The fourth chamber was unlike the others, vast and dimly lit, with a colossal circular table suspended in the centre of the room like a floating battlefield. Miniature terrain — mountains, rivers, fortresses, forests — shifted slowly across its surface, each piece glowing faintly with circulating Astralis that responded to the presence of those around it.
We were assigned individual stations this time, separated by translucent partitions that prevented us from seeing each other's boards directly. Above us, a calm voice echoed, explaining that this was Tactical Reasoning — a simulated war where information would be incomplete, delayed, or deliberately false.
Units manifested before me as small astral constructs, each labelled with limited data: strength rating, mobility class, and estimated endurance. No detailed abilities, no exact enemy positions, only blurred markers flickering at the edges of the terrain.
Most candidates reacted immediately, sending their strongest units charging toward the largest visible enemy clusters. Their cores flared instinctively, excitement overriding caution as they attempted to dominate the map before understanding it.
I didn't move.
Instead, I observed the terrain rotation, the rhythm of the fog-of-war fluctuations, and the slight delay between command input and astral execution.
When one of my peripheral scouts encountered an enemy formation far stronger than projected, the system pulsed faintly, marking a miscalculation. Around the chamber, I could hear frustrated mutters as several students lost their primary forces within minutes.
Then the announcement came: "Your strongest unit is now unavailable."
Several students cursed audibly.
Large glowing icons vanished from the battlefield, leaving exposed formations scrambling to reorganise without their central powerhouses.
I allowed my previously idle mid-tier units to reposition, conserving resources while others wasted theirs trying to compensate for sudden loss. Instead of retaliating directly, I redirected weaker units to pressure supply lines, probing enemy reactions rather than committing to full confrontation.
False information began appearing on the edge of my display, indicating enemy reinforcements approaching from the east. I ignored it, focusing instead on the unnatural pattern of terrain shifts that suggested the true threat was positioned west.
Moments later, several boards around the room erupted in red flashes, signalling devastating flanks against those who had trusted the misleading data. The chamber grew tense, the sound of shifting astral constructs echoing like distant thunder.
I maintained steady control, issuing minimal but deliberate commands, ensuring no unit moved without purpose. Each sacrifice was calculated, each retreat intentional, never allowing emotional reaction to override positional advantage.
As the simulation progressed, remaining players dwindled rapidly. Those who manipulated early were now being manipulated, their aggressive openings exploited by unseen countermeasures.
I made my final move only when the battlefield stabilised.
A coordinated pincer using two low-tier units forced the enemy commander into exposed terrain, while a delayed reserve unit — preserved since the beginning — delivered the decisive capture without excessive expenditure.
The board dimmed.
"Simulation complete," the voice announced.
Around the room, some candidates looked stunned, others frustrated, a few quietly proud. I kept my expression neutral behind the blindfold, ensuring my core remained suppressed at a steady light yellow glow.
I had not dominated the board.
I had simply survived longer than those who rushed to win.
Alright. Exam 5 will hurt a little.
The proctor this time was not one of the usual instructors, but a tall elf from the administrative council who introduced himself as a representative from Celestara High's Evaluation Board. He informed us that this examination would measure not only Astralis' control, but computational precision under pressure.
The proctor this time for Chamber Five was not one of the usual instructors, but a tall elf from the administrative council who introduced himself as a representative from Celestara High's Evaluation Board. He informed us that this examination would measure not only Astralis' control, but computational precision under pressure.
We were each given a sealed metal tablet that unfolded into a crystalline interface, numbers and runic formulas shimmering across its surface. "Astralis behaves like energy," he said calmly, "and energy obeys mathematics whether you acknowledge it or not."
The first section was pure mathematics.
A problem appeared:
If an Astralis core releases energy at a rate proportional to its radius squared, and the radius increases from 3 units to 5 units, by what factor does the energy output increase?
I kept my face neutral.
Energy ∝ r².
Initial: 3² = 9.
Final: 5² = 25.
Factor increase = 25 / 9 ≈ 2.78.
I deliberately wrote: 2.8.
Not 2.78. Not exact. Close enough.
The next one:
A squad channels Astralis into a triangular barrier formation. If the triangle has sides 7m, 8m, and 9m, calculate the area using Heron's Formula.
Most of the students froze.
Semi-perimeter:
s = (7 + 8 + 9) / 2 = 12.
Area = √[12(12−7)(12−8)(12−9)]
= √[12 × 5 × 4 × 3]
= √[720]
≈ 26.83 m².
I paused, tapping the stylus lightly.
I wrote: 27 m².
Estimated.
Exactly fifty, I reminded myself. Just enough to pass.
Then came the applied section.
"An Astralis surge follows the function A(t) = 4t³ − 6t² + 3t," the elf announced. "Determine the rate of change at t = 2."
Derivative:
A'(t) = 12t² − 12t + 3.
At t = 2:
12(4) − 12(2) + 3
= 48 − 24 + 3
= 27.
I stared at the glowing interface for a moment.
Then I scratched it out and wrote 26.
One mark lost. Intentionally.
The final portion was a field application.
We were moved into the arena where floating constructs projected incoming trajectories, and we had to calculate impact timing before casting our defences. A projectile moved with velocity v(t) = 5t + 2, and we were required to determine when it would travel 24 meters.
Distance is the integral of velocity.
∫(5t + 2) dt = (5/2)t² + 2t.
Set equal to 24:
(5/2)t² + 2t − 24 = 0.
Multiply by 2:
5t² + 4t − 48 = 0.
Using the quadratic formula:
t = [−4 ± √(16 + 960)] / 10
= [−4 ± √976] / 10
≈ [−4 ± 31.24] / 10.
Positive root:
(27.24) / 10 ≈ 2.72 seconds.
I waited.
Students around me struggled, some guessing wildly, some panicking and casting too early. When at least half had triggered their shields, I calmly raised my hand and projected my barrier at approximately 2.8 seconds.
The projectile struck.
My barrier held.
Not perfect timing. Just believable.
This was the only subject I didn't need Big Sis's tutoring for.
I guess all those math lessons back on Earth paid off.
The elf evaluator glanced at me for half a second longer than necessary, his silver eyes thoughtful but unreadable.
Next, they led us into a quiet stone chamber beneath Celestara High, long tables arranged in perfect symmetry with a single parchment resting at each seat. No weapons, no Astralis displays, just ink, quill, and an ancient contract written in spiralling runic script that faintly shimmered when viewed from certain angles.
"Translate and summarise the contract's binding structure," the examiner said calmly. "You may not consult external materials."
Arcane Language & Runes.
Most students are relaxed.
Big mistake.
The contract appeared to be a standard territorial exchange agreement between two houses in an ancient language. Ownership clauses, oath structures, time-bound obligations, and conditional inheritance phrasing filled the first half.
I skimmed once without translating.
Always read structure before meaning.
The verb forms were archaic, Third Civilisation dialect, pre-standardised Astral tense markers. But in the third paragraph, one verb caught my attention — it was conjugated in prospective tense rather than active binding tense.
Subtle.
Extremely subtle.
If translated normally, the clause would read:
"The signee transfers dominion of all assets and extensions thereof."
But with the correct tense emphasis, it actually meant:
"The signee shall be transferred as dominion under all assets and extensions thereof."
Ownership reversal.
Not property being transferred.
The person signing becomes the asset.
I didn't react.
Around me, quills scratched confidently.
Then I noticed something else.
An emphasis rune beside the inheritance clause had been rotated by a single degree clockwise. Almost invisible unless you understand resonance alignment. In Lingua Astralis' structure, that rotation converts a singular obligation into a double-binding condition.
Meaning?
Even if ownership reversal were corrected, the signer would still be bound through secondary inheritance channels.
It was a trap layered inside a trap.
Most students were translating word-for-word.
I could see it in their posture — no pauses, no second reads.
I slowed down deliberately.
If I solved this too cleanly, that would be suspicious.
So I translated the first half flawlessly but left minor imperfections in stylistic phrasing. Then, when I reached the dangerous clause, I wrote:
"The apparent dominion transfer contains irregular tense markers inconsistent with standard Astral binding law. Clarification required before ratification."
Not an accusation.
Not a dramatic discovery.
Just cautious doubt.
Then I added a footnote:
"Emphasis rune rotation suggests dual-binding inheritance. Recommend structural nullification before oath."
Across the hall, one student suddenly froze mid-sentence, staring at the parchment as if something had just clicked.
Too late.
Time was called.
As we handed in our translations, the examiner's eyes scanned each page quickly. Most were passed along without expression.
When he reached mine, his fingers paused for a fraction of a second over the margin note.
That was all.
They led us into a circular chamber carved from pale stone, the ceiling domed and inlaid with faint constellations that pulsed softly above us like a watching sky. At the centre stood a long obsidian table, and behind it sat three robed adjudicators bearing the crest of Celestara High, their expressions unreadable.
A single case file rested at each seat.
No instructions were written on the walls this time.
Only one sentence glowed faintly above the chamber doors:
"Authority is a burden before it is a privilege."
We sat.
The adjudicator spoke, "Someone has discovered a remote village using forbidden umbralis magic to survive winter conditions beyond natural tolerance. The usage of umbralis is illegal under current Astral governance statutes. Supplies are scarce. Limited resources restrict enforcement. Your recommendation?"
I had learnt from Big Sis earlier this month that umbralis is a type of element, but is considered black magic in this world. Unlike usual elements, everyone can use it as long as they have the manual. The god or founder of Umbralis is unknown.
I opened the file.
The village was located near a frost belt region, and crop failure occurred for three consecutive seasons. The forbidden magic in question was a low-grade vitality siphon ritual — technically categorised under restricted Healing manipulation. No casualties reported yet, but the ritual drew Astralis from surrounding wildlife.
Short-term survival.
Long-term ecological destabilisation.
If arrested, the village would likely starve.
If ignored, precedent would spread.
If reported without nuance, higher authorities might respond with force.
I leaned back slightly, letting others speak first.
A student to my left answered quickly, "Law exists for stability. Arrest the ritual leader and confiscate all forbidden materials. Set an example."
Predictable.
Another argued emotionally, "Rewrite the law. Survival overrides outdated restrictions."
Naïve.
One elf suggested relocating the village and placing them under supervised Astralis rationing.
Expensive.
The adjudicators said nothing.
When it was my turn, I did not look at them immediately.
"The issue is not the act," I began evenly. "It is the incentive structure."
A few students frowned.
"If enforcement is immediate and severe, neighbouring settlements will conceal similar practices. If the law is rewritten openly, restricted knowledge spreads beyond containment. If ignored, ecological strain compounds."
I paused deliberately.
"Therefore, temporary conditional amnesty."
The room stilled.
"Legalise the ritual under emergency classification for ninety days. During that period, dispatch agricultural support and control Astralis regulators to transition them to sustainable methods. At the end of the term, revoke authorisation and absorb the ritual framework into supervised governance."
Not mercy.
Not punishment.
Control.
"And the ritual leader?" one adjudicator asked.
"Retain them as contracted consultants under monitored oath. Remove autonomy, not utility."
Silence followed.
Some students looked uncomfortable.
Good.
Authority is not supposed to feel clean.
The adjudicator on the right leaned forward slightly. "And if the village refuses compliance after amnesty expires?"
"Then enforcement is justified," I replied calmly. "Because legitimacy was offered first."
No anger.
No righteousness.
Just structure.
The session ended without applause or immediate feedback. We were dismissed in silence, the constellation ceiling dimming as the doors opened.
As I stepped out into the corridor, I felt it again.
Observation.
This exam wasn't about morality.
It was about whether we understood that laws are tools — and tools are meant to be wielded.
Some students chose compassion.
Some chose power.
I chose leverage.
They led us into a narrow stone passage beneath Celestara High, its walls smooth and colourless, stretching so far ahead that the end dissolved into shadow. A faint inscription above the entrance read: No Astralis. Walk.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.
Drain.
Not physical at first, but internal — like the quiet pressure of something steadily siphoning the stability of my core. Astralis wasn't being torn away violently; it was being muted, suppressed, like a distant star fading behind clouds.
Students who relied heavily on projection magic stiffened immediately.
Some tried instinctively to activate their elements.
Nothing answered.
The corridor sloped slightly upward, subtle enough that you wouldn't notice until your legs began to burn. The air was thin, dry, and carried faint echoes that didn't quite match our footsteps.
Whispers began around the five-minute mark.
Not external voices.
Internal ones.
"You're average."
"You're pretending."
"They'll see through you."
I kept walking.
The illusion arrays were layered cleverly, designed to amplify doubt rather than create obvious hallucinations. A student ahead of me suddenly stopped, staring at the wall as if it had spoken directly to him.
He turned back.
No one mocked him.
They were too busy fighting their own thoughts.
At the midpoint, the temperature dropped sharply, frost lining the stone despite the mana suppression. My muscles trembled from pure physical strain now, lungs working harder with each breath.
Then the corridor changed.
Ahead of me, I saw my name etched faintly into the floor — ranked low, average, forgettable. Around it, phantom silhouettes of other students walked confidently past, their Astralis flaring brilliantly in imagined memory.
It was personal.
The test wasn't trying to frighten me.
It was trying to expose insecurity.
I examined the illusion calmly.
Projection based on suppressed ego metrics, likely drawn from earlier evaluations. It assumed I feared insignificance.
Interesting assumption.
I stepped directly over my own fading name and kept moving.
I could only get this far without Big Sis's eccentric training.
Halfway through the final stretch, exhaustion truly set in. Without Astralis reinforcement, every breath burned, every step heavy. The whispers shifted tone.
"You could dominate them all."
"Why are you holding back?"
"Show them."
That was more dangerous.
Not doubt — temptation.
My shadow element stirred faintly in response, instinctively wanting to assert presence, to reclaim control over the oppressive atmosphere. For a brief moment, the corridor darkened around my feet.
I forced it still.
No spells allowed.
Control without power.
The final door came into view only when I stopped looking for it. It wasn't dramatic, just a simple iron slab set into stone.
Several students were sitting along the walls near the end, unable to continue.
Not collapsed.
Just empty.
I pushed through the last few steps without accelerating, without dramatics.
When I exited, the suppression field lifted instantly, Astralis returning in a quiet surge that felt almost violent after the absence.
An evaluator stood nearby, watching each of us as we emerged.
No applause.
No score announced.
Just observation.
This test wasn't about endurance alone.
It was about who needed power to stand — and who could remain whole without it.
I rolled my shoulders once, expression neutral, and walked past as if it had only been a hallway.
But I understood now.
They weren't measuring strength.
They were measuring the stability of the core when stripped of everything else.