The Written Trial

Later that night, Lucian sat quietly at the desk in his room at the inn, his eyes closed in stillness.

Earlier that day, he had read and analyzed nearly fifty volumes on fundamental magic theory and its various applications. But knowledge, he knew, was not in the fragments. The real insight emerged only when everything came together—when the disparate parts formed a coherent, unified understanding of magical principles.

Now, with purpose, Lucian activated his enhanced [Parallel Thoughts] spell, pushing it to full capacity. Countless strands of logic, theory, and arcane structure began churning within his mind, each thought thread weaving itself around the others, examining the entire corpus of knowledge from multiple angles and perspectives.

But after just ten minutes, a dull ache started forming at the back of his skull. He exhaled sharply and cancelled the spell.

Stepping onto the small balcony, he took a long sip from a crystal wine glass.

“Magic has become safe… at the cost of power,” he muttered to the cold night air.

Another sip.

“Well, I suppose that was inevitable.”

After a few minutes under the stars, he returned to his room, and resumed his study.

The next morning, Lucian left the inn early.

Outside, he hailed a carriage and began his journey northward through the bustling streets of Highspire. The Magnus Academy stood just beyond the city limits, nestled at the edge of the ancient forest where civilization faded into untamed wilderness.

The roads were wide and well-paved, and the carriage moved quickly—until they neared the academy. The traffic thickened, noble carriages gleaming with gilded crests, packed with students in fine robes.

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Quite the crowd. Do you know what’s going on today?”

The old coachman glanced back. “Aye, sir. Student admissions. Their written exams are scheduled for today.”

Lucian smirked slightly. “Written exams, huh? Not that different from my previous world.”

A short while later, the coach dropped him off some distance from the main gates. Lucian walked the rest of the way, keeping a low profile.

Security near the administrative building was surprisingly relaxed, likely due to the influx of hopeful students and their entourages. But further in, near the heart of the campus, he could already sense the presence of magical wards and tighter surveillance.

He entered the main hall and approached a side counter marked with a discreet plaque: “Professor Hiring.”

The receptionist, a bespectacled woman with an efficient demeanor, took one look at his license and immediately began filling out the necessary form.

“Please sign here, Grand Mage Lucian. After that, proceed to the solarium on the top floor for the written examination.”

“Thank you.”

Lucian ascended the elegant spiral staircase to the solarium. The space was airy and bright, the high arched windows letting in filtered morning light. The room was furnished with polished individual tables and velvet-cushioned chairs—each with wooden curves inlaid with gems and pearls.

Five other candidates were already present. Most sat in quiet concentration—except for two women near the end, chatting animatedly.

“Did you hear? Today’s paper was prepared by the Grand Chancellor herself!”

“You mean Archmage Vivienne? The youngest Archmage in recent times?”

At the mention of her name, several others shifted uncomfortably.

Besides Lucian, only one other candidate held the rank of Grand Mage. He had the elegant poise of nobility—his posture straight, robes pressed, and expression detached.

The remaining candidates were Seventh Circle Formal Mages. The Formal Mage Rank had seven stages, or Circles as the Mages call them. To graduate, a student had to reach at least the Fifth Circle. Professors were typically required to be at the Seventh or a Grand Mage.

Just then, the pressure in the room changed.

A new figure entered—an elderly man with silver hair and a matching beard, his mana presence unmistakable.

Lucian immediately recognized him. The old man had presided over his Grand Mage ascension test.

“I am Grand Mage Beltharion Vaelcroft. I will be overseeing your examination today,” the man announced, placing a sheaf of papers on his desk without so much as glancing at the candidates.

Then his eyes landed on Lucian.

“Ah… you’re the Grand Mage who advanced after more than a hundred years.”

There was an edge in his voice—whether sarcasm or amusement, it was hard to tell. The aristocratic Grand Mage let out a quiet snicker.

Lucian ignored them both.

But Beltharion turned to the noble mage. “Young Master—or rather, Grand Mage Cassian of House Merovin. I see you’ve decided to join the Academy as well. We’re honored.”

Cassian gave a small nod. “Only if I pass the exam, Grand Mage Beltharion.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. It’s rather convenient, isn’t it? Today’s paper was written by the Grand Chancellor herself. Perhaps she wanted to personally observe your brilliance.”

“I’m honored,” Cassian replied curtly, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his irritation.

Beltharion pulled a golden chain watch from his robes. “It’s nearly 9 a.m. Let’s begin.”

With a single clap, the test papers flew through the air and landed neatly before each candidate.

Lucian unsealed his envelope with a practiced motion and scanned the questions.

They appeared simple—too simple. Which meant they weren’t.

The first question:

“Describe how you would create a sustainable and stable light spell underwater.”

Lucian activated [Parallel Thoughts], dividing his mind into multiple threads and carefully analyzing the structure of the questions. Five minutes passed before he even touched his provided fountain pen.

A trick question, Lucian concluded.

Most would instinctively attempt a modified version of the standard [Illuminate] spell—compressing heat into light and forcing stability with additional mana threads. But those fail underwater not because the spell is doused, but due to disruption in the medium. Heat causes rapid microboiling—tiny vapor pockets that distort and scatter the light field.

The issue wasn’t mana. It was physics.

Lucian twirled his fountain pen, then began to write with practiced elegance:

“To ensure stability and sustainability underwater, the solution lies not in suppressing the environment, but in adapting the spell structure to it. The spell matrix must use the glow of circulating mana in circuits, not combustion-derived luminescence.”

He continued without pause:

“I would construct a light-emitting array based on self-contained refractive loops—an enclosed circuit of mana that oscillates at specific frequencies to amplify the visible illumination. The core of the spell would rely on resonance harmonics rather than combustion, mimicking the bioluminescent principles found in deep-sea organisms.”

“To maintain cohesion and shape, a low-drift mana shell is wrapped around the refractive loop, calibrated for pressure and fluid density. Anchoring runes tuned to environmental feedback would allow the light to remain steady regardless of depth or motion.”

Lucian didn’t need to overpower the water. He had simply changed the question—from “how to burn underwater” to “how to glow without burning.”

Others might brute-force an answer with fire suppression fields or heat-stabilization runes.

But this was efficient and elegant.

He smiled faintly. That was more satisfying.

The questions only grew more intricate. He found himself shifting between magical theory, historical application, ethical constraints, and modern developments.

After an hour, he laid his pen down and exhaled slowly.

The paper was complete.