Azriel and Klaus sat beside the fountain in wait. They had been watching patiently as every prior applicant was called up by name and separately tested by the martial experts, and now after many had come and many had failed, it became clear that the exclusivity of acceptance into the academy was quite pronounced. Under most of the experts, only roughly one in five applicants were given a passing adjudgment for the second trial. However, that was, except for all those tested by one particular expert, a certain tall bald fellow.

The tall bald man was considerably tougher looking than the other three. Azriel could tell the bald man was the most qualified of the test-givers but didn’t pick up on the fact that he was also the most arrogant. Of the fifteen or so people he had tested, he had deemed none worthy of passing on to the third trial, nor did he pull his punches against the children either.

Azriel was put off by the bald man’s demeanor. He didn’t understand why the man smiled while fighting. “Does he enjoy hurting people? Did it somehow make him happy?” he wondered. He couldn’t wrap his head around the reasons for why in any capacity, the man would get such a thing as pleasure from picking on children.

It was Azriel’s first time seeing a true sadist, a revelation about human nature that he had yet to fully grasp, one that gave his typically unemotive and reserved self a rising ire that in it of itself was something he couldn’t understand. For some reason which he did not know, Azriel wanted to hurt this man. He wanted to watch him cry in pain.

It was an ugly thought, one that answered his question of ‘why someone might derive joy from the suffering of others.’ The irony or hypocrisy was not lost on Azriel, but he felt somehow that in this instance, his and the man’s desires were not the same, not equal.

After a few more minutes spent in futile pontification, Azriel sighed, bursting forth the dam holding back his swelling vehemence, then turning his attention to another thing he had noticed. Most of the testees were male nobles, but a few were commoners, and some weren’t even male.

Pointing at one of the girls, Azriel turned to Klaus, asking, “Why are there girls here? Women can’t fight.”

“H-Hey— Not too loud,” Klaus snickered. “Women can’t join the army, but they can still be knighted. I heard that if they have the right skills, they can be strong like men.”

“So, women are brought into battle?” Azriel asked with a perturbed look. Azriel thought of the gentle women of Hildenfreide having to fight in battle, which sent a dreadful feeling throughout his body.

“Not exactly,” explained Klaus. “Some countries forbid using women in warfare, while others allow it to varying degrees.”

Chewing the flaking skin off of the corner of his lip and spitting it to the side, he maintained, “We don’t let women fight rank-and-file— you know, as conscripted soldiers and such— but, culturally speaking, Azurians won’t generally stop someone from pursuing a thing that they have dedicated their lives to.”

“Huh, I had no idea,” Azriel spoke as he turned his attention to one of the experts calling out, “Monika.” It was the name of a girl, no less.

Two girls stepped out from the crowd, although one backed away after viewing what the tablet in the expert’s hand read. Azriel couldn’t read the tablet from where he was sitting. He knew, however, that the one that stayed was the person the tablet must’ve referred to.

The commoner girl’s arms were thick, like that of a boy’s, and her brown hair was cut short with a boyish look. Azriel could see in the commoner girl’s orange burning eyes that she had worked hard honing her mind and body. In them, he saw a fierce determination. In them, he saw himself.

“Perhaps you’re right; maybe… women can fight,” Azriel reevaluated.

Klaus added, “My father once said women don’t usually have what it takes to fight with a sword unless they have strength-enhancing skills. However, he also said that within the realm of mages, the roles of men and women are nearly flipped. Women have a natural affinity for the spirit, which means their skills are generally more powerful.”

This was but a symptom of the axiom of personal growth, a certain trinity that existed in all living beings and one that gave every individual the potential for improvement: the mind, body, and the spirit. Just as a mind was trained through thinking and learning and a body through activity and exercise, a person’s spirit could be trained through the cultivation of their soul either by means of meditation or by exhausting it through the usage of skills.

Azriel knew that in this paradigm, the scales for men tilted towards being proficient in the body but hadn’t considered that the inverse would be true of women, that those very same scales were, for them, proportionately tilted away from the body as they were toward the spirit. Upon Azriel’s recognition of this concept, many more things became clear.

He had long since wondered why many stigmas seemingly favored women over men, but now he knew that it wasn’t by right of them being women that gave them greater affinity, but rather it was because, to many gods, a strong spirit was considered a virtue, and it was the virtuousness to a god that earned their favor, granting their stigmas greater power.

The test-giver looked over the tablet without asking the girl for any clarifications; he clearly knew what each of her skills entailed. Then setting the tablet in the hands of a Logos-vessel scribe, he gave a sword to the girl.

The short-haired Monika took a peculiar stance, one he hadn’t ever seen in all his time in that place; although, there, everyone fought with the same general methodology. Her stance seemed to be one of desperation, the kind of unabashed posture only befitting a person with no intentions of fighting in a conventional manner.

Azriel tilted forward, interest swirling in his eyes as Monika eagerly swung first. He could sense that desperation in her movements, the heart in her chest pounding in time with each swift swing of the dull blade she wielded in both hands. Nevertheless, the martial expert parried each of the girl’s strikes, riposting past her defenses and forcing her to lose ground.

It looked, to most, like Monika was on the brink of losing. As such, many of the sneering boys shouted contemptible remarks at the pitiful woman; Azriel knew better, however. From the way she moved, he could tell that she had a trick, one not hidden up her sleeve per se, but a sharp one hidden away nonetheless.

Quickly losing ground, she opted to regain it with one quick thrust aimed at the man’s face. The man jeered, “Too obvious,” blocking the strike with enough force to knock the sword out of the girl’s hand. He then raised his sword to her, opening his mouth to declare his ruling, but Monika had slid between the man’s wide-legged stance before he could. Her sword thrust was a fake-out for the girl’s real plan of attack.

Before the discombobulated expert could react to her deft maneuver, the girl had already hopped on his back, pulling a dueling dagger out of her boot and holding it against his throat. It was a real dagger, unlike the swords they were sparring with.

The test-giver slowly dropped his sword and raised his hands in admittance of defeat. Her legs gripping his waist loosened.

Of all the testees, Monika was the first to defeat an expert. It was something Azriel would have thought was praiseworthy, giving way to the utter dumbfoundedness he felt upon hearing the incessant murmuring of condemnation amongst the crowd.

The girl hopped off the expert’s back as his blank expression curved into a smile, simply stating, “I have never seen such an interesting maneuver in my ten years of administering tests. You pass resoundingly.”

The girl’s legs quivered as she fell forward, crying out in joy. Azriel watched as the stunned nobles’ confusion turned to that of incensed ignominy, shouting profanities at the display before them.

“That bitch dishonored the nobility and honor of knighthood,” Irately yelled one of the older noble boys, while another shouted, “She doesn’t even deserve to be here.”

Azriel watched distantly as the girl listened to the noble’s hurl abuse at her. He could feel her clenching her fist and making a frown though he nor anyone could see it. Her face was conveniently closely facing the ground.

As the nobles kept slinging insults directed at the girl Azriel felt her face curl up as if to cry. Azriel rose to his feet, prepared to step forward, when the expert that had tested her scowled and shouted, “Shut your traps, you arrogant worthless trash.”

The crowd went still once again as the expert stridently expounded, “There are no rules in war, except the ones made up by the winners. She won, so she gets to make the rules. Try remembering that before you run your little shit-head mouths.”

The noble children’s attitudes yielded as any kid would to an adult. Azriel sighed, unable to find any reason to hold animosity toward the naïve children. Meanwhile, Klaus was laughed at the nobles being put in their place.

“Next up, Klaus.”

Klaus’s laughing was cut short. An expert holding the tablet containing the information on his skills had called out to him. The noble children nearby pointed to him, drawing the test-givers attention his way.

“Here you go,” the test giver comfortingly smiled, extending out a dull blade.

Klaus sluggishly stood up with trepidation. His legs were tremoring; he was afraid, and Azriel could feel it. Azriel stood up and grabbed him by the shoulder, whispering into his ear, “Remember what I told you the day we met.”

Klaus winced and nodded, regaining some composure. Stepping forward, he grabbed the sword out of the trainer’s hand and stood back in preparation for his bout. His look had become fierce; Azriel’s words had truly resonated with him.

Drawing in closer, the expert spoke after having glanced at the tablet. “I’ve never heard of this stigma before. Are any of these skills passive?”

Klaus approached the man, tugging his arm. The expert leaned forward as Klaus whispered into his ear something which Azriel could not hear. Then backing away, the expert stood back upright, nodding his head in understanding as Klaus lifted his sword up to his chest with both hands hugging tightly upright. It was the fighting stance his late father had trained him to use, its purpose he aimed to one day be worthy of fulfilling.

“Begin.”

Lifting the sword above his head with both hands still firmly wrapped around the hilt, Klaus stood in wait. He was going to make the man come to him.

The man chuckled at Klaus’s odd tactic, suddenly jumping forward into a penetrating thrust. Klaus’s eyes shot wide open, barely managing to dodge the strike. The expert took advantage of this momentary advantage to unload a hail of strikes, all blocked by the quickly wearing-down boy.

Klaus had already nearly exhausted all of his stamina right at the beginning of the fight without having even gotten a single swing in. He knew If he kept on like that, he wouldn’t pass the second trial, let alone the third. His hands shivered with fear, his one opportunity for upholding his father’s dying wish quickly escaping from his grasp.

“Do the trick I showed you!” Azriel shouted.

The man sighed in disappointment as he went to lightly strike the boy knelt over on the floor, but at that moment, Klaus burst forth, jumping into a tackle with his head aimed right into the man’s stomach.

Before the man had even known what had happened, he was laying on his back, gasping for breath as Klaus sat upon his chest, sword edge pressed against his throat.

Klaus panted, “Never— underestimate— your opponent.”

Upon hearing Klaus speak those words, Azriel, for the first time, experienced a feeling of pride greater than all he had accomplished in his years at Hildenfreide. He questioned whether the joys of teaching outweighed those of learning or that maybe, of all things, watching others grow had something about it that was intrinsically satisfying.

The expert raised his hands above his head and laboriously chortled, “Alright, alright, you win.”

The nobles were slack-jawed at what they witnessed. The first and only two victories against the experts had happened one right after the other, and as if fate were trying to carry this momentum, a third expert called out, “Azriel, please step up.”

Azriel smiled and patted Klaus on the back before heading toward the third man. Only when he did Azriel realized who it was that he would be facing. It was “him,” the vicious bald man.

The bald man tossed the blade to Azriel without remarking on his skills. He clearly hadn’t even bothered to read his tablet past the name. Doing his job properly wasn’t one of his priorities.

Azriel threw the sword to the side, stating, “I don’t need it.”

The man grimaced at Azriel with an incorrigible look of offense, huffing, “You’re going eat those words.” He jolted at Azriel with a skillful sweeping strike no sooner than when he had said this. He hadn’t even announced the start of the fight as the other experts had before him. Fortunately, Azriel instinctively evaded the strike before the man had even moved to make it. Azriel knew the moves the man would make before the man himself did.

Pivoting around to the man’s backside, Azriel jumped, wrapping his hand around the man’s neck, pulling him into a headlock while kicking him in the back of his knees, causing his legs to buckle forward.

As soon as the fight had started, it was already over. Once again, Azriel had beaten his opponent in less than five seconds, shocking everyone who witnessed it, including Klaus, who hadn’t seen his fight against the noble boy back in Hilton.

The bald man dropped his sword raising his hands and placing them above his head while grunting, incapable of speech from the clenching tightness of Azriel’s hold on him. Azriel sighed and released his grip, removing his feet dug into the back of the man’s knees.

“S-Sorry,” Azriel apologized, extending his hand to pull the man up.

The man wickedly grinned, grabbing Azriel’s hand, dragging him forward, while swinging his fist into a devastating punch aimed right for Azriel’s face. However, Azriel’s reaction time was near-instant, expressionlessly tilting his head to the right, dodging the strike, then biting the man’s wrist, clamping his arm in place while smashing his free arm into the back of the man’s elbow, fracturing it at the joint with a crunchy snap.

Letting go of the man, Azriel spun-kicked him, hooking him in the back of the skull and smashing his face against the bricks. The bald man wailed in pain as Azriel lifted his leg above the man’s head to stomp his skull into the ground.

“Azriel, stop!” cried a youthful voice.

Azriel turned to see a boy running toward him, pure terror on his face. Azriel momentarily thought it was odd to see a Red-banner making such an expression before realizing that it was Klaus.

“Oh,” Azriel simply thought to himself, snapping out of the trance-like state ensnaring him.

Looking back to the bald man splayed out on the floor, Azriel realized what he had done. The man was no Red-banner, nor was he a Blue-banner but rather a simple proctor to whom he was meant to impress now laid flat, his quickly-swollen arm snapped backward at the elbow joint, a bloody bite-mark dripping from his wrist.

Azriel’s eyes widened as he fell back in shock, desperately crawling away from the scene he had made. He knew he had made a mess of things, done something too extraordinary for a ten-year-old. His first thought was to run, but he had nowhere to go; it would’ve only made him more conspicuous anyways.

The children stood motionless, their mouths agape, while the other experts gathered around the debilitated man. All of them were unsure of what they had witnessed. The speed at which Azriel had disabled his opponent inhibited their comprehension of how exactly he had done it.

The crowd parted to make room for Azriel as he stumbled to the fountain. Leaning over, he spilled the contents of his stomach into the fountain. Klaus stood with his hands awkwardly raised to his chest, unsure what to do or say.

Suddenly, from atop the tower that housed the Logos scribes, a stone platform raised into the air, suspended on nothing. Azriel, wiping his mouth, raised his head and saw it approaching. On it stood three men, two of which were pushing and pulling levers—presumably controlling the magical floating contraption—while the other, more important-looking one, was staring directly into Azriel’s eyes.

The man’s face was grizzled and scarred. It was him, the old man in the projection, the headmaster.