The grand training grounds of the institute hummed with nervous energy as I stepped across the threshold. The vaulted ceilings, carved with ancient transcripts that pulsed faintly with residual magic, seemed to press down on us all. My shoes scuffed against the ground—centuries of anxious students had walked this path before me, their fears, confidences, and hopes etched into the very stone and gravel.
I adjusted the brass pin on my uniform, the number 137 gleaming under the lights. The other examinees shuffled into their designated sections—swordsmen to the north, spirit tamers to the east, and we mages in the western crescent.
As I took my place in line, movement caught my eye. There, just to my right, stood Alyssa Warthorne. Her black hair was as elegant as night. She turned slightly, sensing my gaze, and offered that same warm smile she kindly offered to everyone.
"Good morning," she said with surprising energy.
I swallowed hard. "Ready, Ms...?"
"Alyssa Warthorne, but please—just Alyssa is fine."
She lifted her own pin: 136. One digit apart. The irony wasn't lost on either of us—in the archives, in class rankings, and now in this final trial.
"All the best…"
"You too," she said, offering that same warm smile again before turning away.
The unspoken truth hung on me like a shroud. I opened my mouth, then closed it. What could I say? Seeing as she will be a short-lived existence, "I'm sorry" would be worse.
That silence stretched until it became its own kind of conversation.
Finally, a grand hush fell over the students as the massive oak doors groaned open. Archivist Orlan Dain moved with the deliberate pace of a man who knew time would wait for him. The glass lenses of his spectacles caught the light, turning his eyes into twin pools of molten silver.
"Examination protocol commences," he intoned, his voice like parchment being unfurled. The professors flanking him—a grizzled combat mage and a severe-looking alchemist—began distributing the testing materials.
Archivist Orlan explained the examination protocols for the mana swordsmen and spirit tamers before turning to us mages.
"Mages will demonstrate core competency through the following trials," he continued, raising a hand. The MagiTech along the walls flared to life.
"First, project all your mana into a containment field. The requirement for a valid measurement is to hold the projection for 20 seconds. The circle's diameter and stability will be noted. Second, utilizing a standardized Beginner-Class elemental invocation, demonstrate destructive capacity by casting your spell at this dummy from a distance of 10 meters, without compromising structural integrity. If you possess more than two elemental affinities, please use the respective Beginner-Class spell for both elements."
The dummy was rolled out into the training hall by Orlan's assistants—a metallic, sturdy replica of a human body at 170 cm.
"This dummy is a cutting-edge MagiTech absorption unit. Your spell's impact will be measured down to the newton per square centimeter."
"Your class will be decided based on this metric:"
"Beginner-Class. 1 Meters on the Projection Test, <= 1 N/cm^2 on the Spell Test, Intermediate-Class. 2 Meters on the Projection Test, <= 2 N/cm^2 on the Spell Test,
Apprentice-Class, 3 Meters on the Projection Test, <= 3 N/cm^2 on the Spell Test,
Novice-Class. 4 Meters on the Projection Test, <= 4 N/cm^2 on the Spell Test and finally Adept-Class. 5 Meters on the Projection Test, <= 5 N/cm^2 on the Spell Test."
"Now. Begin!"
A nervous murmur rippled through the candidates. The warriors and spirit tamers went up first and finished their contingent smirking—their trials were straightforward: hit things until they broke and swing as smoothly as possible.
The spirit tamers only needed to summon their pre-existing spirits and showcase their entire roster.
Ours required precision under pressure… For mages, we had two amplitude tests.
First, Projection—the foundational act of expelling raw, unshaped mana into the surrounding environment. Unlike casting, which demands precision, projection relies on willpower over wisdom. It's the difference between dumping fuel onto a fire and engineering an engine.
Usually, a user's projected mana forms a "lattice" that blocks incoming spells—a fundamental skill required in dueling. The game explanation? Hold [R2] to "charge" the mana bar, release to disperse energy in a radial pulse.
And Casting—the refined art of spell synthesis, governed by the Three Principles of Intent, Incantation, and Invocation.
Issue is…
I've mastered casting. EEA gave a clear explanation on that. But projection? How the fuck am I supposed to use button prompts, start timing minigames, and react to flashing UI cues?
I clenched my fists. The examination had begun, and with it, the slow march toward inevitability…
The game says projection is instinctive: "Feel your mana flow outward."
Bullshit.
In-game: a stamina bar drains, a shimmering bubble appears. That's it.
In reality? No HUD. No tutorial pop-ups. Just the hollow ache behind my ribs where magic should be, and the crushing silence of nothing happening.
I've tried:
Clenching my fists like the animation suggests.
Mimicking the "deep breath" sound effect.
Even whispering the damned tooltip text like a mantra.
Nothing.
The truth is, projection isn't a mechanic—it's physiology. The game never explained how to be a mage, only how to play one.
As the first examinees stepped forward, their projection diameters flickered to life in bursts of innate mana.
"Two meters across. Relatively stable. Move on to the spell test."
The first lad raised his palm toward the dummy. He paused for a beat before shouting out:
"Fireball!"
With a swift motion, a ball of flame erupted from his palm, streaking toward the absorption dummy in a blazing path. The moment it struck, the MagiTech device hummed to life, its enchanted sensors flaring as they dissected the spell's intensity.
The dummy chimed softly—analysis complete. Orlan's assistant squinted at the shimmering runescript and announced in a flat tone:
"1.2 pascal."
Archivist Orlan nodded and shouted:
"Intermediate Class."
The student looked thrilled—practically glowing with pride. But honestly? It was a mediocre result at best, at least by EAA standards. I already knew the heroines would surpass Adept-Class without breaking a sweat. So why should I be impressed by someone who barely scraped into Intermediate? It's like clapping for a matchstick in a room full of stars.
But fuck me. If I don't figure out how to project, I'll be even worse than him.
It's a shot in the dark, but I have to try. I'll use some scientific knowledge to tackle this issue. After all, the game's system seems to rely on science too.
My personal interpretation of mana projection—at least as an internal process—goes something like this:
It's the act of converting internal energy into a coherent external force, not unlike how a speaker transforms electrical signals into sound waves… or how a plasma arc forms under intense voltage. A natural reaction—channeled, focused, and released.
First, as confirmed by the game, mana exists in a core in select individuals. Possessing it is one thing; using it is the real challenge.
Second, I imagine my mind as a central processing unit, responsible for regulating the flow of mana. It must focus this energy into a precise frequency or shape—much like how a laser concentrates scattered light into a single, devastating beam.
And third, the release. My mana will flow through a designated focal point—my feet, planted firmly into the ground. The output is controlled by intent and shaped by the intricate patterns of my own neural pathways.
I know this in theory. Now I just have to try. And the chance to do so... draws ever closer.