Becoming the Wind
Chapter 23 - 22 The Stage of Fate

Chapter 23: Chapter 22 The Stage of Fate

"...This is a high-tier exam sheet, Sirton," muttered Headmaster Hareth Vonzelle, his gaze scanning the paper before him. "It’s far too difficult for the entrance level."

Sirton leaned back casually in the chair across from the headmaster’s desk, one leg crossed. He twirled a small pen in his fingers like a tiny wand. "Exactly. And that was the sheet Verin received."

Hareth raised a thin brow. "Are you sure this wasn’t an administrative error?"

Sirton gave a short, bitter chuckle. "If it were just an error, why does this sheet only appear in Verin’s copy among all those distributed that day? And more interestingly..." — he slid another sheet across the desk — "...the girl answered everything flawlessly."

The Headmaster read quickly. Silence. His fingers tapped gently on the black wooden desk. "Logic... spirit contract analogies... even comparative theories from the Spirit of Existence Department..."

Sirton rested his chin in his palm, his smile sharp. "For a child who hasn’t even enrolled yet, her answers read like those of a senior scholar."

"Who was responsible for this?" Hareth asked.

"Bernath," Sirton replied instantly. "A senior proctor."

Hareth nodded slowly. "And if I’m not mistaken, the one overseeing this year’s admissions..."

His voice trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Right... Professor Varneth."

Silence hung in the room.

Sirton stood and walked to the large window overlooking the academy’s central garden. The morning wind stirred his deep blue robe.

"It would be best, Headmaster, if we kept this between us for now," he said, his voice cool and cutting. "We can address it after the final exams. Collect more evidence. Decide the punishment."

Hareth stood, arms folded. "Very well. I will follow your counsel, Professor Sirton."

Sirton turned halfway, eyes glinting. "And if necessary, I’ll handle the punishment myself."

The Headmaster took a deep breath.

"Give me a copy. I’ll keep it secure."

Sirton handed over the sheet in silence.

As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"One more thing."

Hareth looked up.

"Verin may be unnervingly calm for someone her age... but if there’s one thing I learned from this paper, the girl isn’t just a genius." Sirton smirked. "She knows how to make professors look like fools."

The door closed softly.

And silence returned.

Meanwhile, after the cafeteria incident, Sylphia and Yurelia finished their lunch quickly and left the area. There was no further discussion about what had occurred—they both knew the final exam would determine far more than a spat with a loudmouthed young noble.

The slave Sylphia had saved chose to return to Velissa’s side. It appeared to be a betrayal, but the reason was simple—and painful. He had friends. Many. And if he ran, they would suffer.

The one-hour break passed in a blink. The atmosphere of Lumenvale Academy transformed swiftly. Guests from across the continent began to arrive. Commoners, influential merchants, minor nobles, even the heads of great houses—all came to witness the once-a-year final exam.

The test was divided into seven arenas, based on participants’ theoretical results and strength levels.

Arenas 4 through 7 were designated for lower-ranked participants—Stage 5. These arenas were open to the public; even servant children could watch from the outer fences. While the odds were slim, the world had a sense of humor: there had been those from here who had become professors.

Arenas 2 and 3 were for participants from Stage 6 to 7. The audience here was more refined—mid-level professors, academy researchers, and second-class nobles seeking talent.

And then there was Arena 1—Lumenvale’s main stage.

Arena 1 was the heart of the academy. A massive amphitheater built of white stone carved with ancient symbols. Its ceiling was open, gazing directly into the blue sky. As if the gods themselves were watching.

The arena floor was made of polished black stone. Wide, clean, and solid. It reflected sunlight like a dark mirror. A transparent magical dome shielded the center—invisible to most, but those sensitive to magical pressure could feel its weight.

Seats spiraled upward like a colossal bowl. The upper tiers were filled with students, commoners, and ordinary guests. But everyone’s attention gravitated toward the honor tribune circling half of the inner arena.

The tribune was split into two. East and West. Two poles of influence.

On the Eastern side sat Headmaster Hareth Vonzelle, calm in his tall seat. His robe was black with silver embroidery. A long staff rested against his knees, hands folded, gaze locked on the arena’s center. He did not move, did not speak. But everyone knew: he missed nothing.

Beside him, ten professors of the Academy Council had taken their seats, each in the official attire of their department.

Sirton Wardmoon of the Spirit Research Department sat calmly, occasionally writing in a small book that seemed to appear from nowhere.

Varneth Delis of the Water Spirit Department wore his usual scowl—as if he were perpetually irritated by the air itself.

Ignia Therald of the Fire Spirit Department lounged like a flame without fuel.

Rosalia Larnia, Chairwoman of the Council, who rarely attended, was present today. Varneth glanced at her curiously.

"A rare sight, Professor Rosalia. Last time you attended... ten years ago, wasn’t it?"

Rosalia sighed. "Because that old man threatened to cut the library’s funding." She nodded toward Hareth. "He said there was a promising student I should see."

Hareth remained silent, unmoved.

Rosalia raised an eyebrow and added softly, "And he also said—our genius professor..." She glanced at Sirton. "...found someone worth watching."

Sirton chuckled. "Oh, you’ll enjoy the show."

’Hmph, why does he get the credit?’ Varneth thought bitterly, expression blank, but fuming inside. ’I asked first...’

The remaining professors sat with their own quirks.

Gerald Brayne of Weapon Spirits—large, quiet, and full of curiosity.

Mirielle Zaynara of Professional Spirits—scribbling non-stop as if seating posture determined grades.

Perdo Tyran of Animal Spirits—accompanied by a spirit falcon more interested in a spectator’s peanuts.

Lysandra Veyra of Elemental Spirits—elegant, smiling with subtle menace.

Tarnel Mordis of Existential Spirits—only nodding when spoken to.

Pharos Kelvyn of Mental Spirits—eyes closed since arrival. Perhaps asleep. Perhaps reading everyone’s minds.

"Who do you think will take second place?" Lysandra asked casually.

"First obviously belongs to Prince Daniel," she added with a sly grin.

"Only sycophants say that," Gerald muttered.

"Blood means nothing without talent," Perdo added.

"Second place is where things get interesting," said Mirielle.

Some laughed. Others watched silently, curiosity burning.

On the Western tribune, the air was cold—and dangerous.

Second Prince Caelsen Vael’thyr sat tall in a silver-white uniform, sharp eyes scanning the arena. Two guards flanked him. He said nothing, yet his presence alone caused an assistant professor to trip over his own feet.

Around him sat the heads of powerful houses.

Duke Tharion Elowen’ra, expression carved from stone, posture military-perfect.

Duke Maelis Thandorvel, broad-shouldered and already halfway through a sweet pastry, powdered sugar dusting his noble beard.

Marquis Lyndros Arwyndel, leaning forward with a smug grin, whispering snide comments to his assistant.

Marquessa Celindra Elthorn, icy as her diamond-studded gown, twirling a silver fan with fingers like icicles.

Count Alev Vellmarin, dressed in all black, including his gloves—some whispered he had a third eye under them. No one dared ask.

And thirteen more, three counts and ten viscounts.

One count wore an absurd fur cloak despite the warm sun, drawing flies and curious stares. Another viscount’s hat was so tall it blocked two rows behind him.

"Second place will go to my daughter," whispered a noble, puffing out his chest.

"Elowen’ra sent their last daughter, yes?"

"I heard Elthorn’s child is already at Stage Nine," murmured a countess, adjusting her monocle.

"No one dares challenge Vael’thyr."

"Because only fools challenge divine blood," someone muttered, earning a few nods and one overly dramatic gasp.

Suddenly, a marquis jabbed his fan toward a lone figure.

"Who is that?"

All heads turned.

A girl sat quietly, her pale blonde hair like starlight, her porcelain skin glowing under the sun. Her eyes—icy, distant—looked straight ahead.

"Looks like a common elf."

"That girl? Against my son?"

Prince Caelsen finally spoke, his voice calm yet sharp.

"Let’s see how long she lasts."

Silence fell.

Everyone turned to Sylphia Astheris.

South of the arena, participants gathered on stone platforms. No names were called. No order assigned. Today... everyone chose their own path.

Reyhan floated behind Sylphia, massaging her shoulders like an amateur coach. "Alright sweetheart, go teach them. Gentle, but let it sting."

Sylphia held back a smile. ’Ready, Father.’

Yurelia sat beside her, gripping Sylphia’s hand. It trembled.

Reyhan observed. "She’s scared. Her spirit isn’t made for combat."

Sylphia turned. "You’ll be fine. If you lose, I’ll avenge you."

Yurelia glanced back—and smiled.

"Verin, I am scared... scared I won’t be able to stop myself from slicing them all."

Reyhan and Sylphia blinked.

Her face hadn’t changed—still calm, flat—and somehow, quietly terrifying.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man in a long black coat stepped into the arena. His feathered hat waved slightly. He raised his hand. His voice echoed with magical amplification.

"Good afternoon! To His Highness Prince Caelsen, Headmaster Hareth, honored professors, noble families, and all our guests—welcome to the Final Examination!"

Cheers erupted. Then quickly faded.

"Today... no names will be called. Anyone may step forward first! And anyone may challenge whomever they wish."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

"But remember, the challenged may refuse. A winner may fight again. But if you win twice in a row—you must withdraw and give others a chance."

Silence.

"Win once, then lose? You’re out."

He lowered his hand. A wide smile split his face, like a lottery seller before the draw.

"Prove your strength. Show your will. Claim your place... at Lumenvale Academy."

Thunderous applause.

The Final Test... had begun.