The boy’s brow furrowed as he focused, his hands trembling slightly as he shaped his magic. Elias watched from the sidelines, his sharp eyes narrowing. It wasn’t as flashy as some of the displays he’d seen before—not even close. There were no grand bursts of energy, no dazzling spectacle.


    It was almost… unremarkable.


    The boy’s wand, once fully formed, rested awkwardly in his hand. It was a crude thing, its surface uneven and jagged, as though hastily carved from a single piece of wood. There was no intricate design or evident mastery in its creation, only simplicity.


    Elias couldn’t help but frown. He’d seen wands that pulsed with power, radiating confidence in their craftsmanship. This one felt different, like it didn’t belong here. Yet, the boy seemed undeterred.


    With a steadying breath, the boy raised his wand in front of him, his grip firm despite its imperfections. Slowly, he began to move, tracing symbols of light in the air. Each stroke was deliberate, his motions fluid yet restrained, as though he were walking the line between careful precision and uncertainty.


    The symbols shimmered faintly, their glow modest but steady, casting faint reflections on the polished floor of the arena. A few students leaned forward, their curiosity piqued.


    “What’s he doing?” Kiran muttered under his breath, glancing at Elias.


    Elias shook his head slightly, his attention fixed on the boy. “Drawing sigils,” he murmured, more to himself than in response. “That''s what it looks like at least.”


    Indeed, the symbols the boy created were unfamiliar, their shapes intricate but lacking the flourish or grandeur that typically accompanied such magic. Each one floated in place, connected by faint lines of energy, forming a complex pattern that pulsed gently in the air.


    Sigils were the language of magic—both art and science combined into a singular discipline. For centuries, wizards had used them to channel their mana, crafting patterns and sequences that dictated the behavior of their spells. A single stroke could mean the difference between a precise invocation and uncontrolled chaos. They were the foundation upon which many forms of structured magic were built.


    Elias, however, had little patience for such trivialities.


    He’d known of others who''d fuss over sigils, pouring over their intricate designs and meanings, speaking of their beauty and versatility. But for Elias, they had always seemed unnecessary—a layer of artifice added to something that should have been instinctual. Fire didn’t need symbols to burn, to rage, to consume. It simply was.


    So, while others delved into the study of sigils, Elias had dismissed them entirely. Why waste time on a practice so esoteric and tedious when the raw force of fire could achieve the same, if not better, results?


    Watching the boy now, Elias’s was skeptical. The effort seemed overblown, needlessly intricate. And yet… there was something about the boy’s focus, the steady rhythm of his movements, that held Elias’s attention in spite of himself.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The faint lines connecting the sigils pulsed again, their light growing stronger, more stable. Elias folded his arms, a flicker of curiosity creeping into his otherwise dismissive gaze.


    The crowd murmured softly, their confusion evident. There was no roaring display of power, no immediate sign of destruction aimed at the dummy. But the boy’s focus never wavered, his movements precise as he continued to build his construct.


    “Candidate,” Proctor Lenara’s voice rang out, measured but with a slight edge. “You have one minute remaining.”


    The boy’s hand stilled for just a moment, his body tensing at her words. Then, without hesitation, he pointed his wand toward the symbols and whispered a single word.


    The sigils flared brightly, their glow intensifying as the lines connecting them pulsed in quick succession. The crowd fell silent, their murmurs replaced by an air of quiet anticipation.


    Elias leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to piece together what was about to happen.


    The moment hung suspended, the energy in the arena thick and expectant. The boy thrust his wand forward, and the sigils vanished in an instant, their intricate patterns dissolving into nothingness.


    A collective murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd, the anticlimax palpable. Some students exchanged bemused glances, while others sighed audibly, leaning back as though the show was already over.


    Elias frowned, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “That’s it?” he muttered, half to himself.


    But then, a moment later, the wooden dummy erupted in a violent explosion.


    The force sent a shockwave rippling across the arena, the ground trembling slightly as fragments of wood scattered like shrapnel. A bright flash of light followed, temporarily blinding the onlookers closest to the display. Gasps and cries of shock echoed through the arena as the realization struck: the spell hadn’t failed—it had succeeded brilliantly, just with a delayed impact.


    Elias’s eyes widened, his breath catching as he uncrossed his arms. “Huh… okay, wow,” he whispered under his breath, his tone begrudging but laced with curiosity.


    Before the murmurs could swell too loudly among the students, Lenara stepped forward, her sharp gaze fixed on the spot where the dummy once stood. She studied the aftermath in silence, her expression unreadable, before finally nodding.


    “Candidate,” she announced, her voice cutting through the lingering noise like a blade, “you have succeeded in the first phase of tour trial, and therefore, you will proceed to the second phase.”


    The boy, still standing in the arena, blinked in surprise before his features settled into a mix of relief and pride.


    Lenara extended her hand, and a glowing circle of runes appeared beneath the boy’s feet. The intricate symbols pulsed with energy, their light rising in a shimmering column around him. With a sound like a faint chime, the boy’s form vanished, teleported away to the next stage of the examination.


    The crowd stirred, the students exchanging excited whispers. For some, the demonstration had confirmed their hopes of moving forward. For others, it had only deepened their anxieties about the trial’s challenges.


    Elias remained silent, his mind turning over what he’d just witnessed. The boy’s use of sigils, the delayed explosion—it wasn’t quite what he had expected, but it had undeniably worked.


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    Lenara turned back to the crowd, her sharp eyes sweeping over the gathered students. “Next,” she said, her tone brooking no hesitation.


    Before anyone could fully register what was happening, another student vanished from the group. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the student reappeared in the center of the arena, now dressed in ceremonial robes of blues and silver.


    The new candidate looked down at their transformed attire, their expression flickering between awe and unease before they straightened their posture, their wand clutched tightly in hand.


    “Candidate,” Lenara said, her voice carrying the same commanding tone, “produce your wand.”


    The crowd fell silent once more, anticipation building as the second trial began. Elias leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued, as he watched the next hopeful step into the spotlight.