Mira had to take an exam on the first day she entered the academy.

  Choosing a mentor was the first step in selecting academy representatives to participate in the upcoming The Second Domain tournament. This written exam was not part of that, and that was what made Mira very frustrated.

  On the wooden table, which looked the same in every academy on any part of the world, lay a sheet of parchment asking about the 'Ethical Implications of Using Necrotic Intian in the First Dynasty Era.' Mira stared at the quill in her hand. She knew how to break a rabbit's neck in one clean, silent motion. She knew how to bandage a stab wound with salve to prevent infection. But this? The worm-like writing on the paper was like an animal language, very difficult to understand.

  In the southern academy, they are taught hands-on practice more than having to explain things through theory. There are no written or oral exams. Every day they touch the sunlight, instead of hiding behind buildings that limit many things like this. The contrast between the North and the South is truly stark. Fortunately, Mira did not look like the typical southerner.

  Next to Mira, the sound of a pen scratching on paper was rhythmic and annoyingly relentless.

  Lukas, the blue-eyed nobleman, was writing answers at an unusual speed. He seemed barely to look at his paper. His eyes stared at the ceiling of the exam hall with a bored expression, while his hand moved on its own as if possessed by a very diligent library ghost. “You should stop writing, Princess Ashart,” whispered Lukas without turning, his voice low and flat, yet sharp enough to pierce through Mira’s fragile concentration. “The ink of your pen will dry, just like your future in here.”

  Mira gripped her pen so hard that the smooth wood cracked. "I was thinking, Mr. Lukas. A concept that might be unfamiliar to you since you only spew out memorized book knowledge."

  "Interesting," Lukas finally glanced over, one corner of his lips raised mockingly. "Because from here, your paper looks holier than the heart of a nun. Hollow."

  The academy's large bell rang, saving Mira from further humiliation, or perhaps saving Lukas from a pen buried in his neck.

  "Time's up!" shouted the exam proctor. "Put down your pens. The Written Exam is over. All students, proceed immediately to the Colosseum Arena for the Practical Mentor Placement Exam."

  Mira exhaled deeply, letting the wind conjured by the proctor take her blank paper. She had utterly failed the theory section. That meant she had to dominate in practice. Otherwise, Henesa would really send her home with a cardboard box.

  ***

  The Veinara Academy Colosseum Arena is a giant bowl made of white marble. Thousands of spectator seats, filled with senior students eager for free entertainment and the evaluating instructors, surround the sandy field in the center.

  On the northern side, there is a VIP balcony where the Grandmasters and the Headmaster sit. Mira could see Henesa there, sitting upright on the blue velvet throne, her face expressionless behind her folding fan. The unspoken message was clear: Don't disgrace the name Ashart.

  "The rules are simple," Professor Gery's voice echoed through the magical loudspeakers. "In front of you is the Intian-Dummy. A training puppet programmed to defend and counterattack with Level 2 magic. You have three minutes to incapacitate it. The Mentors will evaluate your style, efficiency, and potential."

  One by one, the students were called. And one by one, Mira watched a display of extravagant fireworks.

  A girl from the Ignis dorm burned the doll to ashes with a beautiful fire tornado, but she was panting afterward. A boy from Terra shattered the doll with a pillar of stone, but it took him a full two minutes to cast his spell.

  "Lukas Askagarg," called the overseer.

  Lukas strolled into the center of the arena. He didn’t take a stance. He just stood there, one hand in his pocket, his face looking like someone waiting in line to buy bread.

  When the practice doll launched a fireball at him, Lukas just flicked two fingers.

  Wind Blade. No, that was too simple. It was a Vacuum Slice. The air around the doll’s neck was compressed, then forcibly pulled into a thin line.

  The doll’s head rolled onto the sand. Clean. No explosion. No sweat. Time: 4 seconds.

  The applause roared. The mentors in the stands seemed to scramble to jot down Lukas's name. The young man walked back to the line, passing Mira.

  "The standard has been set, Princess," Lukas whispered coldly. "Try not to trip over your own feet."

  "Rhea Ashart," called the supervisor.

  Mira stepped forward. The sound of applause faded, replaced by curious whispers. The name Ashart was legendary. And it had been a long time since Ashart last revealed themselves, a very long time indeed. Everyone wanted to see if that dust could still bite or if it would only make them sneeze.

  Mira stood ten meters in front of the newly risen Intian-Dummy from the sand. The doll was made of hardwood reinforced with magic, holding a blunt sword.

  Mira took a deep breath. She felt the Igniter bracelets on both of her wrists. Cold. Waiting. She remembered Dalt's words. Sixty seconds. Efficiency. Don’t make a Dragon.

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  The doll lunged. Its movements were fast, mimicking a veteran swordsman.

  Mira didn’t cast a spell. She didn’t shout the name of a technique in an ancient language. She just raised her right hand. Imaginate.

  Not a complicated weapon. Not a cannon. Mira imagined something that merged with her skin. Something light.

  A dark blue liquid oozed out from the pores of Mira's right hand. But the liquid didn't solidify into thick glass. It wove itself together, wrapping around Mira's hand, forming a night-blue cloth glove. The glove was simple. Fingerless. It only covered the palm and back of the hand up to the wrist.

  The audience was confused. That’s it? A cloth glove?

  The doll was already within striking distance. Its wooden sword swung downward.

  Mira didn’t block. She took a sideways step—just a minimal dodge she learned from Kars. The sword sliced through the air right beside her ear.

  Then, Mira raised her right hand wearing the glove. She directed her open palm straight at the doll’s chest. They were less than a meter apart.

  In her mind, she didn’t imagine bullets. She imagined the impact. She imagined the hole.

  The bracelet on her wrist lit up for a moment. From the center of the cloth glove, there was no blast of fire. There was only a sharp hissing sound. Like the crack of a whip cutting through the air.

  A solid glass projectile the size of a marble, but with a needle-sharp tip, was fired at the speed of sound.

  The doll’s chest wasn’t just pierced. The chest shattered. The momentum of that small glass projectile was so great that it destroyed the doll’s wooden structure from the inside. Wood splinters exploded backward against the doll’s back.

  The doll was thrown backward three meters, then landed motionless with a gaping hole in the center of its chest.

  Mira lowered her hand. The blue cloth glove crumbled to dust, then disappeared. The bracelet on her wrist was warm, but not hot. Time: 6 seconds.

  Silent. No fireworks. No grand spells. Just a single hand movement, and instant destruction.

  On the VIP balcony, Henesa’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. That wasn’t a witch’s fighting style. That was a killer’s fighting style. Kars had truly taught Princess Rhea perfectly.

  ***

  The evaluation session was the most tense part. Mira stood in the middle of the arena along with other students who had passed the qualifications. In front of them, three Mentors stepped forward from the line of instructors. They were representatives from three departments interested in recruiting Mira.

  The First Mentor stepped forward with a firm stride. A tall man with a gray robe covered in floating geometric symbols. His face was stiff, and his eyes seemed like walking calculators. Professor Arithmos (Department of Mathematics & Magical Logic).

  "Miss Ashart," Arithmos' voice sounded dry and precise. "Your projectile earlier... its mass ratio was small, but its acceleration was maximized. That was a perfect application of the laws of physics. You didn't waste the Intian on a light show. You used mathematics to kill. Join my department. I will teach you how to calculate a trajectory that can kill ten enemies with a single shard of glass."

  A reasonable offer. Arithmos's efficiency fit perfectly with Mira's one-minute time constraint.

  The second mentor immediately interrupted. A middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses is carrying a thick book. Madam Lylia (Department of Magical Literature & Philosophy).

  "Don't listen to him. That figure is cold," Madam Lylia disagreed. She looked at Mira with sparkling eyes. "That glove... such beautiful symbolism! You chose the fabric, something soft, to deliver a harsh death. That is irony! That is poetry! Join me, Rhea. We will explore the narrative behind your power. We will seek the meaning in every strike of yours."

  Mira restrained herself from rolling her eyes. She didn't need poetry. She needed a way to survive.

  Then, it was the Third Mentor's turn.

  A moment of silence. No one stepped forward. Mira and the other students looked to the left and right. At the end of the line of mentors, a man was sitting on a wooden folding chair that he had brought himself. He did not stand up. He didn’t even look in Mira’s direction.

  The man wore an oversized, tattered black robe. His grey hair was messy as if he had just gotten out of bed—and maybe he really had. On his shoulder, a brown rat was busy gnawing on breadcrumbs. In his lap, there was an open sketchbook.

  Magister Laich Klippenberg (Department of Ancient Arts & Culture).

  Laich yawned widely, then scratched his itchless head. His droopy eyes finally glanced at Mira briefly. The look was brief, but it felt like being scanned by a hungry wolf.

  "Magister Klippenberg?" the exam supervisor awkwardly greeted. "Your turn."

  Laich didn’t stand. He just pointed at Mira with the charcoal pen in his hand.

  "You," said Laich. His voice was hoarse, lazy, and so low that Mira had to lean forward to hear.

  "Yes?" Mira asked.

  "Your visualization is poor," Laich said flatly.

  Mira gaped. "Excuse me?"

  "The glove," Laich continued emotionlessly, scribbling in his book again. "The stitching is untidy. The texture is dull. Your visual imagination is weak."

  "But the doll is destroyed," Mira defended, offended.

  Laich finally looked up fully. His gaze was sharp, cutting through all small talk.

  "Because you imagine the result, not the process," he said. His sentence was short, concise, deadly. "You don’t care about the shape of the weapon. You only care about the hole in the enemy’s chest. That’s pragmatic. That’s art."

  He closed his sketchbook with a soft sound. The mouse on his shoulder squeaked in agreement.

  "Mathematics is too complicated," Laich pointed at Arithmos. "Philosophy is too noisy," he pointed at Lylia.

  Then he looked at Mira again. "Art is visual. You imagine it, it happens. Fast. Not much talking. Suits you."

  Laich waved his hand slowly, a gesture to shoo away. "Take the form if you want. If not, step aside. I want to sleep."

  Mira fell silent. Arithmos promised complicated calculations. Lylia promised long discussions. Laich? Laich promised something Mira desperately needed: Imagination and Speed.

  This man could see through Mira’s technique. He knew Mira didn’t care about the mechanics (like Arithmos) or the meaning (like Lylia). Mira only cared about the final result. Instant visualization. And Laich’s lazy attitude… that meant he wouldn’t waste Mira’s time with hours of theory.

  Mira stepped past the sulking Arithmos. She passed the dramatically sighing Lylia. She stood in front of Laich Klippenberg’s folding chair.

  Mira picked up the registration form lying on Laich’s lap, right next to the crumbs of his bread roll.

  “I choose Art,” Mira said firmly.

  Laich didn’t smile. He didn’t say congratulations. He just opened one eye, stared at Mira, and gave a very small nod.

  "East Building. Top floor. Tomorrow at ten," he murmured. "Don’t come early. The door is locked."

  Mira nodded. "Okay, Magister."

  "And bring food," Laich added, closing his eyes again. "Spoony likes cheese."

  In the distance, Lukas watched the scene with his eyebrows raised high. Choosing the most useless teacher in the academy? This Ashart girl is really strange, or really stupid.

  But Mira knew she had made the right choice. In a world where she only had one minute to become a god, she needed a mentor who understood that a single correct brushstroke was more valuable than a thousand mathematical formulas. It might even be useful not just for Imagination Magic, but also for Mira's Star Magic. Imagining something while using Light Style would be much easier.

  And most importantly: Laich Klippenberg seemed like someone who knew how to keep a secret, simply because he was too lazy to tell it to others.

  Just in case something happens to Mira later on.