The day arrived without mercy.
A steady drizzle painted the city in hues of wet gray, yet even the rain could not dampen the tension crawling through the halls of the University of Mana Arts. From the highest spires to the damp training dungeons, a single whisper echoed in every corridor:
Midterm Exams.
It wasn't just a test, it was a social standing. The position from the tests were like a number plate, dictating the social hierarchy.
Arthur Valen stood in the shadow of the Assembly Tower, his cloak damp against his shoulders. The Fold Resonance Test was first. A method devised after the Cataclysm to test one's ability to synchronize with mana folds, the thin seams where this reality had torn, and from which power now bled like oil through cracked glass.
Around him, students gathered in scattered clusters, some murmuring incantations, others laughing too loudly to mask their nerves.
"He shouldn't even be allowed to take it," muttered Erik Fletch, a red-haired boy who always walked three paces behind Lysander. "Valen's a fluke. Fold nearly broke him the first time."
"He's not even supposed to be here," Lysander said, eyes flicking toward Arthur with an amused sneer. "He was dead weight last semester. Now he's pretending to be a prodigy?"
Arthur caught the words but didn't flinch. His gaze lingered on a section of the tower wall, where ancient carvings shimmered faintly with warding glyphs. He didn't need to answer. Not yet.
Farther off, Sarah Elowen stood near the outer ring, her hair pulled back, robes immaculately arranged. She gave Arthur a passing glance—not cold, but analytical. Curious.
He nodded once.
She didn't return it.
A floating platform of Instructors levitated above the testing dais. At their center sat Professor Bravik, Head of Fold Theory, his obsidian eye scanning the crowd like a predator searching for prey.
"Candidate number 023. Arthur Valen."
The murmurs began immediately.
"Him again?"
"Didn't he collapse during Orientation?"
"Maybe he'll faint and we can get to lunch early."
Arthur stepped forward, his boots echoing in the stillness. The sea of faces parted before him—some laughing, others wary.
"Watch closely," muttered Sarah to no one in particular. "He's not the same."
Inside the Fold Chamber, the core shimmered, a fragment of the original Chambers of Solitude—where the world had changed, and Fold Theory was born in blood and madness.
"Begin synchronization," Bravik ordered.
Arthur raised his hand. The crystal embedded in his wrist pulsed faintly, reacting to the Fold. He inhaled. Then exhaled.
And let go.
Mana howled.
The folds uncoiled, fracturing his perception—time warped, memories bled. Screams. Cities collapsing. Sky shattering.
The other students flinched as the lights around the chamber surged.
"Those readings—"
"They're off the chart!"
"Is he... burning out?"
A circle of instructors began murmuring, their hands glowing with contingency spells. Several students backed away.
"Call it off, before he loses control—!"
"Wait," Bravik growled. "Look."
Inside, Arthur stood unmoved.
His eyes were open—and glowing with memory. His hands moved like someone remembering an old rhythm, fingers shaping air as if stitching the seams of the world.
A pulse rolled outward.
Not of power, but of belonging. It seemed perfect, somthing no one would think 'He' could do.
The core settled. Fold energy retracted, as if recognizing him. The storm stilled.
And Arthur stepped out.
Silence.
A weighted, breathless silence.
Even Erik stared, mouth half-open. Someone whispered, "Did he just tame the fold?"
Professor Bravik scratched something into his ledger. "Ninety-six point eight," he said aloud. "Fold Resonance Score."
"W-what?" Erik stumbled forward. "There must be an error."
"Your turn's next, Mister Fletch. Perhaps you'll top him," Bravik replied with a cold smile.
Sarah's eyes didn't leave Arthur.
For the first time, her gaze held something different.
Respect.
...
Over the next three days, the exams continued.
Spell Application took place in a wide dueling dome, where illusions and elemental hazards were rotated at random. When Arthur dismantled a chain of six flame wards using nothing but directional glyphcraft, even the usually smug prodigy Lysander paused.
"Who the hell taught you that glyph work?" he muttered afterward, sweat beading on his brow.
Arthur didn't reply. But another student, Rivka, a quiet girl from the Rune Division—leaned over and whispered to him, "You've been practicing alone at night, haven't you? I've seen the lights in the old east wing."
Arthur looked at her. "Practice isn't a sin, is it?"
She blinked. "No. But remembering spells that no one's taught us? That's either brilliance or heresy."
He smiled. "Or both."
...
During Historical Retention, the instructor tossed in a surprise question mid-exam: "Name the three unrecorded catastrophes preceding the Cataclysm that were erased by the Fold Manifest."
Only two students answered.
Sarah.
And Arthur.
After the bell, a few students stopped him in the hallway.
"You guessed that, right?" one asked.
Arthur turned. "No. I remembered."
"Remembered from where?"
He didn't answer.
"Freak," someone muttered.
But not with malice.
With fear.
...
Duel Trials came last.
He was paired against Lysander.
The duel was brief.
The opening blast of kinetic wind from Lysander was met with a passive shield matrix—ancient, elegant. Before the crowd could even register it, Arthur's fingers formed a weft of runes beneath Lysander's feet. The ground itself fragmented, capturing him mid-cast, locking his mana flow.
It was over in seconds.
"No incantation?" Sarah asked later, stepping beside him.
"I didn't need one," he replied.
"I can see that."
A beat of silence passed.
Then she added, "Next term… let's duel."
He glanced sideways. "You'd lose."
She smiled faintly. "That's what makes it worth it."
...
When results were posted, students gathered like moths to a flame.
Arthur Valen—second overall.
Sarah Elowen—first.
No one mocked him now.
Even Erik avoided eye contact. Rivka gave him a nod of cautious respect. Lysander didn't speak at all.
For the first time, Arthur wasn't a shadow in the hallway.
He was a presence.
And as he passed the glass walls of the Fold Chamber one last time, he whispered under his breath:
"Soon."
His path wasn't just beginning.
It was unfolding.
As he walked towards his dorm room he was preparing himself for the practical field test, and unlike those prior this one would be inside a real crack in the fiber of space time, a 'Fissure'. Well... that's what they are called here.
Back in his own reality, Arthur at a point in time held the most prestigious title in history, an 'Archmage', he had trained a generations of mages and naturally had been in these 'Fissures'.
Though what surprised him what somthing else... that the 'creatures' here were somthing he had never witnessed before.
He had a premonition... about somthing ominous...
To Be Continued...