Arlok was the first to throw himself into one of the cushioned chairs surrounding the wide, round table at the center of the room, his poleaxe landing beside him. The old man had taken all their small luggage to be kept somewhere else.

With a dramatic exhale, he leaned back like a soldier returned from war instead of a scholar awaiting an exam, muttering aloud with a half-hearted grin. “Well… looks like we’ve got a lot of time to burn.”

Shima, who had already wandered to the built-in kitchen along the wall, leaned her elbow against the edge of the counter, her purple eyes scanning the array of sealed rations stacked neatly on the shelves. “We should use this time to strategize.” She said.

Yerin, more silent in her approach, had quietly unfastened the sheath of her sword from her back and rested it against the wall. Her frame eased into a seat next to Arlok, and her voice lent a quiet agreement. “Shima’s right. Better now than scrambling later.”

Horren, however, remained standing longer than the rest, hovering behind his chair like a nervous bird. His bow was still clutched tightly in his hand. Arlok, who saw him being restless, broke the awkward spell with a sideways glance and a playful smirk, “You good, buddy? You look like you’re about to pass out. Wait… if someone died during the test, does the team get disqualified?”

The question lingered like a ridiculous echo, and Shima’s head turned with a scornful glare that could sear iron, her eyebrows arching high with incredulous judgment. “I’m fine,” Horren finally muttered, his voice cracking on the first syllable before he steadied it. His eyes flickered to the porthole window.

“Just… a bit nervous. I heard the Sea Voidspawn are even more dangerous than the ones on land, so what if we get attacked before the test even starts?”

Yerin was the one to answer, her voice gentle but rooted in firm logic. “The academy’s been doing this for years, Horren. Every year, without fail. There hasn’t been an incident yet. And most of the expedition marshals and shipwatchers are veterans. They know what they’re doing. Velthia doesn’t gamble with its legacy.”

And as Ruvian watched the moment unfold, the tension drained slowly from Horren’s shoulders as Yerin’s calm words took root. Ruvian couldn’t help but agree with her. Velthia, after all, was no mere institution cobbled together from privilege and dreams; it was an old name, one of three ancient towers in the Kingdom of Averenthia that had stood the test of politics, bloodlines, wars, and even the slow erosion of belief.

‘However… though the other two—Wellencrest and Meridian Academy—had enjoyed a sharper rise in prestige in the past three years.’

As for Velthia, it remained the bedrock, the academy that had once taught the first grand magi before the term “mage” was even formalized. And somewhere, buried in the back of his mind, a fragment of the future tried to claw its way forward.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The Inter-Academy Tournament.

‘It was meant to come later…’

An arc brimming with prestige, and conflict disguised as pageantry that would bring the continent’s gaze squarely upon the next generation of heroes.

During that arc, Velthia would once again lock horns with Meridien and Wellencrest, the two rising giants who had, in recent years, chipped away at Velthia’s once unshakable name.

And in the original flow of things, it was Zian Herga and Nereus Calleon who would have shouldered that burden.

Zian and Nereus' victories were not just battles won. They were narrative anchors, plot devices cleverly disguised as personal growth, scripted peaks that stitched together the broader arc of Velthia’s redemption. And through their triumphs, the academy would have risen once more, carried by the winds of a story that always bent toward glory.

But now… the winds were quiet.

‘Yeah, that foolish protagonist is gone.’

The seat that was once meant for a hero now sat empty, and with it, the weight of Velthia’s legacy threatened to sink further into irrelevance.

Ruvian sighed. ‘Well… I’ll think about that later.’

There was no urgency to it yet. Velthia’s glory, for all its weight, was just an ornament in the narrative scaffold, a polished backdrop to set the protagonist’s rise. And the tournament itself had never been more than a decorative arc—a platform for spectacle, for emotional payoff, for character development dressed in the theater of combat and national pride.

It was never essential… not to the world, not to the story.

And not to him now.

Right now was the Vazrun Island Test.

‘Let’s focus on this arc first…’

Ruvian took the last remaining chair without a word. Across the table, the others remained deep in their laughter-laced chatter—Arlok’s deep rumble, Shima’s sharp retorts, Horren’s stuttering interjections—all threading together in a noise that felt oddly humanizing, even comforting.

Ruvian allowed himself a sincere smile, and for a moment, he simply observed them with that rarest form of affection.

Then, his gaze drifted to the side, drawn by the tall window etched into the curved wall of the private quarters, framing the endless, brooding sprawl of the sea beyond. The world outside was painted in deep blue waves, slow and viscous under the bright sky.

‘I wonder… when was the last time I went to the sea?’

After a long moment, a distant, melodic chime rang out from the heart of the vessel. Ruvian’s eyes narrowed in awareness, and he spoke—not loudly, but with enough gravity that it parted his teammates' conversation.

“…It’s moving.”

The others turned, surprise flickering across their expressions, and in that breath of shared realization, all idle talk vanished, replaced by a low hum of nervous anticipation.

Arlok craned his neck toward the sealed porthole. Shima straightened, face unreadable. Horren let out a soft, audible gulp. Even Yerin, composed as ever, paused, her hand already resting on her lap as if unconsciously bracing herself.

The massive and silent Leviathan had begun its voyage.

[‘Beneath the Banner of Enrollment’ Arc has reached its conclusion.]

[Bearer of the First Fable, from this moment onwards, you are expected to shape the thread of fate. Silence will no longer shelter you.]

[Entering Arc II: 'The Vazrun Island’.]

[You have endured the first arc!]

[Reward Granted: +2500 Plot Points]

[The Watchers of Good Endings release a noise that is not laughter, not sorrow. But a sound like pages closing in an empty hall.]

[They leave a fragment: “Continue. The thread does not disappoint.”]

‘So that’s it, huh… they only want an entertainment, nothing more.’ Ruvian scoffed in his head. ‘Fine. If that’s what they’re after, then they’ll feast soon enough.’

And beyond that thought, the stage was already set. What awaited was no orderly struggle or clean contest of wills.

The next arc would open with chaos…

PP= 3950

ME= 510