Q. 1: After uniting the disparate tribes of Waulia and founding the Gaulyrian Empire, Emperor Kaul received his lachrymation at the hands of ___

Archbishop Védanus of Remiac. An easy question.

Q. 2: The first and largest Gaulyrian colony in the southern continent of Primæva is ___

Ilatàveí. It will supply many good troops in the years to come…

Q. 3: The capital of Rimphaea is ____

Novalia. My father conquered it and considered renaming it in my mother’s honor, but was dissuaded by his generals.

Q. 4: The First Crusade was launched to reclaim ___

The Predestined Lands.

Zephyrin jotted down his answers carefully, methodically. There was no need to rush. The only error he could commit here was precipitation. So long as he took his time, this would be another perfect score. Admittedly, it had come as a surprise to him that prior to the commencement of the school year on October 13th, all incoming students had to undergo a battery of tests to determine their class placement. He saw the merits of the system, however, which in theory would equalize the playing field between the higher and lower noble houses.

Zephyrin continued writing steadily, and before long found himself nearing the end of the exam.

Q. 49: The former capital of Gaulyria was ____

Lyonesse.

Q. 50: Ever since antiquity, the Great Ocean has also been known as ____

A: The Hesperian Ocean.

And… done. Like a pearl-diver resurfacing for a deep draught of air, Zephyrin lifted his head from the academic depths in which he had been submerged for the past half hour. While the other boys continued scribbling with furrowed brows, he laid aside his pen and gazed out the classroom’s leftward window, which offered an imposing view of the lyceum’s inner courtyard. The windowsill was high and the view partially obstructed, presumably to avoid furnishing pupils with extramural distractions. Still, one could see out well enough to perceive the paved area reserved for recreation, as well as an occasional cassocked figure stalking determinedly to his next class.

Raising his eyes from the courtyard, Zephyrin took in the sight of the other three faces of the rectangular building. The school was very attractive, built entirely out of the creamy limestone excavated from the famed, open air quarries of the city of Isthémihl, straddling the border between Gaulyria and Fleuria and Elysia, her northern neighbors. Above the school’s walls peeked the odd spiraling white tower or cathedral spire, while unseen behind the rows of windows, he knew, were other young heads bowed as his had been these past few days over arithmetic, the humanities, rhetoric, grammar, catechetical texts—and in the older classes, in the western wing of the building, intricate philosophical works, as well as subtle treatises on logic and metaphysics.

Of course, Zephyrin would be long gone before reaching those classes. Or rather, the lyceum would be. It was a curious, unsettling sensation, knowing the fate that would befall the academy in less than three years’ time…

At a boy’s prompting, Zephyrin handed in his sheet, then rose from his desk and filed out of the classroom with his classmates. He had undergone all the written and oral tests.

Now, there was just one evaluation remaining.

As he dutifully followed the instructor, or ‘master’, as he learned they were called in his homeland, to the training and sparring room where their mana and spell casting abilities were to be evaluated, Zephyrin became conscious of a nervous excitement, a cold sense of trepidation, even. He knew full well the cause: at every turn, in every hallway, he expected to come face to face with an emperor. Though it was aggravating that he had never seen a portrait of his father in his boyhood, Zephyrin was confident in his ability to recognize the future ruler of Orbe at a glance.

And even if they didn’t cross paths today, they would assuredly do so soon. Zephyrin fully expected that they would be placed in the same class; after all, a man who would grow up to bring the continent—nay, well nigh a fifth of the world—under his sway could only be an exemplary student. It was with this consideration in mind that he had made sure to obtain top marks in every subject.

Zephyrin’s provisionary class finally arrived at its destination, a room located on the ground floor. “They’re going to test us indoors?” one boy murmured, then winced as he passed through the doorway. Zephyrin found out why when he crossed the training room’s threshold and felt a slight tingling sensation. There was a powerful ward cast around this training room.

Of course. It’s easier to seal a room than the entire courtyard.

It was a very large room, fit for its purpose but hardly remarkable otherwise. The walls were barren, plastered plain white, and the room itself empty save for an assortment of motley targets lined up at its far end. If nothing else, its pristine appearance conveyed a sense of just how powerful the blueblood instructors were, if not a single student inclined to mischief had ever succeeded in breaking through the ward to scorch its walls. But, rather than the room…

Of more interest was the elderly, black-robed figure who had been waiting for their arrival. As Zephyrin lined up with the other boys, he couldn’t help contemplating the agèd priest. Was this the Grand Prefect? His age certainly recommended him for that position. Admittedly, his face was remarkable more for its harmony of features than any particularly eye-catching characteristics; it was beardless, and the man did not quite have the stature Zephyrin would have expected from an ecclesiastic in charge of forming the next generation of nobility; and yet, he could not shake the impression that here stood a man of considerable importance.

Trying not to stare too blatantly at the cleric, whose responsibility he strongly suspected it was to run the whole institution, Zephyrin finally focused his attention on the tail end of the lower-ranking master’s discourse.

“… I will now call out your names, and you will demonstrate the spell with which you are most proficient. You will maintain it until I tell you otherwise. Do you all understand?”

“Yes, master,” the boys replied in chorus.

“Good. Now, first we have…” The master consulted his list of names. “Dy Adhrosta, Théander!”

An underdeveloped, brown haired boy started, then timidly advanced a few paces before stopping in place. He looked this way and that, clearly unsure of what was expected of him. “Do… do I have to hit a target…?” he asked uncertainly.

The master shook his head imperceptibly. “No, young sir. Targets are provided for those wishing to demonstrate an offensive spell, but other kinds of magic are acceptable.”

“I, I see. Well then…”

The boy bit his lip, then extended both hands before himself. As he did so, a soft, warm brightness began to glow from his palms, aureoling them in a golden-orange light. Zephyrin was too far to feel anything, but he supposed it a warming spell, and his eyes widened with interest.

His sentiments were not shared by the master, who stared expectantly for a good half minute, then ventured to ask, “… is that all?”

The boy meekly nodded his head.

“Hm.” Hardly concealing a dissatisfied expression, the master indicated to Théander that he should step back, which the boy did with evident relief. The evaluation continued.

“Dy Auc, Hesionidus… Dy Brundésale-Pharez, Diophantus… Dy Èstrantz, Armantis…”

Zephyrin crossed his arms and appraised his young countrymen, watching as they channeled their mana in turn. Among their number were surely present several future officers of the Empire. With that thought in mind, these results…

… were far from promising. Zephyrin had not expected otherwise, but seeing the reality was another matter.

That boy wearing a look of intense concentration as he desperately sought to control the wild, flame-like mana gushing out of his fingertips... he was probably from a house in steady decline; the blood had diluted from his father’s dalliance with a baseblood woman, most likely. Now another student, specializing in mana reinforcement confidently drew an elegant rapier from its sheath and enveloped it in a greenish-yellow layer of mana—for all the good that would do him with a thousand baseblood rifles trained on him. Even the boy from earlier—Théander, was it?—his spell was extremely useful, whatever the instructor might think, but a pampered upbringing had done him a great disservice.

Yes, Zephyrin reflected, every pupil exhibited a lack of refinement in his control. There was a blatant, recurring wastage of mana, mana leaking or sputtering intermittently, evincing a lack of principled training in the basics. These, evidently, had been neglected in favor of ostentatious, unwieldy spells which had been passed down from father to son for generations, prized more for their ability to impress fellow aristocrats than their applicability in combat.

Zephyrin watched all this with a critical eye for some time, before realizing his adopting a teacherly pose risked looking out of place. As he let his arms fall back to his side, the next boy was summoned.

“Dy Llegellion, Viristin.”

A blond-headed student taller than most of his comrades stepped forward with a confident air. Preempting the master’s command, he extended his hand self-assuredly. Nothing happened. For a fleeting instant, Zephyrin entertained a comical mental image out of a storybook, that of a helpless witch holding out her hand over an inert broomstick that refused to levitate.

But then the air began to change, to grow more oppressive. The room brightened unnaturally, almost painfully, and before the eyes of the two instructors and students appeared a crackling, meter long cyan lance just below the boy’s outstretched hand. Slowly, the mana lengthened, as if its caster was pulling a lightning bolt out of a menacing thunderhead.

“Oh…” murmured a student next to Zephyrin, his eyes riveted on the spectacle. It was an impressive display of control, Zephyrin had to admit. This child showed more promise than the others thus far.

Several minutes later, the mana lance finally complete, the blond boy grasped it firmly. His brow beading with sweat, he turned toward the master.

“Do I have your permission, Master Pondrey…?”

The instructor nodded silently. He didn’t bother putting further distance between himself and the target, which made Zephyrin think this ‘Viristin’ and his skills enjoyed a certain reputation among the faculty.

Taking a moment to compose himself, the young noble drew a deep breath. Then, with a determined, almost desperate look in his eye, he stamped down on his front foot, unwound his arm and loosed the bolt like a javelin. It flew through the air with unerring accuracy, impacting into the target with a terrible crash. Even as the bolt dissipated, the air continued to crackle and whine, as if a giant had shattered a stained glass window with a punch and was now gaily grinding the shards against one another. Finally the abrasive sounds faded, and silence returned to the training room.

It was next broken by the enthusiastic applause of the bystanders. The target was untouched, but breaking the ward cast upon it by the master had not been the objective. Viristin turned back with a broad grin, flushed from his success and exertion. Noticeably winded, he rejoined his comrades with his head held high, only managing to adopt an air of nonchalance with difficulty.

Zephyrin’s eyes narrowed.

Three hundred seconds, and twelve meters. The time to cast his bolt, and the distance it had flown. Try that on a battlefield with a skirmisher lining up his shot from a hundred paces off, and you could be dead ten times over before getting off even one attack.

Zephyrin restrained a sigh. No wonder all the old arts had begun to fall into disrepute with the proliferation of conventional firearms, then become obsolete and been supplanted altogether by their mana-powered equivalents. However powerful a spell might be, it was useless if the enemy’s attacks exceeded human reaction speeds.

“Tenéval, Nèreus.”

Zephyrin raised his eyes. Strange; had he misheard, or had the ‘dy’ been omitted? He studied the boy whose name just been called. At first he saw little more than the boy’s back as he advanced; then he turned toward the master, revealing his profile. His slick, raven black and neatly combed hair contrasted sharply with pale, almost bloodless looking skin. His lips were thin and deep purple, as if stained by wine, and his eyes were half-lidded, giving him a curiously unchildlike aspect. While his posture alone sufficed to rule out lowborn origins, there was something in his general demeanor that signaled a self-awareness that he did not quite belong with his fellows.

The singular impression he gave was only further strengthened by his magic. As the boy channeled his mana, an orb as round and tenebrous as a new moon materialized in his hand, its impenetrable blackness forming another contrast with his translucent skin. The master’s eyes widened. Black-colored mana? Now this was a most uncommon sight. Then, to Zephyrin’s continued surprise and that of all those present, the boy took out an apple from his pocket. Before the master could even formulate an inquiry, he made a swift motion with his first hand, passing the apple through the orb. He then held an empty palm up, a knowing smile curving his lips.

Zephyrin blinked as a wave of ‘oohs’ rippled from the watching row of students. The apple was… gone. The boy’s magic had consumed it? Zephyrin had never heard of this sort of magic before. He noted that even the instructor seemed discountenanced, further confirming the unusual nature of the boy’s magic. Only the prefect failed to react to any meaningful extent, his expression merely hardening by a fraction.

“… Very good. Dismissed!” the master called out at last, refinding his composure with some delay.

The boy smiled enigmatically, then ceased channeling and stepped back into his former place. Clearing his throat, the master resumed calling out names. The demonstrations continued.

Tenéval… the name tickled at Zephyrin’s memory, but he couldn’t place it. He was sure he had read it before; but in what context, he couldn’t say. That was to be expected, however. The longer he lived and accumulated new memories, the more he would struggle to retain the information inculcated in his first life. He would have to find a solution for this problem…

“Dy Valensis, Zephyrin,” called out a voice, breaking Zephyrin out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the master’s gaze upon him, those of his classmates… and that of the mysterious, quietly observant prefect.

Now it was his turn.