Morning light crept through the high windows of the Academy's central hall, casting a warm glow over the rows of nervous candidates. The commoner barracks had emptied at dawn's first bell, and now everyone stood together, their travel-stained clothes a sharp contrast to the pristine surroundings. The massive stone chamber, with vaulted ceilings and columns carved to resemble ancient warriors, seemed to swallow them whole.
Ethan stood among the other commoners, his eyes scanning the room as he took in the polished stone floor and the noble candidates waiting across from them. The nobles' fine garments were immaculate, not a wrinkle or speck of dirt visible despite their journey. It was a stark reminder of the division between their worlds.
The hall fell silent as Chancellor Magnus Thornfield entered through ornate double doors. His tall, imposing figure was clad in platinum-trimmed black robes that sweept the floor with each deliberate step. Deep lines etched his face, a testament to decades of serving the kingdom's elite. His cold, calculating eyes surveyed the candidates, and Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine.
"Candidates," the Chancellor's voice boomed through the hall, "you stand in the Royal Academy of Knights, Aldoria's premier institution for combat and magical training." His gaze lingering on each of them, as if sizing them up like livestock. "But standing here grants you nothing. By week's end, half of you will depart, never to return." Ethan remembered this speech from his first life and how it had terrified him then. Now, he heard the carefully constructed intimidation beneath the words, and it only strengthed his resolve.
"Our evaluation process is absolute," the Chancellor continued. "Seven ranks exist within these walls—Copper, Bronze, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Diamond, and Royal Guard. Each rank is earned through merit, and each carries specific privileges and responsibilities."
The Chancellor gestured to attendants who carried stacks of papers.
"Your testing begins now. Written assessment first, physical evaluation second. Those who pass both will proceed to combat assessment. Those who fail either return home immediately."
Tomas shifted nervously beside Ethan. "Written test? Nobody mentioned that."
"They're testing more than muscles," Ethan replied, his voice barely audible.
The candidates were directed to long tables, where examination papers waited. The questions covered kingdom history, basic military strategy, and noble family lineages. Ethan carefully wrote answers that matched the official royal accounts—not the truths he'd learned before his execution. He knew the real story, but he also knew revealing it would be suicidal.
When did House Valerian assume the throne?
Ethan's pen hovered over the paper as he considered this question. He wrote: "House Valerian saved the kingdom from corrupt Luminar rule 200 years ago when King Valerian I defeated the tyrannical Luminar dynasty." The words felt like a lie, but he knew it was the only answer to keep him safe. The truth, a bloof ritual massacre than stole power through forbidden magic, was a secret he would keep hidden, at least for now.
What are the five elemental essences?
Simple enough: Flame, Tide, Stone, Wind, and Light—though he knew better than to mention how the balance had shifted since the usurpation.
Two hours later, exhausted candidates were directed to the training yards. The sun beat down on the packed dirt as instructors assessed their physical capabilities—running, climbing, and lifting weights. Ethan calculated each performance carefully, demonstrating above-average strength but nothing extraordinary that might raise suspicion.
"Cole! You're next," barked a muscular instructor.
Ethan approached the climbing wall, a thirty-foot wooden structure studded with handholds. In his previous life, he had struggled to scaled it. This time, however, he knew exactly which holds were stable. Still, he deliberately hesitated at certain points, masking his knowledge as mere luck.
"Ninety-three seconds," the instructor noted. "Acceptable."
After the midday meal—a sparse offering of bread, cheese, and water–the candidates who passed both morning tests gathered at the combat arena. The fine clothes of the noble candidates already bore sweat stains, their indignation at physical labor evident in their tight expressions.
"Combat assessment will determine your preliminary rank," announced a weathered man who entered the arena.
Ethan's breath caught. Master Donovan looked exactly as he remembered—gray-streaked black hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a left pinky finger lost to an old battle. The man who had shaped him into a swordsman stood before him, unaware of his former student presence.
"I am Master Donovan, head combat instructor. You will first demonstrate basic forms, followed by paired exercises." His voice carried the gravel of someone who had shouted commands across battlefields. "Begin with basic guard positions."
Wooden training swords were distributed. Ethan took his carefully, feeling its balance—poorly made compared to his Kingmaker Blade, but functional. Master Donovan moved among the candidates, correcting stances with brutal efficiency.
"Higher elbow! Wider stance! You call that a grip?"
When he reached Ethan, Donovan paused. Ethan had deliberately adopted a stance that showed promise but needed refinement—exactly what a talented but untrained village boy might use.
"Interesting," Donovan muttered. "Where did you learn to hold a sword?"
"Practiced behind the forge, sir. I watched travelers sometimes."
Donovan adjusted Ethan's grip slightly. "Natural talent needs proper direction. Don't develop bad habits." He moved on, but Ethan noticed the instructor's eyes returning to him occasionally.
Paired demonstrations followed. Ethan was matched with a thin boy who trembled visibly, struggling to hold his sword properly.
"I can't do this," the boy whispered, his eyes darting toward the exit. "I'm a tanner's son. I just wanted..."
"Focus on your feet first," Ethan said quietly. "The sword follows your foundation."
He guided the boy through basic movements, slowing his own pace to make his partner appear competent. Master Donovan observed from nearby, his expression unreadable.
The final assessment pitched commoners against nobles in "controlled" matches. Aldric Vannon faced Tomas, disarming him with unnecessary force that sent the commoner sprawling into the dirt. Laughter erupted from the nobles as Tomas's nose bled.
"Control your strikes, Lord Vannon," Master Donovan said, though his tone suggested little concern.
When it was Ethan's turn, he faced a noble girl named Seraphina—slender but quick, with obvious formal training. She attacked with textbook precision, just as he expected. Ethan defended competently but not perfectly, allowing her to score two touches while landing one of his own—a carefully measured performance.
"Sufficient," Master Donovan noted, marking something on his slate.
The day ended with the candidates gathering again in the Central Hall. Chancellor Thornfield read the preliminary rankings from a scroll.
"These placements are temporary and subject to change through performance. Copper rank: seventeen candidates." He read names, including Tomas and most commoners.
"Bronze rank: nine candidates." More names, including Ethan's.
"Silver rank: three candidates." All nobles, including Aldric and Seraphina.
"Gold rank: one candidate." Lord Kellen Rayworth stood straighter, smirking.
The Chancellor rolled his scroll. "You have one hour to settle into your assigned quarters before the evening meal. Tomorrow, training begins in earnest."
The bronze quarters were a slight improvement over the barracks—four candidates per room instead of twenty, slightly thicker mattresses, and small trunks for personal belongings. Ethan claimed a lower bunk, carefully storing his pack and Owen's knife.
A steward delivered bronze-trimmed gray uniforms to each room. "Wear these at all times while on Academy grounds," he instructed. "Your rank is your identity here."
At the evening meal, seating followed strict hierarchy—gold and silver ranks at elevated tables, bronze at middle level, and copper at lowest. The quality of food visibly diminished with each tier.
Ethan ate silently, observing. So far, everything matched his memories. He had positioned himself perfectly—high enough to access decent training, low enough to avoid unwanted attention.
As candidates returned to quarters for the night, an Academy steward approached Ethan.
"Cole? Master Donovan requests your presence at the eastern practice yard. Immediately."
Tomas, walking nearby, raised his eyebrows. "Special attention already? Watch yourself."
Ethan's mind raced as he followed the steward through the darkening corridors. Master Donovan had never singled him out this early in his first life. Had he revealed too much during assessment? Was his careful performance somehow suspicious?
The eastern yard stood empty except for Master Donovan, who waited beneath a single torch, a rack of training weapons beside him. His scarred face revealed nothing as Ethan approached.
"You helped that boy today–the tanner's son who struggled to hold a sword properly." Donovan said, his voice was neutral. "Why?"