The great doors of the hall opened with soundless precision.
"Announcing His Excellency, Count Adrion Vexmere of Westmarch — Grandmaster of the Fourth Circle."
Everything stopped.
He entered alone.No guards. No heralds.Just a deep navy cloak trimmed with golden embroidery that pulsed faintly with contained mana.His steps didn't echo.They weighed.
He took the central dais with no fanfare, gaze sweeping the crowd with neither recognition nor pause.
"The Royal Academy was not built to reward bloodlines," he began, voice steady as stone. "It was forged to prepare those capable of carrying the weight of our world."
No one dared move.
"Some of you see the Academy as a mark of prestige. A stepping stone to power. You are mistaken. It was born of necessity—from fear."
He let the silence lean in, until the very air held its breath.
"Humanity came close to extinction. Not by its own folly—but by the devils of Deraid."
The name pulled the heat from the room.
"They are not feared because they are strong. They are feared because they are unified. Unrelenting. Every devil is a soldier. There are no civilians. No craftsmen. No weak."
"Their population rivals the combined numbers of every other known race—elves, dwarves, spirits, humans. All of us, together… and we still barely outnumber them."
"And unlike us, they do not splinter over succession crises or border disputes. They conquer. That is their answer to everything."
His tone dropped lower. He was no longer speaking loudly—but heavily.
"The Interstellar Academy was founded not as a school, but a wall. A last defense. A place where chosen warriors from every race would train together. Learn. Bleed. Survive."
He paused—not for effect, but as though measuring what could be said next.
"And yet… the devils may not be the greatest threat we face."
A cold silence descended.Even the torches flickered, as if uncertain.
Then the Count moved on, as if the words had never been spoken.
"This year's entrance examination will follow a two-stage structure. First—the Regional Selection, held here, under my supervision. Only those who pass will be permitted to travel to the capital and stand before the Academy's gate."
"Those who fail will not be considered again."
Another pause.
"Understand this pre-trial is not a courtesy. It is an opportunity. If not for it, most of you would never even reach the Academy's test site. The teleportation arrays, the licenses, the endorsements—all of it would be far beyond your means."
"As humans, our contributions to the founding of the Academy earned us the right to hold these trials—to forge a large number of talents in preparation for whatever lies ahead."
With that, he stepped down.
No applause.Just the sound of a hundred heirs holding their breath.
I stood near the back of the hall, glass of wine in hand—untouched. Just for show.
A crisis greater than the devils?
That line kept ringing in my head.
There was nothing about that in the novel.At least… not before the Academy arc. And I'd landed here just as Elric had become a Count in the original timeline.
Was it a future arc? Author's hidden plotline? Or something new entirely?
Hard to tell.
I exhaled slowly.
"Let's focus on the entrance exam first…"
As expected, the Count hadn't mentioned the Academy representative.
Even in the novel, they only revealed themselves to those who passed.
Hidden in plain sight.Watching.Judging.
Then came the voice that cracked the quiet.
"Then what of those who were never meant to be here?"
Alric DuVaine.He strode forward with a confidence bordering on arrogance, his green cloak rippling slightly as he took center floor.
"Some of us have trained since childhood. We've earned our place. Through discipline, sacrifice, and the weight of our house names."
He turned—his eyes fixed squarely on Elric.
"And others… appear from obscurity, dragging long-buried surnames behind them. With no training, no accomplishments—only a title restored by convenience."
The chamber remained still.
No objections. No gasps.
No one's stopping him. No one plans to.
The barons stood silent. Distant. Detached.
This has all been decided. They're letting us clash. Testing us before the trials even begin.
Alric raised his chin slightly.
"I challenge the heir of House Ashborne to a duel of merit. Let him prove his right to be here."
Elric stepped forward, calm and wordless.No tension in his shoulders. No flash of pride.
Across the floor, Lord Theran Ashborne remained unmoved.
His expression didn't shift.But in his eyes—curiosity.
Even he didn't know how his son would respond.
A steward in red and silver approached with a long ribbon of blue silk.
"Do you accept the challenge, Lord Elric?"
"I do."
The ribbon was tied between their wrists—light, ceremonial.
The steward stepped back, voice firm and formal.
"This ribbon binds the duel in tradition. First contact will sever it—proof of skill, not death."
"First to fall or surrender loses. No lethal force. Begin on signal."
Alric raised his blade with a flourish, letting the metal catch the chandelier light.
Elric?
He took his stance without a word. No flash. No movement wasted.
Let's see how far you've gone off script, I thought, lowering my glass.
Because this isn't the Elric I remember.