Eighth Place - Arthur Greymark - 84 Points.
The name and score hung on the ranking board, stark and undeniable. A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the assembled students. Eighty-four points. Alone. It wasn't the highest score, not by a long shot compared to Alaric or Seraphina, but for a solo participant, it was an incredible achievement. Many full parties hadn't even come close.
"Eighty-four… solo?"
"How is that even possible? Did he just stumble into a nest of sleeping beasts?"
"Greymark… isn't that the guy who used to be a Rook?"
"Yeah, but he got demoted. Still, that's… impressive."
Orion rushed over, his face beaming, though Ethan, trailing a step behind him, looked like he'd swallowed something sour. "Eighth place, man! Eighth! All by yourself! I knew you were good, but that's insane!" Orion clapped Arthur on the shoulder.
Ethan, however, was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief and dawning horror as he remembered their bet. He stared at Arthur, then at the board where his own team, "Team Orion," was listed, then back at Arthur, utterly speechless. His smugness from earlier had completely vanished.
Before the commotion could escalate further, one of the headmasters, a stern-looking woman from Highcrest Academy, stepped forward onto the platform. Her voice, amplified by a subtle magical enhancement, cut through the chatter.
"Students! Your attention, please! The initial assessment of the survival training is now complete."
The crowd quieted, all eyes turning to the stage.
"The top twenty teams, as displayed on the ranking board, will remain. The rest of you are commended for your efforts and are dismissed. Return to your respective academy representatives for debriefing."
A collective sigh of disappointment went through the students who hadn't made the cut, but they dispersed relatively quickly, leaving the top twenty teams and a lingering buzz of anticipation.
The Headmistress continued, "The rewards for this year's survival training are substantial. Each member of teams ranking from twentieth to sixth place will receive a High-Grade Magic Skill Scroll, pertinent to their declared specializations. Each member of the teams ranking fifth and fourth will receive a choice of one Top-Grade Magic Skill Scroll."
She paused, letting the significance of that sink in. Top-Grade scrolls were rare and incredibly valuable, capable of teaching powerful, often unique, abilities.
"And for our top three teams," her gaze swept over Alaric, Seraphina, and the third-place team from Blackstone, "you will each be rewarded with a genuine Magical Artifact, chosen from the vaults of your respective academies, under the guidance of your headmasters."
A fresh wave of excited gasps and envious murmurs went through the remaining students. Magical Artifacts were treasures, items imbued with lasting power, far beyond mere skill scrolls.
The reward ceremony began, starting from the twentieth place and working upwards. Each team was called, and their members stepped forward to receive their individual scrolls. There were nods of satisfaction, some hushed discussions as students selected their skills. The process was efficient, yet the tension built with each name called.
When "Team Orion" was called for Ninth Place - Team Orion - 72 Points, Orion and his other teammates (excluding Ethan for the moment) stepped forward. Orion chose a defensive skill scroll, and his other teammates selected theirs. Ethan shuffled his feet, looking miserable. Orion gave Arthur a smile as he returned with his scroll.
Finally, the instructor called out, "Eighth Place, Arthur Greymark!"
Arthur walked forward, acutely aware of the many eyes on him. As a solo participant, he was entitled to one scroll from the High-Grade selection. He chose the one detailing advanced footwork techniques for Augmenters – Phantom Step.
As he was about to step away, the old man from the Citadel of Fate, Maelon Virestone, spoke from the platform, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight.
"One moment, Instructor. There is the matter of a wager to be settled concerning one member of Team Orion."
All eyes snapped to him. Ethan, who had been trying to make himself invisible beside Orion, visibly flinched and seemed to shrink.
Maelon's gaze found Ethan. "Young man, Ethan, as the guarantor of the bet made between yourself and Arthur Greymark, and with Arthur Greymark having clearly outperformed your team, the High-Grade Magic Skill Scroll you would have received as a member of Team Orion is now forfeit to him."
Ethan looked like he was about to be sick. His face was burning with humiliation. He opened his mouth as if to protest, then wilted completely under the old man's unwavering stare, mumbling a barely audible, "Yes, My Lord."
The instructors at the table, looking slightly bewildered but not daring to question the pronouncement, took one of the remaining scrolls allocated for Team Orion's members – specifically the one Ethan would have chosen – and presented it to Arthur. It was a High-Grade scroll on elemental weapon enchantments.
Arthur accepted it with a polite nod, ignoring the renewed stares and whispers. He now had two scrolls.
After the top three teams had received their accolades – Alaric looking insufferably smug with a new, dark-hilted bastard sword, Seraphina accepting a pair of elegant, rune-etched bracers with cool grace, and the Blackstone team receiving an amulet that pulsed with protective energy – Maelon Virestone stepped to the center of the platform.
The remaining students, even the headmasters, gave him their full attention.
"Students," Maelon began, his voice, though not loud, reaching every ear. "I am Maelon Virestone, an Emissary from the Citadel of Fate."
A collective intake of breath.
The Citadel of Fate was the very heart of magical governance and lore in Caeloria, a place of immense power and mystery. An Emissary from the Citadel was a rare sight indeed.
"I have been observing your progress throughout this survival training not merely as a guest, but with a specific purpose." His gaze swept over the top twenty students, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Arthur, Alaric, and Seraphina.
"The Caelorian Kingdom has been granted a unique opportunity. The Imperial Fate Academy has allocated four preliminary entrance spots to the most promising youths of this city and its surrounding territories."
The moment the words "Imperial Fate Academy" left Maelon's lips, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated excitement ripped through the students. Gasps turned into loud exclamations, and a wave of frenzied chatter erupted.
"The Imperial Fate Academy! Here?"
"Four spots! Can you believe it?"
"This is the chance of a lifetime!"
The name itself was legend, a dream whispered among the most ambitious of students. To even be considered was an honor that could define a lifetime. The air crackled with ambition and disbelief.
Maelon waited patiently for the initial furor to subside slightly before continuing, his expression serious. "These are not guaranteed admissions. These are invitations to undergo the rigorous preliminary trials. To determine who receives these invitations, a special tournament will be held one month from today, open to all students who placed in the top twenty of this survival training. The four victors of that tournament will head to Velratha."
A tournament. He would have to fight his way to even be considered.
With the announcements concluded, the headmasters formally dismissed the students. The clearing began to empty as the top twenty, still buzzing with the news of the Imperial Fate Academy and the upcoming tournament, started to head back towards their respective academy representatives or homes.
Arthur, clutching his two scrolls, was about to follow the flow of departing students when Maelon Virestone appeared quietly beside him, mysteriously as always.
"Arthur," the old man said, his voice softer now that they were away from the main crowd.
Arthur stopped, turning to face the Emissary. "My Lord."
Maelon studied him for a moment, a thoughtful expression in his ancient eyes. "You performed admirably, young man. To achieve what you did, alone, speaks volumes."
"Thank you, My Lord," Arthur replied, unsure what else to say.
Maelon continued, his gaze intense. "The tournament will be a crucible. You will need every advantage you can muster." He then reached into the sleeve of his robe and produced a small, slender scroll, different from the academy-issued ones. This one was bound with a simple leather thong and made of a darker, almost metallic-looking parchment. It felt old, and pulsed with a faint, contained power.
"Consider this a small gift," Maelon said, offering it to Arthur. "From one who appreciates… potential. It is not a common skill, but perhaps you will find a use for it."
Arthur took the scroll, its surface cool to the touch. "My Lord, I… I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing," Maelon said with a faint smile. "Simply strive. The threads of Fate are in motion." And with a final nod, the Emissary from the Citadel of Fate turned and walked away, disappearing into the dispersing crowd as if he were a mere shadow.
Arthur looked down at the strange scroll in his hand, then back at the empty space where Maelon had stood. The day had been full of shocks and revelations, and it seemed it wasn't over yet.