Today was departure day. Today was the Academy.
Ray nearly tripped as he yanked on his boots, half-vibrating with excitement and half-paralyzed by panic. “Okay—bag, sword, quills, snacks—extra snacks—emergency snacks—”
A sharp rap sounded at his door. “Ray.”
It was Elaine. He swung the door open so fast she actually blinked.
“…You’re unusually prepared,” she noted.
“I’ve been preparing for years—I mean hours—I mean—yes. Totally ready.”
Elaine didn’t question the slip. She simply turned, her silver-blue travel cloak swirling. “Walk with me.”
They crossed the estate’s front garden, dew clinging to the trimmed hedges. Marble statues of Avery ancestors cast long, judgmental morning shadows across their path. Sera followed a few steps behind, her jewelry chiming softly—already alert, her eyes scanning the treeline.
Ray inhaled the crisp morning air. The Academy arc… it's finally happening.
As they approached the carriage, Elaine’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Ray, the Academy entrance is not like the noble gatherings you’ve experienced. Ignore the pomp. Focus on the basics.”
“basics—yes. Tutorial accepted.”
Elaine continued, her hands clasped behind her back as she walked with that effortless grace Ray envied. “You will undergo three primary assessments.”
“A comprehensive theoretical assessment,” she explained. “History. Strategy. Social structure. Monster classifications. Battlefield ethics.”
Ray paled. “Uh… battlefield… ethics?”
Elaine nodded. “Yes. For example, you will be required to define the acceptable number of civilian casualties in a hostage scenario.”
Ray nearly tripped over a stray root. “THAT’S A QUESTION?!”
“Of course,” Elaine said calmly. “We live in a war-touched empire, Ray. Math is useless if you cannot apply it to the reality of the field.”
My 'Math' involves 160 INT, Elaine! I don't think my brain calculates 'collateral damage' yet! Ray screamed internally.
Elaine gestured to the practice blade at his hip. “You’ll face an instructor in a controlled duel. Not to win—only to demonstrate fundamentals. They test form, reaction speed, and spirit.”
Ray took a shaky breath. “O-okay… I can… maybe do half of that.”
“Do not be reckless,” Elaine added, her gaze sharpening. “They disqualify for a lack of composure.”
Ray winced. Reckless was practically his middle name in his past life.
Elaine’s steps slowed. “This is the most important,” she said. “You will be examined for the strength of your soul. Your affinity for mana.”
Ray swallowed hard. “And if—if I pass all three…?”
Elaine tilted her head slightly, a rare, microscopic softness appearing in her expression. “Then,” she said, “you will finally receive your Engraving.”
Ray’s breath caught. An Engraving. His first real power in this world. His first step toward becoming the protagonist he was meant to be. He glanced at her. “Is it… painful?”
“Excruciating,” Elaine said without a hint of hesitation.
Ray choked. “WHAT—”
“But only briefly,” she added. “And only if your mind breaks before your body does.”
“THAT DID NOT HELP, ELAINE!”
She stopped and faced him, her expression smoothing into cool reassurance. “You’ll be fine.”
Ray blinked. “…Because I’m secretly talented?”
“No,” she said, turning to board the carriage. “Because I’ll be watching.”
Ray’s heart performed an emotional backflip. Sera cleared her throat behind them, and Ray pretended he didn’t hear the faint amusement in the knight's breathing.
Garret and Isolde were already waiting by the carriage. “You ready to get humiliated by a bunch of capital nobles?” Garret asked with a smirk.
“No,” Ray said honestly.
“That’s the correct answer,” Isolde noted, stepping inside.
As the horses started forward and the Avery estate began to shrink in the distance, Ray pressed a hand to his chest. Written exam. Combat test. Soul resonance. And then… the Engraving.
The road stretched ahead, bright and full of untold possibilities. Ray grinned despite himself.
“Let’s do this.”
The Academy’s examination hall looked less like a schoolroom and more like a courtroom designed to crush hope. Long rows of polished wooden desks stretched toward the horizon. Tall, arched windows let in a merciless daylight that seemed to highlight every bead of sweat on the students' brows. Instructors paced the aisles with the slow, predatory rhythm of bored lions waiting for a mistake.
Ray swallowed hard as the exam packet landed on his desk with a heavy thud.
SECTION I: STRATEGY AND ETHICS
SECTION II: MONSTER CLASSIFICATION
SECTION III: IMPERIAL LAW
His soul wilted. Why is ethics on every test? Why do they want me to decide how many civilians constitute an “acceptable loss”? Who wrote these questions?!
He forced himself to focus.
Ray’s hand flew across the page. He knew more than he expected—not because he’d been a model student, but because he had spent his infancy reading everything he could, because what else could he do. Add the fact that in his past life devoured every academy-themed manga, light novel, and RPG guide he could find. So he was more than prepared.
“Identify signs of a Feral Warg infestation.” Ray scribbled confidently: Sudden livestock loss, ground gouges, night howls, and acidic saliva trails.
“Define the three pillars of tactical retreat.” His pen moved automatically: Distance. Distraction. Discipline. (He’d seen that exact phrase in a strategy RPG and never forgot it.)
By the halfway mark, sweat beaded at his temples—but he wasn’t drowning. He was... surviving. I might actually pass this...
He dared to glance around. Most of the young nobles were sweating through their silk tunics. Some were visibly trembling. One boy in the back row was quietly crying into his inkwell. Ray sat up straighter, feeling a surge of misplaced confidence.
Then, he noticed him.
Near the center of the room sat a boy Ray had never seen before. Ray made it his mission to study potential rivals, but this one stood out immediately—precisely because he wasn't trying to stand out.
He sat perfectly still, his posture relaxed to the point of boredom. His quill moved in slow, clean strokes. He had white-blond hair, messy but elegant in a careless way, and storm-grey eyes that flickered with a soft, misty depth whenever they shifted toward the window.
Whoa... that guy looks like he walked out of a tragic backstory CG, Ray thought.
He looked away before he got caught staring. Focus, Ray. Focus. He bent over his paper again, but his eyes kept drifting back. The stranger wasn't struggling. He wasn't rushing. He was answering as if he’d taken this test already. Ray shivered. Who the hell is that guy?
He shook it off. Doesn’t matter. Written exam first. Rival later.
He turned the next page—the essay section—and immediately died inside. But he forced himself onward, sweating and writing until his wrist throbbed. When the proctor finally called time, Ray slumped back in his chair, breathing as if he’d just survived a dungeon boss.
He glanced at the pale-haired stranger one last time. Calm. Composed. Quill placed neatly on his desk.
Ray whispered under his breath, “…I already hate that guy.”
He didn’t, not really. But the "Protagonist Instinct" inside him whispered a warning:
[Rival Flag: Triggered.]
The courtyard buzzed like a nest of anxious insects. Students crowded around the massive announcement board as assistants hammered the final placards into place. The crowd surged forward in a wave of expensive silk and desperate hopes.
Ray swallowed hard, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry ink. This is it. If I bombed the essay, I’m done. Arc over. Main character deleted.
Elaine stood beside him, her posture flawless, her silver-blue eyes fixed on the board. She didn’t even blink. “This level of panic is unnecessary,” she murmured.
Ray wheezed. “I wrote three paragraphs that might’ve been hallucinations, Elaine.”
“Mm. Yes. They were.”
“…WHAT?!”
Before he could detonate, a herald’s voice cut through the din like a trumpet blast.
“THE TOP 100 STUDENTS WILL ADVANCE TO THE COMBAT EXAM!”
Silence crashed down. Then—
“RESULTS POSTED!”
The courtyard erupted. Ray squeezed through sweaty shoulders and trembling elbows, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird. He scanned the board, his eyes frantic.
1st — Lucien D’Roselle
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2nd — Zack Bellmont
3rd — Selvarin Crest
4th — Marlo Vantier
His pulse climbed as he skimmed down.
...8 ...9 ...10—
11th — Ray Melborne
Ray froze. His breath hitched. “…I—I PASSED! I PASSED WITH A TWO-DIGIT NUMBER!”
Elaine blinked once—genuinely surprised. For her, that was equivalent to a standing ovation. “Eleventh is respectable.”
“Respectable? RESPECTABLE?!” Ray clutched his head. “I’m in the top ten minus one! That’s basically the elite tier!”
Garret, passing by with a casual stride, snorted loud enough for half the courtyard to hear. “Don’t get cocky, kid. It was a written test. You're good at remembering trivia; let's see if you're good at not getting your head taken off.”
Isolde drifted behind him, arching an eyebrow as she studied the list. “Eleventh? …Huh. Not bad, Ray.”
Niva hopped excitedly beside Elaine, her little face beaming. “RAY IS SMART! RAY IS A GENIUS!”
Ray’s ego ballooned to catastrophic proportions. He felt like he had just cleared a tutorial with an S-Rank. But beneath the triumph, a single thought gnawed at him as he looked at the very top of the list.
Who the hell is Lucien D’Roselle?
Eleventh place. Next round: Combat. Main character arc: still alive. Ray inhaled sharply, adrenaline tingling at the tips of his fingers. He could feel the "Combat Flag" waving in the wind.
“Let’s do this,” he whispered.
Elaine stepped ahead of him, her glacier-blue eyes catching the morning light. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
The atmosphere in the arena was stifling, thick with the smell of kicked-up dust and the metallic tang of practice gear. High above on the observation balcony, a senior instructor with a scar cutting through his graying beard stepped forward, his voice magically amplified to reach every shivering recruit in the yard.
“Listen well!” he barked. “The Combat Evaluation is not a duel to the death, nor is it a test of brute strength. You are being measured on a ten-point scale of martial potential. Pay attention, or you’ll be packing your bags before sundown.”
The instructor began pacing the balcony like a caged panther. “The points are distributed across three distinct categories:
- Technique (0–4 Points): Your stance, your grip, and the fluidity of your movement. If you look like a sack of potatoes with a stick, you get zero.
- Reaction (0–3 Points): How you respond when the Squire closes the distance. Do you parry, or do you pray?
- Spirit (0–3 Points): The 'Will to Fight.' If you drop your sword because you're scared of a bruise, you fail instantly.”
He leaned over the railing, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Most of you will land between a three and a five. A six is respectable. An eight is elite. A ten? A ten means you’ve caught the eye of the Empire.”
The reality of those words hit home as the first-years were called forward. The instructors watched with clinical boredom.
The first student, a noble boy drenched in expensive perfume, swung his sword with all the grace of a dying goose. The squire didn't even draw his weapon; he simply sidestepped, tapped the boy's ankle, and sent him crashing into the sand face-first. “POINT: 2,” the instructor called. A sympathetic murmur spread. Two points meant his technique was purely decorative.
Next, a girl from a minor house stepped in. She held her weapon like a broom, stiff-armed and trembling. The squire took one aggressive step—not even a strike—and she burst into tears immediately. “POINT: 1. Insufficient spirit.”
Another recruit marched forward confidently—a barrel-chested boy who looked the part of a warrior—only to trip over a loose paving stone and apologize to the ground he fell on. “POINT: 0. Lack of fundamental awareness.”
Ray watched from the sidelines, squeezing his sword hilt hard enough that his knuckles turned white. He looked at the squires—the "Gatekeepers" of the Academy. They were older, stronger, and moved with a rhythmic, terrifying efficiency.
This is it, Ray thought. The classic Combat Exam Arc every main character faces. This is where I prove my 'Engraver' blood is real.
He glanced over at the leaderboard. The bar was high, and the instructors were clearly in no mood for mercy. He was ready.
…Probably.
A herald’s voice boomed across the yard: “Rowan Vernhard!”
A ripple of interest moved through the gathered students. Rowan strutted into the arena as if the ground itself were blessed to support his weight. His uniform was annoyingly perfect—sleeves crisp, boots polished to a mirror shine, and hair styled into a noble wave that caught the sun as if it had personally requested the spotlight.
He gave the squire a theatrical, shallow bow.
“Do not hold back on my account,” Rowan declared, projecting his voice for the benefit of the instructors. “I wish for my skill to be properly assessed.”
Ray muttered under his breath, “Please trip. Please fall. Please explode.”
Beside him, Elaine’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but the faintest flicker of cold amusement. “Ray,” she murmured, “do behave.”
The duel began.
Rowan opened with sharp footwork and surprisingly clean technique. It wasn't elegant, but it was competent. His strikes had rhythm, his guard held form, and his confidence... well, it was overflowing. He clashed with the squire once—twice—five times—holding his ground far longer than the previous failures.
On the sixth exchange, however, the squire slipped inside his guard with a fluid motion and twisted the sword cleanly from Rowan's grip. Rowan froze mid-motion, blinking at his empty, stinging hands.
It wasn’t a victory, but it was undeniably impressive for a recruit.
The herald raised a red banner. “POINT: 7!”
Gasps rippled through the students. A seven was well above average—borderline excellent for an unengraved student.
Rowan turned immediately, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked onto Ray. He smirked, slow and triumphant, lifting his chin like a peacock discovering a reflective surface.
He called across the arena, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Try not to embarrass yourself, Melborne. Not everyone is suited for public humiliation.”
Several nobles snickered behind gloved hands. Ray produced a strangled noise halfway between outrage and despair.
“Why is he LIKE this?” Ray hissed.
Elaine, her eyes still fixed on the ring, replied calmly: “Because some people peak early.”
Rowan swept into an excessive, overly dramatic bow, drinking in the attention as if it were his birthright. He strutted back to the student rows with the swagger of a boy who thought he had defeated a dragon rather than lost to a bored squire.
Ray glared at him the entire way. ...Analyze.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
STATUS — TARGET ANALYZED
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
NAME: Rowan Vernhard
AGE: 12
LEVEL: 3
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
HP: 38/38
STM: 20/20
ATTRIBUTES
STR: 9
AGI: 7
VIT: 9
DEX: 5
INT: 9
WIS: 3
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Ray stared at the floating screen. Yep. That tracks. Wisdom of 3? He’s basically a high-speed brick with a haircut.
“That’s it,” Ray muttered under his breath, clenching his practice sword. “Rival flag acquired. Fantastic.”
“Next applicant: RAY MELBORNE!”
Ray nearly launched out of his own skin. He forced himself into the center ring, trying to project the confidence of a seasoned protagonist, but his trembling legs disagreed violently.
Across from him stood a mountain of a man—the squire assigned to his evaluation. He had shoulders like a stone wall and eyes like granite that had watched decades of hopeful rookies crumble.
The squire saluted with military precision. Ray saluted back, though it looked more like he was trying to swat an invisible mosquito.
“Begin!”
The squire moved first. Ray’s brain stalled in a moment of pure panic. Then—click. A memory of Garret’s training sessions flashed through his mind like a high-speed playback.
Step back. Shift weight. Don’t meet the force—redirect it.
Ray dodged the opening strike by pure instinct. He sidestepped the second. The third sliced through the air where his ribs had been a millisecond before. Ray blinked. He was still alive. He grinned. I’m actually still alive!
The squire swung downward in a punishing arc. Ray darted aside and jabbed upward, tapping the man’s wrist. It wasn't enough to disarm him, but it was enough to make the squire’s eyes flicker with sudden interest.
“Oh-ho…” Ray whispered, his gamer instincts taking the wheel. “I see how it is.”
He pressed forward. The squire swept for his legs. Ray jumped—barely—landing crookedly but remaining upright. A murmur spread through the audience.
“Is he… doing well?” “He’s lasted longer than most of the high nobles.” “That footwork—where did a Melborne learn to move like that?”
Ray’s grin widened. Main character moment: Achieved.
The squire shifted his stance, moving into a tier of higher difficulty and sharper precision. Ray mirrored him. It wasn’t graceful, and it certainly wasn’t pretty, but it worked. His arms burned, his lungs screamed for oxygen, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.
But he kept moving—weaving, parrying, and improvising with desperate instinct and raw, stubborn pride. Every heartbeat chanted the same mantra: Do NOT choke in front of Elaine. Do NOT fail in front of the Academy.
The squire feinted left. Ray parried right. He redirected the momentum, stepped into the man's guard—and tapped the squire’s shoulder.
A wave of gasps rippled through the stands.
“That’s the third contact!” “No one has landed more than one today!” “Even the Vernhard heir only managed a parry!”
The instructors leaned forward, their boredom replaced by sharp, evaluating stares. Ray nearly burst into tears of triumph.
Then, the squire changed stances a third time. Something deep and primal in Ray’s gut whispered: Oh no.
Before he could reset his feet, the squire swept in—faster than anything Ray had ever seen. A sharp tap to his ribs sent Ray spinning into the air like a very confused pigeon.
THUD.
“POINT—SQUIRE! MATCH END!”
Ray groaned as he rolled upright, clutching his side. He had lost the duel. He was covered in sand, his ribs ached, and his dignity was bruised.
BUT—
The herald raised the red banner high.
“POINTS AWARDED: 10! HIGHEST SCORE OF THE MORNING EXAM!”
A burst of shocked voices erupted from the crowd.
“Ten?!” “A perfect combat score for a Melborne?” “Who is that kid?”
Ray’s vision blurred with sheer, unadulterated pride. He had done it. He had actually lived out a main character moment. It was official, recorded, and undeniable. He had impressed the squire, the instructors, and the entire student body.
And for Ray? That was everything.
Ray stumbled out of the ring, chest puffed out and grinning like a man who had just conquered destiny.
“I did it,” he whispered to himself, ignoring the dust on his face. “A respectable showing. Not amazing, but respectable. Heroic, even. This is how a protagonist grows—slow and steady—step by step—”
Garret snorted from the stands, leaning over the railing. “Ray, you got flattened.”
“Respectfully flattened,” Ray corrected, lifting a finger like a scholar making a nuanced academic point.
Isolde shrugged, not looking up from her nails. “He lasted longer than you did on your first trial, Garret.”
Garret’s scowl snapped into place instantly. Ray crossed his arms and nodded with the wise authority of a victor. “I am clearly the superior brother.”
Before Garret could lunge at him, a soft shadow fell over Ray. Elaine stood there with perfect posture, hands folded, her blue eyes steady and unreadable—at first. Then, she inclined her head just a fraction of a degree.
“Well done, Ray.”
Ray froze. His heart stuttered.
Elaine continued, her voice cool and precise: “You lasted the longest of your group. You showed adaptability and didn’t panic under pressure. That is worth acknowledging.”
Ray’s soul attempted to ascend to a higher plane of existence. Elaine leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her tone so only he could hear. “It seems,” she murmured, “you are capable of growth. I’m pleased.”
Ray nearly fainted on the spot.
“Oh, come on!” Garret threw his hands up. “That’s all he did? He dodged a few times!”
Elaine didn’t spare Garret a glance. “I reward competence,” she said simply.
Ray beamed, basking in the glow of his "main character development." He could almost hear the heroic background music swelling, the violins rising in a crescendo of triumph—
CRACK.
A loud, violent sound echoed across the arena, like a whip breaking the sound barrier. Students gasped. Several screamed. Instructors jumped to their feet, their chairs scraping harshly against the stone.
Ray blinked, his heroic music dying an abrupt death. “Huh? What happened—?”
A squire tumbled across the far end of the field, skidding through the dust and nearly crashing into the boundary wall. He didn't get up.
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Then, the head examiner’s voice rang out, audibly shaken: “V–victory… Lucien D’Roselle!”
Ray’s smile froze. “…Lucien who?”
He turned. At the far end of the ring stood the boy Ray had noticed earlier. His ash-blond hair was slightly tousled by the breeze, his storm-grey eyes half-lidded as though the entire world bored him. He lowered his fists casually, as if the match had been a tedious chore.
The crowd exploded into a frantic whisper-network. “Did he—did he actually win?” “No one wins against a squire. It’s not supposed to happen!” “He didn’t just fight well—he neutralized him!” “Is he even nobility?”
Ray stared, dumbstruck. His "Perfect 10" suddenly felt like a participation trophy.
“…My protagonist moment,” he whispered, feeling deeply betrayed by the universe. “Stolen…”
Elaine tapped her chin, her eyes narrowing with a look of intense calculation. “Hm,” she said softly. “Very intriguing.”
Ray felt his stomach sink. His "Main Character" status had just been contested by a guy who looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat.