CHAPTER 32: CEREMONY (1)

Chapter 32: Ceremony (1)

I reached the entrance of Auditorium by 5 min from my room .

The doors of the Great Ceremony Hall opened with a groaning creaaaaak as cadets began filing in.

My breath hitched for a moment. I had seen this hall in the game countless times, but standing inside it... was something else entirely.

The Supreme Ceremony Hall wasn’t a mere auditorium. It was a cathedral carved into stone and marble, towering pillars etched with runes glowing faintly with mana. Banners of crimson and gold draped down the sides, each embroidered with the crest of Hunters who had become legends.

The chandeliers above weren’t lit by candles but by mana stones that pulsed softly like captured stars. Stained glass windows stretched high, filtering the morning sunlight into rainbow fragments that danced across the floor of polished white marble.

At the center, an enormous dragon sigil was engraved into the ground, its eyes glowing faintly with blue flame rumored to be lit since the founding of the Academy.

Rows upon rows of cadets filled the seats, their chatter hushed into whispers of nervous anticipation. But the newcomers weren’t the only ones here.

Up above, on the balconies that circled the hall like a colosseum, stood the upper-year cadets. Their uniforms bore golden trims and insignias that marked their rank and division. Some leaned on the rails, arms crossed, smirking down at the first-years as if watching prey step into an arena.

"Look at them squirm."

"Another batch of weaklings."

"Heh, let’s see how long they last."

I felt the weight of their gazes pressing down on us like invisible chains. The seniors weren’t just spectators they were reminders of what awaited us if we endured.

And then there were the instructors.

On the raised dais at the front of the hall, the professors sat in carved obsidian chairs lined in silver. Their presence was overwhelming, each one radiating an aura that marked them as not just teachers, but masters of their craft.

Sword Instructor: Alastor Greythorn sat stiff-backed, his hawk-like gaze sweeping the room. His scarred jaw and iron-gray beard made him look like a general surveying a battlefield.

Cedric Ironguill, Alchemist Instructor, was tinkering absentmindedly with a vial of glowing liquid even during the ceremony, his round spectacles glinting in the mana-light.

Sara Everheart, the Mana Exploration Professor, had her nose buried in a floating tome, golden runes flickering around her as if reality itself bent to her curiosity.

Nathan Pendragon, Combat Instructor, leaned against his chair, arms crossed over his massive chest. His golden hair and sharp jaw made him look like he had stepped out of some heroic painting.

Adam Beckett, Magic Theory teacher, had his eyes closed, lips moving silently as if rehearsing incantations in his head.

Harry Stonerick, Runes, wore a robe covered in etched glyphs, glowing faintly with mana circuits. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his knee like he was writing invisible equations.

Garrick Dawson, Dungeon & Monster Studies, had a wild mane of hair and wolfish eyes, the kind that screamed he’d survived far too many expeditions to come back sane.

Ronwell Hart, Battle Instructor, gave off a dangerous aura even while sitting casually, his calloused hands drumming the armrest like a fighter eager for the next bout.

Dorian Ford, History & Culture, was the only one who smiled warmly at the cadets, his robes decorated with old crests and symbols—living memory of traditions past.

Ben Stock, Second-Year Combat Instructor, stood behind the rest, his massive frame almost blocking the wall itself.

And presiding over them all

Vice Principal Sophia Emberheart sat on the left, her crimson hair tied elegantly, her presence like a calm flame that could flare at any time.

Dean Derisu Nayak on the right, an aged man with raven-black robes, his sharp eyes gleaming with intellect and schemes untold.

But when the room fell utterly silent, all gazes turned toward the man at the very center.

Principal Herald Crimson.

He rose slowly, like a mountain uncoiling after centuries of rest. His white beard flowed past his chest, his staff etched with runes older than kingdoms. But his back was straight, his eyes sharp no fragile elder, but a titan whose very presence demanded silence.

Even the air seemed to pause as he stepped forward.

"Welcome... cadets," his voice boomed , not with volume, but with weight. Each word settled in the bones.

"You stand now in the heart of the Arcade Hunter Academy the crucible where Hunters are forged."

His staff struck the floor

THOOM

Then runes across the hall lit up, bathing us in golden light.

"You have passed the Entrance Examination. You have shown courage, wit, and strength. For that, you have earned the right to stand here."

A murmur of pride rippled through the first-years. Shoulders straightened. Smiles twitched.

But then his gaze sharpened, his voice turning cold.

"Do not mistake this as triumph. What lies ahead is not comfort—it is hardship. This Academy will test not only your body but your mind, your will, and your very soul."

He pointed his staff toward us, his eyes narrowing.

"Some of you will break."

His words hit like stones. The hall was silent. No one dared move.

"Some of you will falter. Some of you will fall. And only a handful... will rise to stand at the summit."

He paused, then his lips curved into a faint, almost warm smile.

"But to those who endure... to those who hold their blades firm against the storm, who sharpen their minds against despair you will emerge not as children, but as Hunters. Protectors. Heroes."

The staff struck the floor once more

BOOOOM

sending a pulse of mana through the hall.

"This is your path. Walk it with pride."

The hall erupted into thunderous applause, cadets clapping, seniors pounding the balcony rails, instructors nodding grimly in approval.

My heart beat faster not from fear, but from exhilaration.

So this is the infamous Crimson speech. A mix of doom and fire. Exactly as the game portrayed it... but hearing it here, in flesh and blood, hits differently.

The echoes of Principal Crimson’s staff striking the floor still reverberated in my chest. The golden runes across the hall slowly dimmed, leaving the chandeliers above to once again cast their gentle, starlike glow.

The hall held silence for a long moment. Then—

CLAP—CLAP—CLAP!

The sound spread like fire across dry grass. Cadets straightened, applauding furiously. Some beamed with pride, others clapped stiffly, as if convincing themselves they belonged here.

But above us, on the balconies where the seniors stood, the reaction was... different.

Some of them smirked, arms crossed as they leaned lazily on the rails. Others clapped politely, their eyes sharp with condescension. And a few didn’t bother at all, whispering to one another while glancing down at us with expressions that made it clear:

We are prey in their eyes. New meat.

"Ha... they look so excited. Let’s see if they still smile after the Combat Trials."

"Half of them won’t last the month."

"Look at that blond kid —Leon Lionheart. He thinks his name alone will carry him."

I heard the whispers faintly, but my face stayed neutral. Inside, though, I smirked.

Yep. Exactly as expected. Classic NPC behavior. Put pressure on the newbies, break their spirit. Too bad I’ve already played this route before.

Still, the pressure was real. Even without touching me, the aura of the seniors was oppressive, like standing in the shadow of predators watching their prey fumble in the dark.

To my right, I noticed Leon. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, but his fists clenched tightly behind his back. A trace of frustration flickered in his blue eyes. Selena, standing next to him, shot him a side glance—subtle, concerned—but didn’t speak.

Eric, however, couldn’t help himself. He snorted loudly, leaning toward me.

"Tch. All this pomp for nothing. You think Crimson’s words scare me? Just wait, commoner. I’ll crush you in the Combat Trial. No fancy speech will save you."

I didn’t even look at him. I simply replied in a calm, almost bored tone.

"Funny. You sound more scared than motivated."

His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he’d explode. But then the Vice Principal, Sophia Emberheart, rose slightly from her seat, and the hall instantly quieted again.

Her voice was clear, sharp, and dignified.

"Now... allow me to present someone who embodies the spirit of this Academy. A cadet who has endured, who has risen, and who now stands as a symbol for you all to follow."

Her words hung in the air. My heartbeat quickened.

Oh. It’s happening. The Flame Empress scene...

BOOM—

The massive oak doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.

Heat washed into the chamber, subtle but undeniable.

Step... Step... Step...

Each footfall echoed against the marble, steady and unhurried, yet commanding. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

She entered.

Emily Lionheart.

Her crimson hair blazed like fire in the chandelier light, tied back into a warrior’s knot. Her uniform wasn’t the standard cadet blue but the black-gold trim reserved for the elite—the ones who had already carved their names into Academy history.

Her aura burned, not wild like a raging inferno, but sharp and controlled, like a blade heated in a forge until it glowed. Every step made the air shimmer faintly, as if the hall itself acknowledged her presence.

Whispers erupted instantly among the cadets.

"Th-that’s her—Emily Lionheart!"

"The Flame Empress... ranked first in the third year..."

"She’s the Student Council President!"

"No way... she’s even more terrifying in person..."

Even the seniors above quieted, their smirks replaced with watchful eyes. Some frowned, others crossed their arms tighter, as though challenged by her mere existence.

I studied her carefully.

Emily Lionheart. The pillar of the Academy Arc. In the story, she’s not just Leon’s elder sister—she’s the storm that shapes him. Shield and sword. Rival and protector. And here she is, walking in exactly like the scene described...

Emily’s eyes swept over the hall. Not soft, not friendly—piercing, challenging. Like fire searching for weakness in stone.

And when her gaze passed over me, just for an instant, I felt it. Heat licking at my chest. A spark that threatened to ignite.

Then it moved on.

Another figure followed behind her—Alice Nightveil, the Vice President of the Student Council. Her dark hair framed a calm, calculating expression, her uniform pristine, her every step precise. Where Emily was fire, Alice was ice. Controlled. Measured. A presence that quietly demanded respect.

Together, they ascended the dais.

Vice Principal Sophia gestured gracefully.

"Behold—your seniors. The pinnacle of what you may become... if you survive."

The hall erupted again not applause, but whispers, awe, gasps of intimidation.

I kept my hands in my pockets, calm on the outside. Inside, though, my thoughts were racing.