later, the applicant walked out the door with a smile. He might enroll if he played his cards right.

“Candidate 1717, fifty-three points. Next!”

Another boy sauntered inside.

The door shut, and the steps repeated.

Habit and skills led her through the procedure with a fraction of her conscious attention. Despite the preparations to swiftly complete the assessments, pleasant applicants proved few and far between.

After the seventh crier, Jolene counted the handkerchiefs left in the drawer.

After the fourteenth, Jolene suspected someone had set her up.

Moons have mercy.

Water, Fire and Air flared to disinfect the room, but her magic no longer felt enough. The desk required a cleansing ritual. Barely halfway through the applicants, and the number of unsolicited displays of snot and bawling was staggering. A true statistical anomaly. With her Luck, she should have gotten an above-average split.

A bout of poor fortune?

The seventh attribute dealt in probabilities, not certainties. Someone with a stronger Fate could have pulled her into their orbit, though their Luck must dwarf her own for that. Both possibilities seemed highly unlikely.

The question remained: was it more or less than wilful sabotage?

“Candidate 1754, thirty-nine points. Next!” Jolene pinched the bridge of her nose. Regardless of circumstances, she had a schedule to abide by.

Once back in the academy, she would get to the bottom of this. If someone purposely caused this streak… Moons spare them. The culprit would discover mild manners were a life choice, not her innate nature.

“Candidate 1766, forty-eight points. Two demerits for attitude. Next!”

Jolene wiped the desk with a spare handkerchief dabbed in a solution for scrubbing cauldrons—she must thank Myrlette for the sample.

An assistant examiner dragged the screaming applicant away. If the fool boy had actually damaged the scryer, ten of his lives couldn’t have repaid it.

One third left.

The 1767th applicant took longer to arrive.

“Ehm…” The boy lingered on the threshold, eyes wide like a pet hamster caught in the pantry. He was probably fifteen, though he looked younger, with the baby face children born at Yellow often carried.

“Take a seat.” Jolene bent her lips in the bearing of a smile that made him go paler—so much for the effort.

Seventeen criers. A single handkerchief in the drawer.

How did I get roped into this?

She wouldn’t have accepted if the dean hadn’t personally asked.

The pay was good, but her days as a pauper mage begging for funding were long gone. A hundred mesars was too cheap to shoulder this number of meltdowns. Jobs requiring a soul contract were never popular; with her expertise, she should have haggled for better rates.

Or a window.

Gusts couldn’t rid the faint smell of burnt tissue that accompanied too many Fire spells.

The room was a stone cube with no decorations, wrapped in eight layers of wards. It was widely excessive for novice applicants. The theatrics served to ease the paranoia of old Houses, worried their secrets would be pried into.

It’s the last year.

As the desk drawer lay empty of handkerchiefs, the number of criers thankfully waned. She might just make it for a late lunch—three minutes per applicant would be sufficient.

“Candidate 1770, fifty-three points. Next!”

The door opened and shut while she tidied her folder. Running her index over the remaining pages heartened her.

“May I take a seat?” A melodious voice asked.

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“Please do—” Jolene raised her gaze and blinked at the youth—a true statistical anomaly had walked into the room.

Did I miss a celestial alignment?

Astrology rarely piqued her interests, but she wouldn’t have missed that. Perhaps the Seventh Sister was playing tricks in the sky, or she caught the attention of a cabal of pranksters.

Curious.

With a serene smile, the platinum-haired boy slid into the chair. He was handsome—inexplicably so—which was the most unremarkable fact about him.

His movements carried an innate grace, not the showy grandeur of skills, but something more subtle: a mix of high Dexterity, expert tutoring, and understated confidence. Decades of assessing students made the distinction apparent.

Peak of Yellow.

Jolene didn’t need the scryer—it was plain to see. Who was he? Though grade wasn’t everything, reaching Yellow ★★★ before enrollment was uncommon even at Raelion.

Had one of the Seven Great Houses sent their progeny? The teen showed none of their telltale signs. Why would the families send him to the winter enrollment?

Direct heirs had every hour of their lives planned years in advance. Only the very confident and very stupid entered Raelion in winter—a superfluous complication.

The mystery ignited her interest, drawing her full attention to the present.

Candidate numbers served to ensure impartiality; however, her job also included asking questions and assessing the applicants. If she deduced more than the essentials, no one could blame her for doing a zealous job.

“You’re applicant 1771?” She asked, her reasoning completed in moments.

“I am.”

What was with his voice? When she focused her Perception, every word sounded like a melody, but she couldn’t pinpoint the accent.

“You’re looking to enroll in Mana Studies?” The folder held bare-bones information, so Jolene focused on him. “What made you apply this season?”

At sixteen, he could have entered two years earlier.

“Raelion’s the best academy in the Republic. The timing worked out like this.” A pair of amber eyes studied her as she studied him. He knew what the test was about and wouldn’t slip more information than was required.

Fair is fair.

“The examiners outside…” Jolene gave the routine speech, aligning the scryer and chart in front of him. “Any questions before we proceed?”

“No.” He laid a pale hand on it without further prompting.

Numbers don’t lie.

“I’ll start with your grade, then.” She activated her skills. Mana flowed into the scryer with practiced ease. The nebulous surface stirred with color and light, a mere echo of the information drawn inside.