The fourth day of the entrance exam.
Priscilla sat alone at the imperial garden terrace, the light of the projection disc casting subtle gold across her face. The feed hovered above the obsidian altar, tuned directly to Zone Eight—where two figures now stood, tension curling in the air like storm clouds before a downpour.
One of them: Reynald Vale.
The boy the people once called hero.
And the other—
Lucavion.
No fanfare. No dramatic pose. He stood as he always did—still, poised, unbothered.
The confrontation began with no grand declarations. Just silence. But Priscilla, watching, didn't blink. Her fingers, folded in her lap, didn't twitch.
She watched.
Studied.
And then—
The moment Reynald moved, everything sharpened.
The broadcast flared with light as his sword art emerged—something elegant, structured. A crescent of force, refined into thin arcs that bent light and air alike. The crowd watching around her murmured at the display—admiration, reverence, some even awe.
