The entrance to the exam site loomed like a carved coliseum of judgment.

  Massive walls of stone framed by gleaming marble pilrs. Everything about it screamed you are beneath this, and to be fair… most of us were.

  Asta whistled beside me. “This pce is HUGE!”

  Yuno said nothing. His expression was locked into what I’d started calling “grumpy excellence.”

  And me?

  I stared at the twin statues fnking the gate—mages with open grimoires carved into their palms—and whispered to myself, Let the weeds through the gate too. We grow in shadows just fine.

  The first thing inside was a registration hall—a long corridor lined with robed officials and glowing glyphs that pulsed faintly as each applicant approached.

  The air smelled of ink, parchment, and faint mana—like an arcane archive that had learned how to breathe.

  We stepped up one at a time.

  Yuno went first. He handed his grimoire over. The official blinked once, leaned closer... and then nearly dropped the book.

  “Th-this is a four-leaf…!”

  The whisper spread like fire across the room.

  “A four-leaf?!”

  “That kid from Hage?”

  “No way…”

  Yuno didn’t flinch. He took his grimoire back and walked on like the rumors were just wind.

  Next was Asta.

  He plopped his heavy, ragged book down on the desk with a grin.

  The official blinked again. “Is… this a grimoire?”

  “YUP!” Asta beamed. “And it summons a huge-ass sword! Wanna see?!”

  “No,” the man said quickly, scribbling something and waving him along.

  Finally, me.

  I stepped forward, handed over my bark-textured grimoire. The man frowned slightly, flipping through the odd, diagrammed pages.

  “Three-leaf. Wood affinity,” he muttered. “Strange internal structure.”

  “Custom-binding formation,” I replied dryly.

  “Hm. Not common.” He stamped my slip and handed it back.

  And just like that, I was inside.

  We emerged into the Great Battle Hall—a coliseum of carved ptforms, massive arcane circles, and bleachers packed with knights, nobles, and exam officials.

  Floating above the crowd were dozens of small, dark shapes—magic-sensing birds.

  They swirled overhead like vultures in slow motion, and I immediately recognized the setup: low magic users attracted more attention from them.

  Yuno stepped forward. Not a single bird came near him.

  Asta stepped forward. Every damn bird swarmed his head like he was made of breadcrumbs and shame.

  He filed. “GET OFF ME! I’M GONNA BE WIZARD KING!”

  A voice like thunder boomed behind him.

  “You think the birds are bad, kid?”

  A massive hand smmed down on Asta’s head, gripping him like a wild turnip.

  It was Yami Sukehiro.

  Bck Bulls’ Captain. Mountain of muscle. Aura of murder and constipation. He looked down at Asta like he was considering eating him whole.

  “You’re loud,” Yami grunted.

  “Who’re you?!” Asta shouted, squirming under the grip.

  Yami’s brow twitched. “Still got the same mouth, huh…?”

  “Wait—do I know you?”

  Yuno and I stood aside, watching the scene with amusement and... mild concern.

  Before Yami could say more, a junior knight ran up, panting. “Captain! They’re calling the squad leaders to the stands.”

  Yami dropped Asta. “Don’t get stepped on, shrimp.”

  Then he turned and disappeared into the upper ptform.

  Asta rubbed his head. “What was his problem?”

  “He met you,” I said.

  And then... they arrived.

  Twelve Magic Knight Captains stood across a gilded ptform high above the stage. Their auras pressed down like gravity.

  Fme. Wind. Shadows. Steel. Each one different—impossible to ignore.

  At the center stood a tall man in a white robe, golden mask covering his face: William Vangeance, Captain of Golden Dawn.

  His voice echoed across the coliseum. “Welcome, future knights. Today, you will be tested in spell demonstration, flight control, creation, and direct combat. Impress us, and you may earn your pce.”

  The arena shifted, stone panels sliding open, training zones rising from the floor like summoned terrain.

  “Begin.”

  Spell Demonstration was first.

  Yuno stepped forward into the center, raised his grimoire, and summoned a spinning vortex of cutting wind that formed a perfect ring around his body—silent, surgical, deadly.

  The captains leaned forward. Murmurs spread.

  Next, Asta.

  He stepped up, summoned his greatsword with a loud cng... and stood there.

  The judges blinked.

  “No magic,” someone whispered.

  But then Asta swung, sending out a shockwave that shattered the dummy target in a single hit.

  They stopped ughing.

  Me?

  I stepped forward st. No cheers. No stares. Just indifference.

  I opened my grimoire, knelt to the stone, and whispered, “Rootce: Encircle.”

  Fine threads of wood erupted from the cracks, forming a spiraled net that wove upward, capturing three dummies midair—immobile, cocooned, alive.

  Not fshy. Not powerful.

  But impossible to escape.

  Captain Dorothy of the Coral Peacocks leaned forward. “Intricate…”

  Yami grunted. “Huh. Smart weed.”

  I stepped back, sweat on my brow, mana still simmering.

  Next: Flight Test.

  Asta failed immediately, smming face-first into the ground.

  Yuno hovered effortlessly.

  I managed a lift using twisted wood under my feet, but it drained me fast. I made it halfway across the arena before nding hard.

  Creation Test followed.

  Yuno crafted a storm spear. Asta… made a sword. Again.

  I formed a defensive cage of interlocked roots with rotating internal spikes—designed to trap, not kill.

  Functional. Tactical. Minimal mana.

  Then came combat.

  First match: Asta vs. Sekke.

  The guy strutted forward, boasting about his “invincible magic.” He formed a bizarre bronze wheel and unched it toward Asta.

  Asta let it hit him.

  No damage.

  Then—SLAM.

  One strike. Sekke down. Arena cracked.

  Asta stood over him, panting, sword pulsing with anti-magic.

  The captains noticed.

  Second match: Yuno vs. Salim Hapshass, a noble brat with a superiority complex.

  Fireballs flew. Wind sliced them apart. Yuno didn’t even blink.

  One focused gust—Salim flew back ten feet and hit the wall.

  Two for two.

  Then it was my turn.

  But not against a stranger.

  She stepped forward from the line like a reflection pulled from memory.

  Gray-brown hair. Green eyes. Poised. Controlled.

  She looked... exactly like me. Just softer. More refined. Same bones. Same blood.

  “Vriksha Rhoswen,” she said with a half-smile. “So it’s true.”

  I straightened. “You from Rhoswen.”

  “I’m your half-sister. Technically. But since you’re unacknowledged... well, we’re strangers.”

  “Is this going somewhere?”

  Her smile sharpened. “Yes. To the stage. I’ve always wanted to prune a weed.”

  I stepped forward. “So it’s a challenge.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  We entered the dueling circle.

  She opened her grimoire. Fmes coiled from her fingers.

  “Iris Rhoswen. Fire affinity. Ranked candidate of Northern Fme Academy.”

  I opened mine. “Vriksha. Wood affinity. Low mana. Self-taught. Bastard.”

  She ughed lightly. “Then burn.”

  The duel began.

  Fire met roots.

  She sent a spiral column of fme roaring toward me. I raised Rootwall, a yered dome of bark and vine. It withstood the first wave—then cracked under the second.

  I rolled left, summoned Thornwhip—a bded vine that snapped at her ankle. She burned it mid-air, retaliating with a fire pulse that singed my shoulder.

  “Nice dodge,” she said.

  “Decent aim,” I replied.

  I triggered Sap Spike beneath her, a pressurized root-spear that forced her to leap back.

  She countered with a fireburst ring, forcing me to cast Seedstep—a minor evasion trick that used rooted pulses to push off the ground.

  We moved fast. Burned faster.

  I activated Rootce: Entangle, wrapping her midsection just long enough to close the distance—but her next spell broke it instantly.

  Heat. Wood. Steam. Bark peeled.

  The arena filled with light and smoke as we poured everything we had into each spell.

  I summoned Overgrowth Cage—my strongest binding—at the same time she unched a Firewheel Barrage.

  Explosion met trap.

  We both colpsed.

  Mana drained. Bodies scorched.

  The crowd murmured.

  Captain Fuegoleon muttered, “Impressive. For both.”

  Yami ughed. “Looks like the bastard’s got bite.”

  Iris stood slowly, brushing ash from her sleeve.

  “Not bad,” she said, panting.

  “Not done,” I replied—but my grimoire didn’t respond.

  We were out.

  The proctor raised a hand. “Draw.”

  We stared at each other—resentment, maybe even respect, crackling in the air.

  And then we turned away.

  As I walked back to the stands, Asta grinned. “Dude. You were on fire!”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Yuno just nodded. “You held your own. That was no average opponent.”

  I nodded once.

  A bastard. A genius. And a fme-born noble.

  Three boys standing in the ruins of their trials.

  The next chapter wasn’t guaranteed.

  But it was earned.