CHAPTER 19: THE EXAMINER’S ARRIVAL

The arrival of the Inquisitorial examiner was not a grand affair. No heralds. No armored escort. He arrived as the afternoon sun cast long shadows. A solitary figure who walked through the main gates.

His presence made the whole campus uneasy.

His name was Jack.

A tall, unnervingly thin man. Sharp, ascetic features. Hair the color of spun silver. He wore the same immaculate white robes as the priest. But his were adorned with a single, silver sunburst over his heart. He moved with a quiet, deliberate grace.

But it was his aura that truly set him apart.

A palpable thing. A field of clean, crisp, holy energy. Like a cold front moving through the humid air. For the average student, it was a feeling of awe.

For Edward, it was agony.

He was in the main courtyard. Fulfilling his janitorial duties. Weeding a flowerbed. When Jack arrived.

The moment the Inquisitor stepped onto campus, Edward felt it. A high-frequency sound at the edge of hearing. A piercing, discordant note that resonated with the corrupted part of his soul. It made his teeth ache.

The 5% corruption he carried, the stain left by the Cursed Soulblade, felt like a brand being seared with a cold iron.

He kept his head down. His hands were buried in the dirt. His body was a coiled spring of pure, primal instinct. Every fiber of his being screamed. This man, this calm, serene figure, was the single most dangerous predator he had ever encountered.

The Riftfang Behemoth was a force of nature. The Shadow Stalker was a killer. Jack was a hunter of souls.

And Edward was his designated prey.

Jack did not seek him out. He did not ask for him. He seemed to completely ignore Edward’s existence.

This, somehow, was even more terrifying. The calm, patient observation of a hawk circling high above a field. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The Inquisitor spent the day in a slow, methodical tour of the academy. He didn’t interrogate. He didn’t intimidate. He simply observed.

He sat in on a history lecture. He watched a swordsmanship class. His sharp, intelligent eyes missed no detail. He spoke quietly with a handful of students. The boy Edward had attacked. His voice was gentle. His questions subtle.

He reviewed the recordings of the arena incident. He watched the footage of Edward’s battle against the Behemoth over and over. His expression never changed. Placid, intense concentration.

Throughout the day, Edward felt the Inquisitor’s presence pressing on him like a weight. He knew he was being watched. He was just a piece on a chessboard. And Jack was examining the entire board before deciding how to remove him.

He forced himself to stay calm, walking with the slow, tired steps of a weary janitor. He suppressed his instincts. Locked down his heightened senses. Presented the perfect picture of a broken, harmless boy.

The most exhausting performance of his life.

The tool of Jack’s investigation was a small, innocuous object. A smooth, fist-sized orb of polished, milky-white crystal. The "Orb of Truth."

A divine-grade artifact. Capable of revealing any systemic anomalies. Forbidden classes. Deep-seated soul corruption. As Jack walked the halls, the orb in his hand would occasionally pulse with a faint, internal light. A silent, damning verdict.

Late in the afternoon, Edward was sweeping the long, empty corridor outside the history hall. He heard the door open. The soft, measured footsteps of the Inquisitor approaching. He kept his back to the man. His movements were slow. Rhythmic. His entire body screamed at him to run.

"The dust of ages," a calm, melodic voice said from behind him. "A Sisyphean task, is it not? No sooner is it swept away than it begins to settle anew."

Edward stopped sweeping. He did not turn. His hand tightened on the rough wood of the broom handle.

"They say a man’s worth can be measured by the task he is given," Jack continued. His voice was closer now. "The noble is given a kingdom. The knight is given a vow. The student is given knowledge. And you, it seems, have been given a broom."

He was being goaded. Tested. Jack was trying to provoke a reaction. To see if the monster would show its teeth.

Edward remained silent. His back was a wall of calculated indifference.

Jack came to a stop beside him. Edward could feel the man’s holy aura. A clean, cold fire that made the corrupted part of his soul squirm and hiss.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Orb of Truth. It was glowing. Not with a faint pulse. With a steady, insistent, milky-white light.

"Edward Ross," Jack said. His voice was sharp and direct as a scalpel. "An interesting name. The records say you are Rankless. A systemic blank.

A zero. And yet... you perform feats that rival A-Class hunters. You survive encounters that kill veterans. You manifest powers that have no name. A fascinating contradiction, is it not?"

Edward finally turned. Slowly. He looked Jack in the eye. His expression was a carefully constructed mask of weary resignation. "I was lucky," he said. His voice was a quiet, gravelly murmur.

Jack smiled. A thin, bloodless expression. "Luck," he mused. "Yes. Luck is often the term for power we do not understand. And I, Mr. Ross, am a man who despises a lack of understanding."

He took a step closer. The glow from the orb intensified. Casting an ethereal light on their faces. "The Headmaster and his staff are... limited. They see a problem. A scandal. I see a puzzle. A beautiful, dangerous anomaly that must be solved."

He paused. His gaze bored into Edward. Searching for any flicker of fear. Any hint of the beast.

"I have reviewed the files. I have spoken to the witnesses. I have seen the recordings," Jack said. His voice was now a soft, dangerous whisper. "But data is not the same as a direct observation. I would like to propose a private... ’assessment’ of your true abilities. Just you and I. No audience. No interruptions. A chance for you to show me what this ’luck’ of yours is truly capable of."

It was not a request. It was a summons. A command wrapped in the silken glove of politeness.

He was being called to a private arena. A test where the price of failure was not a bad grade, but purification.

The hawk had finished circling.

It was time to strike.