In the principal's office, Bhism Sunkul sat in silence, his back slightly hunched as he leaned over the desk. The room wasn't extravagant—far from it. A single wooden desk bore the weight of scattered papers and half-finished notes, while an old bookcase stood at the corner, its shelves sagging beneath the weight of dusty tomes. The faint scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of old wood polish.
His long white beard brushed against the desk as he bent lower, its ends curling across the parchment like stray threads of wisdom itself. With steady hands, he dipped the feathered quill into a small inkpot, pausing just long enough to let the excess drip before pressing it carefully against the paper. Each stroke was deliberate, yet faint tremors in his fingers betrayed both his age and the gravity of his thoughts.
Outside, muffled noises of distant footsteps and the occasional murmur of students filtered in, but Bhism seemed deaf to them. His world, in that moment, was narrowed down to ink, paper, and the weight of responsibility that clung to his pen.
Knock. Knock.
Two sharp raps broke the steady rhythm of the quill scratching against parchment. Bhism Sunkul did not lift his gaze from the page, nor did his hand falter. His voice, calm yet carrying the weight of authority, rolled across the room.
"You may enter."
The old wooden door creaked open, and Instructor Vikel Robert stepped inside. His movements were measured, each step deliberate, as though he dared not disturb the stillness that lingered in the principal's chamber. The faint tap of his boots on the stone floor echoed softly before fading beneath the weight of silence.
"So… you have come," Bhism murmured, finally tilting his head upward. His pale eyes, sharp despite the years, regarded Vikel from beneath heavy brows, the quill still poised between his fingers.
"Yes," Vikel answered, bowing low with practiced grace. His back bent nearly parallel to the ground, the gesture filled with reverence. "I have come, Principal Sunkul." His tone carried the utmost respect, yet there was a faint tension in his posture—as if the air itself grew heavier under the elder's gaze.
"Have you considered what I had requested?" Vikel asked, his voice low, yet tinged with anticipation.
Bhism's quill hovered in the air for a moment before he set it gently into the inkpot. He leaned back, his long beard shifting slightly as his lips curled into a thoughtful hum.
"Hm? Yes…" he said slowly, eyes narrowing with memory. "You were right. After you told me about them, I personally went to see their skills." His gaze drifted upward, lost for a brief second as if replaying the sight in his mind. A faint glimmer of surprise softened his stern expression. "And truly, I was… amazed."
Vikel straightened, his eyes lighting up. "Then, what do you think about granting them permission?" His words carried eagerness, though he tried to mask it beneath his usual composed tone.
Bhism's expression hardened once more. He folded his hands on the desk, his voice deep and measured.
"You are not entirely wrong," he began. "Edward von Zenithara possesses a remarkable mana core—its density and purity alone would complement his talent in swordsmanship." His tone carried a note of approval before it shifted into something heavier. "But the same cannot be said for Vern Kael."
He let the silence stretch, the only sound being the faint creak of the lantern's flame. His eyes narrowed further, as though weighing the unseen scales of fate.
"And yet…" Bhism continued, his tone softening with reluctant admiration, "in some ways, Vern's swordsmanship surpasses Edward's. His instincts, his precision, his understanding of the blade—they are beyond what one would expect of him. If only…" he exhaled slowly, a rare trace of regret crossing his features, "if only he had a mana core strong enough to complement his talent. Then, perhaps, his sword would shine brighter than any in this generation."
"This is why I asked you to grant them permission to enter the Room of Nature," Vikel said firmly. His words hung in the air with a mix of urgency and conviction. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then continued with an honesty that even he rarely displayed. "To tell you the truth… I don't know what more I can teach them. They are excellent in every aspect of swordsmanship. At times, I even fear that I myself would struggle to compete against them in pure technique."
He exhaled slowly, his brows furrowing, as though admitting such a thing carried a sting to his pride. His gaze, however, remained steady. "In my opinion, if they are allowed to cultivate in the Room of Nature for one… or perhaps two years, their potential would grow beyond measure. Especially Vern." His voice dropped at that name, carrying both concern and hope.
Vikel straightened, his eyes meeting Bhism's. "For Edward, the path is already clear—his mana core alone ensures his growth. But Vern… Vern is different. With that room's aid, his sword and spirit might flourish into something no ordinary cultivation could grant. Without it, however…" He let the sentence trail off, shaking his head slightly. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing the weight of his words into the chamber.
"I know what you are saying," Bhism replied slowly, his tone calm yet edged with gravity. His fingers drummed lightly on the desk as his eyes narrowed on Vikel. "And I too intend on allowing them access to that room. However…" he paused, the lantern's flicker catching the sharp lines of his face, "…if I do that, it will appear as though I am showing favoritism. You are well aware, Vikel, that no more than three may enter the Room of Nature within a certain span of time."
His words lingered heavily in the silence, as though the weight of rules and tradition themselves had taken form within the chamber.
Vikel lowered his head, acknowledging the truth. A shadow of unease passed over his features, but his voice did not waver. "It has already been on my mind," he admitted. His gaze lifted again, steady and resolute. "Which is why…" he hesitated, then straightened his back, "…I have a proposition."
The faint scratching of Bhism's beard against the desk broke the silence as he shifted, his eyes gleaming with quiet curiosity. He studied Vikel's face with the patience of a man who had seen countless schemes and pleas in his lifetime.
"A proposition, you say…" Bhism's voice was low, deliberate, each word carrying weight. "Then speak, Vikel. Let me hear what it is you intend."
"I'm planning on arranging… a competition," Vikel said at last, his voice steady but carrying a faint undercurrent of anticipation.
Bhism's brows arched slightly, his tone thoughtful yet skeptical. "A competition?"
"Yes, sir," Vikel replied firmly. He took a step closer, his hands clasped behind his back as he explained. "It will be open to students from Year One through Year Four. Most within those years are still at First Severance, or at most, Second Severance. That way, the contest will remain somewhat fair. The top three, determined by merit alone, will then be granted permission to enter the Room of Nature—for two full years." His words quickened slightly as he reached the end, as though the conviction behind the idea pushed them forward.
The chamber fell silent once again, save for the faint creak of the lantern swaying in its hook. Bhism leaned back in his chair, stroking the length of his beard with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes were half-lidded, thoughtful, yet a spark flickered deep within them—part curiosity, part intrigue.
"Hm…" he mused, voice low, the sound vibrating like distant thunder. "So, merit would be the excuse… not favoritism." A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though it was impossible to tell whether it was approval or doubt. "An interesting proposal, Vikel."
"But do you truly think Vern will be able to secure a place among the top three?" Bhism asked, his tone calm yet probing. His pale eyes fixed on Vikel with sharp intensity. "He is still only at First Severance, is he not?"
Vikel did not falter. He drew a quiet breath before replying, his voice steady, his conviction unwavering. "You are correct, sir. His cultivation lags behind the others… however, I believe he possesses the skill to overcome sword force with swordsmanship alone. His instincts and technique can bridge the gap. And if he cannot grasp that chance…" Vikel's eyes hardened, his words ringing firm in the still air, "…then it only means another, more deserving, will take the place."
For a moment, the room was silent. The flicker of the sunlight cast shifting shadows over Bhism's solemn face as he studied Vikel's resolve. Then, slowly, the principal's long beard brushed against his chest as he gave a single nod.
"Yes… you are right." His deep voice carried the tone of finality, though a faint glimmer of thoughtfulness lingered in his gaze. "Then it shall be so. You may announce the news to the students. I will issue the permit."
The decision, heavy as stone, settled between them, sealing Vern and Edward's path toward the Room of Nature—not by favoritism, but by trial.
"Thank you for granting permission," Vikel said as he bowed deeply, his voice carrying both respect and relief. When he lifted his head, his eyes shone with determination. "Then, I shall take my leave."
"Yes," Bhism replied, stroking the length of his beard with slow, deliberate fingers. "You should begin making preparations without delay." His tone was calm, but beneath it carried the weight of responsibility, as though each word was an unspoken command.
Vikel bowed once more, lower than before, then turned. His steps echoed softly across the wooden floor as he moved toward the door. The old hinges creaked when he pulled it open, and for a brief moment, the cool draft from the corridor swept into the room, causing the lantern's flame to flicker and cast restless shadows on the walls.
Without another word, Vikel crossed the threshold and quietly shut the door behind him. The faint sound of his footsteps gradually faded down the hall, leaving the chamber in silence once more.
Bhism Sunkul remained seated at his desk, his eyes lingering on the closed door for a long moment before drifting down to the scattered papers before him. The quill still rested in its inkpot, untouched, as though his thoughts had already wandered far from writing.