Nathan’s pen hovered expectantly over the parchment as he continued the evaluation.

  “Any known relations with any registered Walker or Adjutant?”

  I shook my head. “None that I know of. But if someone was hiding their status, would that reflect poorly on my answer?”

  Nathan gave a small, dismissive shrug, his reflective skin shifting subtly with the movement. “No. If people wish to conceal their status, they can. However, while on duty, it becomes... significantly harder to do so. The robe alone makes sure of that.”

  His pen scratched against the parchment as he noted down my response.

  “If you pass, you will be provided with a custom-tailored robe—one that you are required to wear while on active duty. The details will be explained later.”

  He didn’t elaborate further, so I didn’t press.

  Instead, he continued, shifting topics without pause.

  “Current planned combat build?”

  I hesitated for a second before admitting, “Can you go over my options? I’ve only looked into three.”

  Nathan raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Which three?”

  “Witchhunter, Djinn, and their hybrid... Ranahtah? Is that correct?”

  Nathan shook his head immediately. “It’s pronounced Ranah-Tahiri—named by the Nomadic Kingdom.”

  His tone carried an air of caution, and for the first time in the evaluation, he set his pen down, steepling his fingers together as if preparing to give a warning.

  “You will find yourself begging for certain Skillcubes early on if you take that path. Worse, you will be completely bankrupt before you even begin your first major mission. That build requires a staggering amount of specialized equipment to function at even a baseline level.”

  He paused, narrowing his gaze slightly. “That said, I assume this means you own a Machina and plan to use the bow as your primary weapon, correct?”

  I nodded.

  Nathan hummed in acknowledgment and moved his pen ahead on the parchment, already answering several questions in advance.

  “Machina type?”

  “Humanoid,” I answered. “Clad in armor—but the armor is made entirely out of regular playing cards.”

  Nathan exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Your uncle really didn’t tell you anything about Machina, did he?”

  "No," I admitted.

  He didn’t look surprised. “Unsurprising.”

  His pen hovered over the parchment again.

  “What era is it from?”

  I hesitated. “My uncle said it was old. But my own research suggests it dates back to the Age of Recolonization. That’s my best guess, but I can’t confirm if it’s accurate.”

  Nathan gave a small nod. “Good enough. We’ll list it as Circa AoE for now.”

  He made a note beside the entry before his fractured-glass eyes flickered back to me.

  “Should you uncover more details regarding the spirit bound to your Machina, report it immediately. The more we know, the better we can assess its limitations—and yours.”

  The way he said that sent a faint chill through me.

  Not if I found more information.

  When.

  Nathan’s fractured-glass eyes studied me with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable.

  “If you are surrounded by bandits while transporting cargo, and you are hopelessly outnumbered, but the cargo is for a vital shipment of goods from Marr to, say, Elaik in the Technocracy—how would you handle that?”

  A test. A scenario designed to gauge my judgment, priorities, and understanding of consequence.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t.”

  Nathan blinked. Just once. But I caught it.

  “Even if the goods are vital, they can be replaced. I can always get another shipment there. It may cost the lives of a few hundred, but it wouldn’t cost the lives of the city. If I throw my life away over a single transport, I damn all of Elaik to die.”

  Silence stretched between us.

  Nathan’s posture remained composed, but I caught the way his fingers stilled against the parchment. The way his lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, only to pause.

  Then, after a long moment, he exhaled through his nose.

  Not out of frustration.

  Approval.

  “No.” His voice was softer, but not correcting. Agreeing.

  “It damns more than just Elaik.”

  His gaze sharpened—not out of skepticism, but something more akin to respect.

  “By abandoning that transport, you just let the city starve. A temporary famine. What you don’t do, is condemn the entire caravan—the drivers, the handlers, the guards. They all die alongside it. You don’t just decide for yourself. You decide for everyone involved. You, your Adjutants, your caravan. They come home.”

  He tapped a single, pale finger against the table, thoughtful.

  “And that, Alexander, is the correct answer.”

  There was no score to be marked, no numerical judgment, yet I felt the weight of my words settle into the room.

  Nathan nodded slightly, as if confirming something within himself.

  “This is the first question we ask that actually is part of your assessment.”

  He leaned back, his frame shifting fluidly, like a man more comfortable now than he had been before.

  “And the only one where your answer is never recorded.”

  He didn’t say it outright, but I understood.

  This was the most important question of them all.

  Nathan studied me for a moment longer before his lips curled—not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.

  “The fact that you already understand that a single shipment is not worth the potential future, and that you’ve already considered the wider consequences of that failure?”

  He nodded, slow and deliberate.

  “It speaks volumes.”

  I met his gaze without wavering.

  “Principles of War, Volume 2. By Sergeant James Bathory.”

  Nathan exhaled, this time with a short, amused breath.

  Not mocking. Not dismissive. Genuinely impressed.

  “Of course.”

  But I wasn’t finished. My voice dropped slightly, my words carrying a colder weight.

  “The most valuable things in war are not the territory, nor the land. Land is important, yes—for food, for industry—but war is not won by who holds the land.”

  Nathan didn’t interrupt. He let me speak.

  I straightened, letting the lesson take shape in the air between us.

  “The real war is fought on the road. Because how do you get men to the land? How do you get supplies for the men?”

  I tapped my fingers against the table, slow and deliberate.

  “The road.”

  Nathan closed his eyes for a brief moment, soaking in the words like something familiar, something known.

  Then, he nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  ***

  Nathan led me outside, guiding me toward a shooting range nestled within the vast Walker Association grounds. The air was thick with the steady rhythm of arrows slicing through wind, the twang of bowstrings, and the sharp crack of impact as projectiles struck their marks.

  Several archers were already practicing, their movements precise, methodical. Each one wore an elaborate black robe, adorned with a golden shield emblazoned across their backs. On each shield was a unique insignia, customized for its wearer, yet all shared the same distinct heraldic colors—silver and bronze.

  What struck me most wasn’t just the uniformity of their robes but the wealth they carried.

  Jewelry glittered from their wrists, necks, and fingers, rivaling the worth of my uncle’s entire estate. Some of the pieces weren’t just decorative; they radiated power, faint but unmistakable—a testament to their strength.

  I was staring, caught between admiration and analysis, when Nathan’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

  “Admiring their fashion?” His tone was teasing, but his gaze was still that of an examiner. “Yes, those are the official Walker robes. And yes, if you pass, you’ll design your own insignia.”

  Before I could reply, he raised his voice slightly.

  “Arvin, Leona. Make way. I need to test a potential bow-wielding Walker.”

  From across the range, one of the archers—a man with hair so long it reached his ankles—perked up immediately.

  “Oh? Another for the club?”

  He strode toward us with an easy confidence, flashing a grin. Despite his elegance, there was something mischievous in his tone, as though he found immense joy in welcoming a new potential member to whatever unspoken fraternity he belonged to.

  “Nice! I’m Arvin. Meet up after you get your license!”

  Before he could linger, his companion—Leona, the much shorter-haired and far more muscular of the two—grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away with little effort.

  “Now, now. Recruit later.”

  Nathan exhaled a quiet sigh of amusement, shaking his head as he watched them retreat to the far side of the range.

  Once they were out of earshot, he turned his attention back to me, his posture shifting subtly—the examiner once again.

  “This is the training yard.” He gestured toward the rows of straw and wooden targets, positioned at varying distances. “We’ll provide you with a bow and ten arrows. Standard Marrian draw?”

  I shook my head. “Thumb draw.”

  Without another word, I lifted my hand, revealing the thumb ring I wore—a subtle but integral part of my shooting technique.

  Nathan’s eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of it, his frown small but noticeable.

  “Well… you’ll have to use it, I suppose.” He exhaled. “We lack thumb rings for training here.”

  I gave a small nod of acknowledgement, but before I even touched the bow, my hands moved instinctively—following the habits I had carved into myself in Danatallion’s Halls.

  Without hesitation, I reached into my pocket and withdrew a single playing card.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The moment it touched my palm, I pushed my mana and miasma into it.

  A familiar cascade of cards erupted from the ground, swirling and interlocking like a perfect machine, assembling piece by piece into a humanoid form clad in armor.

  Kneeling before me, my Machina took shape once again, its plated form shimmering as it solidified.

  A silent guardian, awaiting its command.

  Nathan’s pen—or rather, his stylus—moved swiftly across the board in his hands, jotting down something before I had even issued my order.

  I didn’t focus on him. Instead, I stepped forward, placing a hand on my Machina’s shoulder.

  “Look out for enemies or potential ambushes. I’m focusing on my accuracy. Be my ears. Be my hands.”

  The silent knight of cards gave a dramatic, exaggerated mock salute—a gesture of both obedience and theatrical flair.

  Nathan’s stylus moved again.

  My grip was steady. Nock. Aim. Release.

  The first shot was easy. My arrow struck clean, landing in the eight-ring—not a bullseye, but precise enough for a vital shot against most beasts. A solid, respectable hit.

  Then, the target changed.

  What had once been a simple stationary target—cloth stretched over straw and wood—began to move.

  Up. Down. A predictable rhythm.

  Oddly, this made things easier. I could read its pattern, wait for the precise moment, then exhale and release.

  My next arrow found the nine-ring.

  Then the difficulty increased.

  The third target weaved in erratic figure-eight patterns, shifting direction unpredictably every few seconds. Unstable.

  I adjusted too late. My shot landed, but far from ideal. A four.

  I gritted my teeth, already preparing for the next adjustment when the targets shifted again.

  This time, the movement was absurd.

  The target was no longer bound to a single plane. It began to orbit me, constantly shifting elevation, speed, and direction—a full 180-degree rotation, circling around at an inconsistent pace.

  A test of tracking, prediction, and adaptability.

  I exhaled sharply, lowering my stance and trying to get a read on its movement.

  Then—

  Something shifted.

  Not from the target.

  From behind me.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Mana and miasma surged through me as I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against the torn remnants of confetti—scraps of folded origami insects, concealed and waiting.

  A silent command.

  The paper creatures burst to life, streaking toward my southwest, where the disturbance had come from.

  At the same time, my Machina moved, reacting with the theatrical efficiency it always carried, positioning itself defensively between me and the unknown threat.

  I pivoted and moved, not forward, but sideways, just as a spike of cloth shot up from the ground—piercing the spot where I had stood a moment ago.

  An ambush.

  Nathan’s voice cut through the moment, calm and analytical, as if my reaction had been nothing more than data for him to process.

  “Good combat awareness. Much better than expected for someone without battle-class Skillcubes.”

  I exhaled slowly, keeping my posture loose as I regained my footing.

  Nathan was already writing, his stylus moving in quick, fluid strokes across the slate in his hands.

  “Archer tests complete.”

  I frowned. “You gave me ten arrows, but I only fired three shots.”

  Nathan waved a hand, brushing off the concern.

  “Don’t need to see the rest. You’ll be fine for most Gates at the F-to-D class level for your Soul Realm. That’s the standard expectation for a 1-1 Walker.”

  His casual dismissal left me unsure whether to feel satisfied or irritated.

  Then, without missing a beat, he flipped the slate and turned his attention back to me.

  “The only thing left is to see you enter a book.”

  His fractured-glass eyes gleamed slightly, reflecting the sky like ripples on water.

  “If you can do that, your license is essentially assured—pending a criminal background check, of course.”

  He paused before chuckling.

  “Wouldn’t want to hand a license to an actively wanted criminal.”

  His voice was light, teasing—but beneath it was a weight I couldn't quite place.

  I exhaled, rolling my shoulders, the tension slowly bleeding away.

  One last test.

  ***

  Nathan led me back inside, this time to a study, a space far more refined and deliberate than the stark training grounds. The scent of aged parchment, ink, and polished wood filled the air, each shelf lined with carefully maintained tomes and documents—a quiet but unmistakable repository of knowledge and judgment.

  But reaching this room had been... monumental.

  The walk from the shooting range to the study had been a deliberate trial in itself.

  Nathan hadn’t taken the shortest route. Instead, he had led me through a winding, calculated path—one that passed through nearly every major facility within the Walker Association grounds.

  We moved through a historical library, its towering shelves patrolled by researchers who combed through texts protected by arcane seals. A cafeteria, where Walkers and Adjutants dined together, their meals accompanied by the occasional flicker of levitated utensils or minor elemental tricks used absentmindedly in conversation. A dormitory, its halls lined with doors bearing personal insignias rather than names. A research laboratory, where scientists and scholars worked side by side, the air crackling with experiments that blurred the line between magic and machinery. A Machina laboratory, where artisans deconstructed and reassembled golems, their lifeless frames standing like war statues awaiting purpose. A medical ward, where healers and medics moved swiftly among cots—treating wounds that were not just physical, but psychic, magical, and existential.

  It was more than a headquarters.

  It was a world unto itself.

  By the time we reached the study, I was winded.

  Six flights of stairs. A city’s worth of hallways. Paths that twisted and turned like a labyrinth intended to test stamina as much as direction.

  Nathan must have noticed.

  Without a word, he handed me a glass of juice.

  I took it without question.

  The first sip was sweet, slightly salty—immediately restoring what I hadn’t realized I had lost.

  I exhaled slowly. "Thanks."

  Nathan gave a small shrug. "Your Paper Manipulation is hellishly taxing."

  I frowned.

  "I could feel your mana consumption per origami bee back there. No wonder they gave your Arte a B- rating."

  I froze mid-sip.

  That wasn’t public knowledge.

  I lowered the glass, turning fully toward him. "How do you know that?"

  Nathan didn’t hesitate.

  "The moment you produced an artificial Machina during your Mirage Field test, you were flagged for manual review."

  I stilled, absorbing that information.

  Mirage Fields were used to test and evaluate an Arte—to measure its potential, stability, and limitations.

  That meant I had been assessed outside of the standard process.

  "Myself, along with four others I won’t name, were selected to manually review your case."

  He spoke as if this was routine—it wasn’t as far as I knew.

  "We determined that your Arte was not connected to the creation of ancient spirits, and that you currently lacked the necessary skill to be recruited into a Machina guild. So, we let things be."

  That was a lot to process at once.

  Not only had my Arte been analyzed at a higher level, but it had been discussed and voted on.

  Nathan exhaled, tilting his head slightly.

  "If you're curious—and my data suggests you would be—the vote was 4-1."

  He met my gaze, his expression unreadable.

  "I was part of the majority."

  I was seated in a chair—not nearly as luxurious as the one in the questioning room, but comfortable enough to keep me from shifting too much. A deliberate choice, no doubt. Just enough ease to let me focus, but not enough to make me forget that this was still a test.

  Nathan stood before a towering bookshelf, running his fingers lightly along the spines of dozens—maybe hundreds—of books. He moved with purpose, eyes scanning the titles with precise intent.

  "I’ll be choosing the book for you."

  He didn’t turn to look at me as he spoke, his attention still focused on the volumes before him.

  "I assume this will be the first book you conquer—so I ask for patience."

  His fingers paused. Then, with the faintest hum of satisfaction, he pulled a book from the shelf and turned back toward me.

  "Oh. Here it is."

  He placed it on the table between us with a soft thump.

  I blinked.

  It was a children’s popup book.

  "The Great Game."

  The cover was bright and playful, the title scrawled in looping golden letters, framed by illustrations of jesters, knights, and a grinning child holding a wooden sword.

  I raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

  Nathan gave me a knowing smirk. "It’s small, so it won’t be too difficult. Most likely? You’ll be placed in the role of the child."

  He tapped a single finger against the cover.

  "Go ahead. Do what you need to activate your Arte."

  I took a breath and let my fingertips brush against the pages.

  The activation process was instinctive now—a connection between the words on the page and the power within me.

  And so, I began to read.

  With Speed Reading, the words flooded into my mind like a rushing current, processed and absorbed in an instant.

  ***

  (The first pop-up shows a thick, enchanted forest, with trees made of chocolate and leaves spun from sugar.)

  Once upon a time, there was a boy who wandered too far from home.

  The forest around him was unlike any other—trees of chocolate bark, rivers of bubbling caramel, and cotton candy clouds drifting lazily in the sky. The scent of warm sugar filled the air, wrapping around him like a soft, inviting hug.

  And then—he heard the music.

  A bright, cheery tune played from somewhere deep within the forest, the kind that made feet want to dance and hearts want to follow.

  And there it was—a circus.

  "Come one, come all!" a voice boomed from the colorful tents ahead. "The greatest show awaits!"

  The boy’s eyes widened with wonder. A circus? In the middle of a candy forest? Surely, this was the start of something grand.

  He stepped forward, not knowing that the game had already begun

  (A pop-up of a magnificent circus tent, adorned with sugar decorations, caramel-coated poles, and gumdrop lanterns.)

  The boy entered the circus, where everything sparkled like a dream.

  The carousel spun with peppermint-striped horses, their eyes twinkling like stars. Lollipop tightropes stretched high above, where acrobats made of taffy and marshmallow flipped and twirled through the air.

  The people inside smiled and laughed—performers in dazzling costumes, musicians playing lively tunes, clowns juggling candy apples and licorice hoops.

  And in the very center of it all stood the Ringmaster.

  (A pop-up of the Ringmaster, impossibly tall, with a long red coat and a smile as sharp as peppermint bark.)

  The Ringmaster swept off his hat and bowed. "Welcome, dear boy!" he said. "You have been chosen for The Great Game!"

  The boy tilted his head. "What game?"

  The Ringmaster's smile stretched just a bit wider. "A most special game! Win, and you may stay forever in this land of sweets and joy!"

  That didn’t sound too bad.

  The boy nodded. "What happens if I lose?"

  The Ringmaster’s eyes gleamed like polished toffee.

  "Oh, dear boy, no one loses. Everyone joins the circus."

  The boy didn’t understand yet. But he would.

  (A pop-up of a funhouse made entirely of gingerbread and glass candy mirrors, warped reflections staring back.)

  As the circus bustled with laughter and tricks, the boy wandered into the House of Mirrors.

  But instead of funhouse reflections, the mirrors showed something else.

  They showed children.

  Not just their reflections—but them, trapped inside the glass, their eyes wide with fear.

  The boy gasped, stepping back. He saw faces—smiling clowns with frozen expressions, silent acrobats in gilded cages, dancers in sugared costumes that never unraveled.

  They were not performers.

  They were prisoners.

  The circus was a trap.

  (A pop-up of the boy smashing a sugar window, shards flying everywhere.)

  The boy grabbed a rock sugar cane from the ground and swung it hard against the mirror.

  CRACK!

  The glass shattered like spun sugar, and in an instant—the illusion broke.

  The candy lost its glow, the colors dulled, and the circus itself wavered like mist in the morning sun.

  The other children blinked as if waking from a deep sleep.

  "Run!" the boy shouted.

  And so, they did.

  (A pop-up of the Ringmaster’s shadow looming over the escaping children.)

  The Ringmaster was furious.

  "You would leave the greatest show on earth?" he roared, his voice cracking like brittle sugar.

  The circus began to twist and shift, trying to pull them back—ropes of licorice coiled toward them, but the children broke free.

  The boy ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his wooden sword glowing like it had been dipped in stardust.

  And behind him, the grand circus crumbled into dust.

  (A pop-up of a familiar dirt road, the candy forest behind them now fading into mist.)

  As the children ran, the candy trees withered into nothingness, their vibrant colors draining away.

  At last, they found a real road—a path leading home.

  The boy turned, expecting to see the circus still standing, but there was nothing left.

  Just an empty clearing, as if it had never been there at all.

  One of the children whispered, "Was it just a dream?"

  The boy held up his wooden sword.

  A single piece of sugar-glass still clung to the hilt.

  No.

  It had been real.

  And he had won The Great Game.

  (A pop-up of a wooden signpost, nailed to a tree near the road.)

  As the children left, the boy noticed something new—a wooden sign nailed to the last standing tree at the edge of the clearing.

  Burned into the wood, in jagged letters, were the words:

  "THE CIRCUS ALWAYS RETURNS."

  The wind blew, flipping the sign over.

  On the back, another message was scratched into the wood:

  "NEXT TIME, IT MAY BE YOU."

  (The final flap of the book closes on its own, the last echo of circus laughter ringing in the air.

  THIS TIME, IT IS YOU.

  The words burned against the page.

  I heard them. I saw them. They pulsed with an unnatural glow, their letters twisting, shifting, as if they were alive, breathing in time with my own pulse.

  I couldn’t look away.

  Even if I wanted to, even if I tried, my gaze remained locked—held by something beyond sight, beyond comprehension.

  A whisper slithered through the air, curling around me like an unseen hand.

  You know what happens next.

  I did.

  My fingers trembled as I reached out. The tips of my gloved hands brushed against the ink, and the moment I did—

  The world lurched.

  A weightless sensation clawed at my chest, the book beneath me no longer paper, no longer solid, but something shifting, something deep.

  Something pulling.

  I was being drawn in, the ink unraveling like threads, curling around my wrist, my arm, dragging me into the pages.

  I took a slow breath, steadying myself, forcing down the instinct to resist.

  I knew what this was.

  I knew what I had to do.

  All I could hope—all I could pray—was that the book placed me in the role it had suggested.

  Because the inverse…

  Would be so much worse.