The hall we had been teleported into was vast—easily large enough to accommodate a thousand students at once. Its sheer size was overwhelming, a clear indicator of just how serious the higher-ups were about this selection. After all, when metahumans, humans, and a wide array of alien species from across the globe were all gathered in one place, only the strictest standards could hope to maintain order.
Directly ahead of us stood a grand stadium platform, elevated slightly above the rest of the hall. At its center sat five ornate thrones, each exuding a heavy, almost suffocating aura. In front of them rested a long, polished table fitted with five identical microphones—an unmistakable sign that the ones who would soon take those seats held significant authority.
Moments passed in tense silence before the others began to arrive, materializing in flashes of light scattered throughout the space. One by one, the candidates appeared—some standing tall, others wobbling unsteadily. A few clutched their stomachs, pale and nauseated from the disorienting teleportation, while others looked like they were barely holding back the urge to vomit.
"Hello there!"
A voice called out from behind me, but I didn't bother to turn around right away. There was only one person who announced himself with that much cheer in a place this tense.
"...Let me guess—you got him?" I said as I finally turned, confirming my suspicion. Reinhardt stood there, grinning proudly, beside a towering blue troll. This one was even taller than the one we had taken down earlier.
The troll was dressed in traditional tribal garb, his presence emanating both mysticism and strength. Small animal skulls hung from a necklace around his thick neck, and in his right hand, he carried a gnarled staff topped with a dark blue orb that pulsed faintly—like it held secrets it didn't want to share. His skin was marked with black symbols, winding across his chest and arms like veins of ink. They looked ceremonial, perhaps sacred runes tied to his sorcery arts.
On his left wrist, he wore the bracelet I had given Reinhardt earlier—a subtle tool to help the troll blend in among us. It didn't register a cadet's identification details immediately. Instead, it activated after the examination, once the candidate had officially passed. While the heirs of the Major Families, members of the Extraterrestrial Alliance, or even the League of Hunters were off meeting their families, the rest were being processed into Paragon, their information only then entered into the system.
He looked young—by troll standards at least. They aged much slower than humans, which made it hard to tell, but the slight uncertainty in his posture gave him away.
"He was very cooperative after I explained everything. I'll train him well," Reinhardt said, his smile genuine.
"That's good," I nodded. "We'll talk more after this is over. I believe there's quite a bit we need to catch up on."
As I turned my eyes to the troll, I could see the unease behind his steady stance. All of this—this world, this process—was still foreign to him. And yet, he was here. That alone said enough.
"Silence!"
The voice cracked through the air like a thunderclap, echoing across the vast assembly hall and snapping every candidate to attention. A chill ran down our spines, instinctively silencing any lingering whispers or movement. Slowly, heads turned toward the elevated stadium, where five figures now sat—seated on those heavy, throne-like chairs we had noticed earlier. They hadn't been there a moment ago.
The five headmasters of Paragon.
Their sudden arrival marked the official beginning of our time at the academy.
"I assume we've given you all ample time to settle down," said the man seated at the center, his voice amplified through the microphone before him. He looked to be in his eighties, his tone firm but composed, carrying the weight of a man used to commanding authority.
Sparse white hair clung to the sides of his head, while his eyes remained mostly shut, as if he barely needed them to see. He wore a crisp brown suit and held a polished cane in one hand, using it to steady himself. At first glance, he seemed fragile, as though even standing might be a strain.
But none of us were fooled.
Despite the frail appearance, every candidate in the room understood the truth: this man was not only the First Headmaster of Paragon—he was also one of Earth's most powerful metahumans. His name carried weight beyond titles and appearances.
Ben Tempest.
"First of all, we would like to congratulate you all on passing the exam—without dying," Ben announced, his voice dry but sincere. "There were, unfortunately, a few casualties during the trials… but I'm relieved to say none of them were at your hands."
He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
"I would have taken a few moments to mourn their passing," he continued, his tone steady. "But that would not honor their souls in the afterlife. They would rather we carry forward."
Another pause. This time, not one born from hesitation, but from respect.
Then, with a subtle turn of his head, Ben glanced to his left. "Violet, please continue the announcement."
"I'd be happy to," came the cheerful reply.
The woman who stepped forward was in stark contrast to the man beside her. She looked to be in her early thirties, with bright cyan hair that shimmered under the stadium lights. Her eyes were a striking emerald green, and her skin fair as porcelain. Draped in a flowing yellow battle-mage robe, she moved with the confident ease of someone both beautiful and deadly. In her right hand, she held a staff—more like a polished branch—tipped with a glowing amethyst crystal that pulsed softly, echoing her energy.
This was the youngest among the five. The Fifth Headmaster of Paragon.
Violet Tempest.
Yeah… I wasn't particularly interested in her speech. I zoned out for most of it, though I kept an ear open just in case the story changed in any significant way.
"...And lastly, we are proud to present Miss Sylvia Krythalon with a position on the Student Council for securing first place in the examination," Violet announced, bringing her speech to a close. "With that, we'd like to give you all a day off before your studies begin. We believe you've earned it after such exhausting days."
You could almost hear every cadet silently thanking her in unison, a collective wave of relief washing through the hall.
"Bro—Steve, if you have any words to say," Violet added, catching herself just in time before she let the word 'brother' slip completely. She sat back down with a light chuckle under her breath, though Steve didn't return the humor.
"...I am heavily disappointed in the number of you who passed the exam," Steve said, his voice sharp and unforgiving. He didn't even bother to stand.
He looked to be in his thirties, with a strong, compact build—like a man sculpted for war. His jet-black hair was cropped short, and his black eyes carried a simmering intensity that didn't need volume to command attention. Unlike the other headmasters, he wore no formal robes or uniforms. Just a tight-fitting black shirt and matching pants, with a utility belt strapped around his waist—practical, brutal, and ready for battle.
"Even with all the resources handed to you, almost none of you had the foresight to work together from the start," he continued. "You know when you failed to set an example for the generations to come? The moment you allowed mistrust to nest in your hearts."
This was the Fourth Headmaster of Paragon. And one of the strongest aura users on the entire planet.
Steve Tempest.
Although his voice had a harsh edge, Steve said everything out of genuine concern for us. He didn't want any cadet—especially those who'd clawed their way here through sheer effort—to die senselessly at the hands of demons. He might look like the most unforgiving of the five, but in truth, Steve Tempest was the one who cared the most. He just had a difficult way of showing it.
"That's all I have to say," he concluded flatly. "If any of you disagree, you're welcome to complain."
A murmur of tension passed through the room—but no one spoke.
"While I don't disagree with Steve," came a calm, measured voice from the rightmost chair, "I do believe you should all be given the chance to prove him wrong—once you've had time to actually know one another. Trust isn't something demanded. It's built, slowly."
The speaker was as old as Ben, but his face carried less wear—more grace than gravity. Not all metahumans aged the same, and his vitality still lingered beneath the silver strands of his neatly combed hair. His eyes were a deep brown, calm and thoughtful, and his skin was a warm, earthy brown that contrasted subtly against the crisp grey of his tailored suit. Unlike the others, he wore no visible accessories, no symbols of power—only quiet confidence.
This was the Third Headmaster of Paragon. And one of the finest summoners Earth had ever known.
Audrey Sinclair.
"Wouldn't you agree, Charles?" Audrey said gently, turning his head to the far left—prompting all of us to shift our attention toward the most mysterious figure in the room.
"Hm," came the low, resonant sound of agreement.
The being seated on the far-left chair could barely be described as a man at all. In truth, he wasn't alive in the conventional sense. His form was a haunting amalgamation of bone and sorcery, a living monument to ancient, forbidden magic. His skull—massive and bleached—belonged to a water bull, its horns curved like crescents of death. His torso was thick and muscular like an orc's, with sinewed arms that looked capable of tearing steel. Below the waist, his limbs resembled that of a troll—broad, crude, and unnervingly silent.
Bones were woven into his form—some fused directly into his ribcage, others strung across him like ceremonial armor. All of it was hidden beneath a white, ceremonial robe that seemed less like clothing and more like a seal to contain his horrifying presence.
This was the Second Headmaster of Paragon. A being who had long transcended life and death.
One of the most ancient and powerful sorcerers to ever walk the Earth.
Charles Everhart.
An eerie silence settled over the hall.
It seemed Charles had no further words for us—or perhaps what he might've said existed beyond language. The stillness that followed felt heavier than any of the speeches before it, as if his silence alone had closed the ceremony.
Without warning, the Headmasters vanished from their seats—flickering out of existence as effortlessly as they had appeared.
No fanfare. No farewell.
And so, with no formal dismissal, we quietly dispersed—some in awe, some still tense from the encounter. A few of us began exploring the vast campus, the grand architecture and floating halls stretching far beyond what we could see. Others wandered in groups, trying to make sense of their new surroundings.