The air in the classroom was thick with the scent of stale chalk dust and the faint, metallic tang of residual magic. A late afternoon sun, weak and hazy through the grimy windowpanes, cast long, indifferent shadows across the scuffed desks.
At the front, the teacher, a gaunt man with a perpetually tired slump to his shoulders, sighed, running a hand over his thinning hair. The whiteboard, streaked with faded diagrams and half-erased equations, remained stubbornly grimy, liked stucked to the board.
The teacher finally released words from his mouth.
"Someone, please," he mumbled, more to himself than the dozen or so students scattered around the room. "Just wipe the board."
A few students shifted in their seats, but no one moved. They stared at the teacher with the blank, unbothered apathy of teenagers counting down the seconds to dismissal. They were good kids, mostly, for a provincial magic academy. Competent, even. But none of them possessed the spark, the drive, that could elevate them beyond the ordinary.
Except one.
Giovanno Lucci sat by the window, a casual disregard for the lesson etched onto his sculpted features. He wasn't bored; boredom implied a lack of mental stimulation, and Giovanno's mind was a perpetual whirlwind of calculations and possibilities. He was simply done. Done with the predictable lessons, the anemic challenges, the utterly pedestrian displays of talent.
A faint hum, a barely audible resonance, vibrated through the air around Giovanno. His fingers, long and elegant, twitched almost imperceptibly. He didn't need to look at the board; he could feel its molecular structure, the grime clinging to its surface. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. This tired room, this meek teacher, these indifferent classmates—they were all just props in his show.
Suddenly, a sharp cry sliced through the quiet. Marco, a lanky boy with a perpetually nervous twitch, gasped. His school shirt, moments ago a plain, sensible garment, was no longer fabric. It twisted and writhed, unraveling into magical threads that snapped and whipped with violent efficiency, scouring the whiteboard clean. The board now gleamed, but Marco stood disheveled, his chest exposed, a look of profound humiliation and simmering rage warring in his wide, disbelieving eyes. He stumbled back, desperately trying to cover himself, his face burning crimson.
The room erupted. A collective gasp, then murmurs. Some students stared in open-mouthed shock, others exchanged worried glances, eyes wide with a mix of fear and resentment, knowing they could easily be the next target of Giovanno's casual whims. No one dared challenge him. Their silence was a testament to his undisputed reign.
Giovanno, however, remained utterly serene. He drew his magic back into himself with a languid breath, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He enjoyed this. The absolute control, the shock of others, the stark reminder of his own singular power. This was what it felt like to be the apex.
But the teacher was already moving, his earlier exhaustion replaced by pure, unadulterated panic. His face was flushed, hands wringing nervously, his voice strained with barely contained hysteria.
"Giovanno! That's enough! Everyone, behave!" he shrieked, his eyes darting frantically to the classroom door. "Do you have any idea how important today is? The Magicae Apicem Arcana inspectors are here! We need to make a good impression!" His voice cracked, the words laced with a desperate plea.
Giovanno scoffed internally. Good impression? What good impression did he need to make? He was ready for the challenge. He'd been waiting for this. The final year exam was merely a formality for his acceptance into the world's most prestigious magical college. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he would be accepted; it was simply his due.
Just then, as the teacher's final, trembling words faded, a new presence settled over the room. The very air seemed to thicken, subtly charged with a deeper, more refined magic that made the previous chaos feel utterly insignificant. A collective hush fell over the students, their nervous energy instantly replaced by a stunned, almost reverent silence.
The door, which had seemed like a mundane barrier just moments before, swung open with a quiet, deliberate grace. Framed in the doorway stood two figures. Their robes were of a rich, deep midnight blue, impeccably tailored, clinging to forms that radiated an aura of calm, undisputed power. Their faces were composed, their expressions unreadable, but their eyes, ancient and knowing, missed nothing. These were not merely visitors; they were emanations of the Magicae Apicem Arcana itself. Their gaze swept, unhurried, over the disheveled Marco, the eerily clean whiteboard, and then, for a fleeting moment, rested on Giovanno. There was a subtle glint in their eyes that offered no judgment, only an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of the formidable power they sensed.
The very air in the room hummed with unspoken authority, a quiet reverberation of true might. For the first time, perhaps ever, Giovanno Lucci, the undisputed apex of his small world, was not the most powerful sorcerer in the room. His challenge has truly arrived.
The two figures, embodying the very essence of Magicae Apicem Arcana, moved with an unhurried grace that commanded immediate attention. Their gaze swept over the disheveled Marco, the eerily clean whiteboard, and then, for a fleeting moment, rested on Giovanno. There was a subtle glint in their eyes that offered no judgment, only an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of the formidable power they sensed. Giovanno met their gaze, not with a need to impress, but with a quiet, almost bored confidence. He had nothing to prove to them, not yet. He was Giovanno Lucci. They would simply recognize his inherent superiority.
The figure on the left, a man with sharp, intelligent eyes and a finely trimmed beard, stepped forward. "Greetings, students, and faculty," he began, his voice calm yet resonating with an authority that hushed the last murmurs in the room. "I am Augustus, and this is my colleague, Epicure. We are here today on behalf of the Magicae Apicem Arcana, the world's foremost institution for the study and advancement of sorcery."
His eyes swept over the nervous faces before him. "Our purpose is twofold: to observe the potential within your ranks, and to clarify the path to true mastery. To understand the latter, you must first comprehend the very source of our power."
Augustus paused, allowing his words to sink in. "All magic originates from the Arcanum Vitae: the Life Force. It is the primordial wellspring, flowing through all existence. Not everyone, however, is capable of drawing upon it. Those attuned to this fundamental energy are known as sorcerers, capable of shaping the Arcana Vitae into spells, into miracles, into sheer will."
He gestured with an open hand, and the very air in the room seemed to shimmer with unseen energy. "A sorcerer's overall power and skill are determined by three core, interconnected aspects: Potentia, Imperium, and Scholae."
Giovanno listened, his brow faintly furrowed. This was foundational knowledge, something he'd intuitively understood even before formal education. Still, he found himself intrigued by the formal articulation, the sheer weight of authority in Augustus's voice.
"Potentia," Augustus continued, "is the sheer quantity of Arcana Vitae present within every sorcerer. It is your magical reservoir, your wellspring of raw power. A higher Potentia means greater stamina in battle, a deeper well from which to draw. While it is impossible to truly run out of your Potentia, it can be depleted to a critical point, leading to a fatal state."
Epicure, who had remained silent, now spoke, his voice deeper, more gravelly. "Imperium refers to a sorcerer's ability to infuse their Potentia into physical weapons, increasing their destructive nature. These sorcerers become living conduits of magical might, turning steel into instruments of devastating force."
Augustus then reclaimed the floor, his gaze seeming to settle, for a heartbeat longer, on Giovanno. "Scholae," he pronounced, the word imbued with a profound weight, "signifies a sorcerer's deep understanding and proficiency in specific magical disciplines. They are the specialists, the masters of form and application."
He began to list them, holding up fingers as he spoke. "There are five primary categories of Scholae:
* Evocatio: Masters of destructive spells – fire, lightning, water, and pure force.
* Abjuratio: Practitioners of defensive wards, impenetrable barriers, and intricate counter-spells.
* Transmutatio: Those who excel in altering the properties or form of objects and energy, capable of manipulating things in their surrounding areas." A flicker of a smile played on Augustus's lips as he met Giovanno's gaze directly.
* Aluminatio : sorcerers capable of casting spells of light perception and illusion.
* Anima Vinctum: Sorcerers skilled in the summoning and binding of magical beasts."
Epicure, his voice deeper and more resonant than Augustus's, stepped forward then, his gaze sweeping over the students with an almost clinical detachment. "Upon entry to Magicae Apicem Arcana," he stated, his words devoid of flourish, "each student undergoes an initial assessment to determine their rank. This rank, from F to A, denotes your initial standing within the college – a measure of your current mastery and potential."
He paused, allowing his words to settle, and a collective tension rippled through the classroom. The concept of a formal, overarching rank was new in this context, something far grander than their simple school's internal pecking order.
Epicure's next words shattered any illusions. "However," he continued, his voice lowering just slightly, "our college exists on a plane of power utterly removed from your current understanding. It is a crucible, a forge where true sorcerers are tempered. To put it plainly: the standard you know is irrelevant."
His eyes, ancient and piercing, met Giovanno's for a prolonged moment.
"Indeed, the vast majority of our incoming students – prodigies and talents scouted from every corner of the globe, the supposed 'apex' of their respective schools – find themselves ranked as a C or, in rare cases, a B on their very first assertion. To achieve an A-rank, let alone anything higher, upon entry, is a feat almost unheard of in living memory."
The statement landed like a physical blow.
The challenge he craved now had a name, and it was far more daunting than he had ever imagined.