After we all recollected at the same place, our teacher gave us a rundown of our respective times for 800m. The order in which it was listed is as follows.

1. Harux Y’ssanith: 0.42.44

2. Soliya: 1:36.39

3. Morgana Wittford: 2:06.98

4. Lucius Mortius: 2:15.59

5. Yon: 2:57.77

It came as no surprise that the elf boy was first. However, the fact that I was placed second to last was relatively disheartening. As I tried to remind myself, though, physical stats were second to academic/magical ones and hence had less relevance overall. This was necessary, as the next sequence of examinations involving a measure of grip strength and punching strength alike proved to be of equal disappointment. Of particular notice was this ‘Soliya’ individual. Assumed to be the Crilandese girl, I saw her score a remarkable 130kg on her grip test. Whatever she’d been eating back in her homeland obviously did wonders for her strength.

It’s nothing record-breaking, mind you. The real deals go up to several hundred kilograms. But, for a student, it’s still of somewhat notice.

Well.

If anything, at least my humiliation is over.

Out of instinct, I look around at the others, taking their reactions in. As of the moment, everyone’s huddling in a semi-circle, passing a paper of their physical records around.

“Wow, you’re really strong!” says the elf, gauging Soliya.

Undoubtedly impressed, the elf begins to waver excitedly, his primal instinct awakened. Given his own relative physical talents, it mayhap is possible that he’s somehow excited by that same trait in others. Similar to how a bird seeks a worthy mate by recognising bright colours, for instance.

In light of that fact, I tune into their conversations with added attentiveness.

“We should duel sometime!” proposes the elf.

“Hm”. Upon hearing that, Soliya scratches her chin. “On the condition that you’d be my slave upon victory”.

“What, a slave?! I dunno…”

Footsteps upon wet earth emerge. Our teacher approaches. He’s looking at us, taking in our respective discussions with amusement. If he’s playing the part of an eccentric, then he’s doing it well.

“Excellently done, you all did exemplar on your physical tests!”

“Did we set any school records?” Morgana asks.

“Harux-y boy here did!” He exclaims, pointing to the blonde elf. “And by an astounding degree, too! He’s twenty-nine percent faster than the school’s second place.”

Remarkable.

In other words, second place can only achieve a peak of 15.5 m/s. Impressive, but definitely way behind 20m/s. Knowing that, though, leads me to an interesting realisation. Amongst the student body, there are people stronger than us in other categories. By how much, I’m uncertain, but definitely to an extent.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

In that case, it’s only natural to wonder if anyone’s superior to me in academics.

“Hm.”

I doubt. For all my misplaced enthusiasm for sports, it seems improbable to me that the same applies to study.

“Well, now that the fluff is out of the way, I say it’s time we move on to the real test.”

The real test?

Out of nowhere, our teacher just so mentions another examination. I think it a joke at first, but intuition soon tells me otherwise. Inscribed on his face is the same juvenile smile as before, but within his eyes, reflect something else. If I have to put it in words, I’d describe it as ‘darkness’—a mark of measurable gravity and seriousness to his statement.

Sighing, the black hair boy shrugs. “What is it?” He asks.

“A test of your capacity for violence.”

Of course, I think. Violence. Why wouldn’t an academy in the middle of nowhere have a test for barbarism? Though is that what he really means? Violence⁠—what a peculiar word. Not combative ability or physical prowess, but violence.

I spot the teacher touching the edge of his lips.

“Are we allowed to prepare ourselves?” Asks Morgana, evidently interested.

“As long as it takes to deliver my instructions.”

This is when silence befalls us. No one makes further question. Within the span of a few seconds alone, the atmosphere reverts polarities.

“The conditions of this test are as follows.” He explains. “Without limit. Any student able to apprehend and subdue another individual here will be allowed to enter the academy.”

An audible whisper comes from the side. “Don’t move.” Just a few metres away, Morgana’s already subdued a student. I stare at her, seeing her hold a knife to the black-haired boy’s throat. Her face is lukewarm, cold by virtue of having no mercy, but warm by virtue of no sadistic intention.

The others hardly react to that, though. Paying no heed to the scuffle, the elf boy points to the teacher.

“Um, does that include you?”

“Yep!”

An alarming noise emerges from the elf boy’s side. It’s his sword. In a split second, he’s drawn the weapon, rushing it to our teacher’s neck. A blur of movement ensues. Before the blade can hit, the teacher moves out of the way, dodging to the right. And yet Harux does not relent. In less than a second, his sword strikes forth again. This time, steel meets steel. The teacher clashes against the elf’s scimitar with a knife.

“Not bad, Harux-y boy!”

He kicks into high gear. Moving his knife down the scimitar’s edge, our teacher closes the distance. However, physics is a terrifying thing. Under the pressure of a larger and bigger weapon, he’s forced to concede his knife, letting it tumble to the ground.

But the fight is already over. Because as soon as the elf is within arm’s reach, the teacher ducks down, grabs him by the waist and slams the elf to the ground.

“Remember to lift with your back!”

A sound reminiscent of a sharp collision echoes. Exhaustion displaces the fallen elf’s energy as he lies motionless, choking out air from his lungs. Following suit, another opponent approaches. This time it’s the Crilandese girl. Readying into a stance, she steadily marches forward, eyeing up the teacher.

“Go ahead, don’t mind me”. Says Soliya.

Our teacher smiles, shrugs, and takes a small step forward.

Having seen a chance at an attack, Soliya sends a simple left straight. Wrong move. The moment it’s mid-air, the man grabs her left arm with his right. He then pulls her in, using the momentum to send an open palm straight into her chest.

“Argh!”

All at once, she’s flying, launched several metres worth of distance. Shortly afterwards, she makes contact with the ground, making a couple of full rotations along the way. I take in the sight with indifference. If I’m to look on the bright side, at least her clothes don’t look like the type to need dry cleaning.

“Welp”.