The examination hall breathed in a hush that felt alive. Rows of luminous terminals cast pale squares across faces that refused to blink. Somewhere, a pen scratched too hard; another hand trembled. A red cube blinked above a cubicle for three heartbeats before fading—a silent thunderclap reminding everyone that the system missed nothing.

Tom Anderson’s fingers moved with quiet precision—fast enough to protect his composite, slow enough not to be flagged. He rationed his speed the way soldiers rationed breath.

Two rows over, Aira’s stylus glided like a camera crane—never pausing, never doubling back. Her pink blouse peeked from under the blazer, her pulse steady. She already looked like someone who had rehearsed every outcome before the event began.

Kaito, three seats down, raked a hand through his dark hair, glaring at the computation prompt as if it had insulted him. His lips shaped invisible equations—lift, output, timing—until his pencil squealed. He would pass by force of will, then swear revenge on numbers in the arena where strength spoke louder.

To Tom’s right, Jenny Cross breathed in fours and out in fours, her shoulders rising and falling in the rhythm of yesterday’s footwork drills. She wasn’t fast, but she was unbreakably steady—a kind of genius exams could only measure by the trail it left behind.

Question #243: Ten against thirty. Urban alleys at dusk. Enemy physically superior. Objective: extract civilians with minimum sixty-percent survival. Devise formation, bait, and timing.

Tom drafted a three-layer funnel—a false retreat, a light echo, a cross-cut through a bottleneck. He wrote around the instinct that demanded kills, choosing a plan any B-rank instructor might teach. It stung less than expected.

Question #501: During the Eastern Beast Wars, which strategy proved decisive in the siege-class breach at South Break?

He answered Fire Lure, dressed in the language of resource calculus and citizen evacuation rather than legend.

A chime marked the first hour. Pens tightened. Focus thinned. The second hour crawled like a landslide, the third like breath released after too long underwater.

“Time,” Instructor Chang announced.

Screens froze. Pens stopped. A dozen hearts cracked; another dozen stitched themselves back with stubborn thread.

Outside, the corridor filled with the relief of motion—voices rushing in where silence had ruled.

“Tom!” Jenny jogged to him, notebook hugged to her chest, bright and breathless. “Do you think they’ll announce results today?”

“No,” he said, tone level as the weather. “Possibly tomorrow. They want reactions. Pressure reveals patterns.”

Jenny puffed her cheeks, then laughed. “You sound like Teacher Liew fused with Instructor Ben.” Her eyes searched his. “You think I did okay?”

“You did well.”

The calm certainty in his tone eased something inside her. They joined the stream toward the cafeteria.

Behind them, three girls—Tisya Faelan, Sharon Goh, Peach Pearson—glanced their way, whispering behind smiles.

“What are they saying?” Jenny murmured.

“Possibly how cool I am.”

She snorted. “You wish.”

The cafeteria sprawled like an indoor plaza beneath skylights that caught the sun’s edge. Aroma, chatter, and clatter mingled in a living tide. The heir corner glittered—polished boots, perfect posture, smiles honed to measure worth. Second-years clustered louder, freer. The senior tables hummed with the quiet authority of veterans.

Aru Aryan sat among the heirs—golden hair immaculate, uniform flawless, smile adjusted to the precise degree between charm and command. Two boys leaned in, boasting about their exam scores.

“See that?” one whispered. “She’s with Anderson again. She doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

“Let her be. Sooner or later, she’ll notice my charm,” Aru replied, never taking his eyes off Jenny.

“Why her? There are dozens of high-status girls, and you pick the commoner.”

“She has dual qualities—mind and physique. And she doesn’t throw herself at me like the others.”

“And she’s cute.”

“Emm. She’ll be a beauty soon.”

“She’ll come to me once I win the fight with Tom.”

Across the room, Kaito chewed in silence, notebook open beside his tray, eyes still replaying numbers. His physical ranking had been high, but not high enough. He caught Tom’s glance and stiffened.

“Anderson,” he called across the din, “training arena after results. Let’s see if theory bleeds.”

Tom looked over, not unkindly. “Eat first.”

Kaito bristled, muttered something about Top Ten, and returned to his meal.

By the pillars, Aira ate with mechanical calm, eyes flicking toward the blank wall where a holographic panel waited for activation. Her confidence was quiet, absolute. Her physical test might not reach the top, but her IQ would.

Tom and Jenny chose a window table where mist lifted off the garden lake. She set down her tray; steam fogged her glasses for a heartbeat.

“You plan like you fight,” Tom said, glancing at her scrawled schedule—breathing drills, footwork, theory.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “I just don’t want to drown when real training starts.”

“You won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

Her heart skipped once—guilty for the warmth that followed.

The doors opened, and the temperature of the hall shifted. Conversations softened to a ripple.

“Zachary,” someone whispered.

He moved through the rows like a cool current, dark coat crisp, violet-black hair falling neatly as if the air arranged it for him. Eyes that weighed and measured found Tom without effort, as though the room had redrawn itself into a single line between them.

“That’s the one who finished half the logic section in minutes,” Jenny murmured.

Zachary Adam approached with a tray—water, two herb buns, sushi squares—and an easy smile. “You’re Anderson. The quiet storm. Mind if I sit? Dining near the melee shortens life expectancy.”

“Sit,” Tom said.

Zachary’s grin widened. He threw a glance toward Aru’s table. “Aru Aryan—heroic grandson, top of the physicals. Also fond of announcing his family name like punctuation.” He lifted his chin in mock pride. “I, Aru of Aryan House, demand extra chili sauce!”

Tom’s mouth twitched.

“There are three great pillars in Semesta City,” Zachary continued. “Hero Aryan, Hero Ai, Hero Ishida. Core families of the Verdalis Alliance. Aryan runs the capital, but the others stretch across all six nations of the Virdan continent.”

“And you?” Tom asked mildly.

“Zachary Adam. My father, Damian Adam—B-rank hero turned trader. Built Adam Holdings. He says muscle wins hours; trade wins years.”

Jenny arrived with her tray and blinked. “You two already—?”

“Just met,” Zachary said cheerfully. “I was warning him that too much cafeteria food might turn him into a character in Aru’s speeches.”

Jenny laughed. “Don’t scare him off. He barely eats.”

Zachary leaned in, conspiratorial. “Question #243—ten versus thirty, urban terrain. How’d you handle it?”

Jenny brightened. “Layered rotation, sound decoy. Fifty-percent survival, maybe.”

“Respectable. I built a false evacuation corridor with a squeeze-point ambush. Kaito tried brute-force math until his pencil screamed.”

“He hates equations,” Jenny whispered, guilty smile.

“I’m allergic to push-ups; he’s allergic to calculus,” Zachary said.

Tom listened, silent as deep water. Zachary’s chatter ran on hidden gears—every joke carried a calculation. Tom filed a word he rarely used.
Friend.

🌙 Author’s Note
This chapter marks a quiet but meaningful milestone.
A heartfelt thank-you to @Nansynbae, the very first reader to subscribe to The Sealed Player of the Eight Worlds.
Every great world begins with a single spark—
and your support became the first resonance that awakened Gaelion’s story.