Land of Magic

8

“The steles you see before you are incredibly strong. Anyone who can even scratch one will be granted one of these.”

Mentor Jean held up his hand. A triangular medallion glinted between his fingers. Made of silver, it had a small stone in the center of a complex pattern. Another wave of whispers rose up among the examinees. It was their first time seeing the medallion of ‘The Holy Sky’ School and it was difficult for them to believe that all they had to do to get it was leave the slightest of cuts on a stele.

“Excuse me, honorable Mentor Jean,” a young man of about fifteen stepped forward. “Did I hear you correctly? In order to become a disciple at your school, I only need to scratch this stele?”

“Yes, that’s right, young warrior. Just keep in mind that you, like everyone else, will only have one try. So, I would advise you to use your strongest Technique.”

The examiner’s response still didn’t calm the young man down.

“What about an artifact? Can I use my artifact?”

“Yes, you can,” Mentor Jean nodded. “But only if it’s below the Imperial level.”

Silence enveloped the square. An Imperial level weapon? The cheapest ones cost at least six thousand coins. It was unlikely that a commoner (and all the cultivators gathered here were commoners), no matter how lucky they were, could’ve gotten their hands on such a treasure.

“Very well!” The young man shouted. “Then I, Bazil, the strongest warrior of Rasla village, will be the first to receive a medallion today!”

He took out a huge hammer resting on his back. A vortex of steel-colored energy swirled around Bazil. With a roar, he brought the shining hammer down on the stele. The impact was so strong that the wave of energy that spread out from the point of contact shattered the stones beneath. When the dust settled, the rest of the examinees watched Bazil disappear in a shower of green sparks.

“No!” He shouted faintly over the heads of the others.

There wasn’t a single mark on the stele.

“Next!” The examiners shouted in unison.

After that, a bunch of cultivators tried to leave at least a small crack on the stele. Many of them succeeded. But they only left behind really small scratches.

Powerful shots from a bow, where the arrow turned into a log thrown by a giant, left only a scratch. A blow with a gauntlet that was so powerful it made the ground rumble left only a scratch. A firestorm that turned into a crescent which melted the sand and turned it into glass left only a scratch. A spear thrust enveloped by a whirlwind left only a scratch. Dozens of powerful Techniques, the sight of which would once have made Hadjar feel like an unskilled child, were capable of inflicting only minor damage. Some even ended with their unlucky wielders being sent back to the city.

Everyone who succeeded received a medallion and stepped aside. There were about a hundred and fifty of them now. Only fifty examinees were left.

“Holy fuck!” Someone shouted.

Hadjar turned at the sound and smiled broadly. Einen, covered in iridescent scales, was trying to pull his staff-spear out of the stele. It had sunk almost a dozen inches into the column.

“Well done.” Mentor Jean said. “It’s not every year that someone who can damage the stele like that comes along.”

“Thank you for your kind words, honorable Mentor,” the islander bowed, and after receiving his badge, walked away to join the other lucky warriors. They looked at him as if he were a monster and hastily moved away, avoiding him. Finally, it was Hadjar’s turn. He was the last one.

He summoned the sleeping dragon from the depths of his soul. It was as long as his arm now. Shaking off its drowsiness, it flew into Hadjar’s mental body.

In the physical world, the black cloak, which looked as if it had been woven out of black fog, appeared across his shoulders. Wisps of the fog were separated from it by gusts of wind, but it instantly restored itself. The black blade appeared in his hands. It turned out that the Black Sword that Hadjar could now summon to reality was much stronger than the cheap artifact sword he’d bought.

“What a strange Call.” Jean muttered to himself.

Markin was so excited that he could barely stop himself from giggling. Such a Named One would certainly be the perfect final ingredient for his Hundred Voices pill and would even advance it to a new level! The gods clearly favored Markin.

Hadjar sighed and summoned all his energy and all his knowledge of the Way of the Sword Spirit. A storm of blue-black energy swirled around him. The cloak and sword condensed for a moment, and Hadjar shouted:

“Sixth stance: Wind!”

Leaving behind ghostly silhouettes, he moved a dozen yards in an instant and appeared right behind the stele. The crowd held their breath. They all saw the same monolith, which appeared unharmed. However, Hadjar hadn’t been whisked away by the green sparks.

Einen cleared his throat and hit the ground with his staff. With a terrible creak and a loud crash, the top half of the stele slid off and then fell to the ground. Utter silence followed. After a moment, Mentor Jean pulled himself together and proclaimed:

“Welcome to ‘The Holy Sky’ School!”

 

  

Mentor Jean inspected the new disciples. He wasn’t happy. He’d once been a Mentor for fully-fledged disciples. That title had given him privileges that even middle-class officials didn’t have. However, those times were long gone. Jean had managed to cross one of the seven mighty clans of the Empire, so it was a miracle that he’d even retained his position as a Mentor for the ordinary disciples.

“First of all, let me congratulate you all on passing the exam.” He began his annual speech. He repeated it so often that he might end up remembering it after his rebirth. “Now, follow me. I’ll tell you all about your life in our abode of knowledge and power.”

A shiver ran down Hadjar’s spine. He turned around. Over the years of wars in Lidus and his travels through the Sea of Sand, he’d managed to develop a sense for danger. Right now, it was blaring almost as loudly as an ambulance. The other examiners gradually disappeared behind the curtain. One of them — a tall, thin, gray-haired man — quickly looked away.

“Tell me honestly, Einen, am I being paranoid?” Hadjar whispered in his friend’s ear.

The islander looked at the examiner.

“I’m usually the paranoid one of the two of us,” the islander replied. “However, right now, whatever you’re feeling, we should be careful. This place is full of incredible opportunities, but a quick death is inevitable if we get careless.”

Hadjar nodded. Since ancient times, the capital of the Empire had attracted many adventurers, mercenaries… Those who, like the two friends, had tried to progress further along the path of cultivation.