"Wow!" The collective gasp from the crowd wasn't just polite surprise—it was full-throated, jaw-dropping, eyeball-bugging astonishment. Dozens of faces—venerable old wizards with wrinkles deep enough to store secrets, wide-eyed apprentices fresh enough to still smell like baby dragon poop—simultaneously dropped their jaws wide enough to fit a whole fist. And maybe a chicken leg, if they were lucky.
What on Azeroth just happened?
Did I hear that right?
That insufferably cocky rookie apprentice—Edmund Duke, the new kid on the block—actually dared to request a promotion trial on his very first day at the Stormwind Academy of Magic?
That's like a goblin asking to pilot the zeppelin on his maiden flight.
Arrogance? Overconfidence? Sure. But there are limits, right? Somewhere between insane and suicidal, you hit a line that even Duke shouldn't cross.
Duke just stomped over that line like it was a welcome mat.
Whispers ran wild: "I heard he only got confirmed as magically talented a few days ago." "If he pulls this off, Khadgar's going to crawl under a rock and never come out." "I've been slogging for eight years and still not a formal wizard meanwhile, this kid might skip all that and just waltz in."
Whether Duke succeeded or spectacularly faceplanted, one thing was sure: he was about to leave a permanent scar or a shiny medal on the Stormwind Royal School of Magic's history.
Success? He'd be the academy's new legend, whispered about in every corridor, memorized by every apprentice, and probably meme'd by every goblin merchant.
Failure? He'd be the cautionary tale pinned up next to the 'Do Not Try This At Home' scrolls, forever nailed to the Pillar of Shame in the school courtyard, right next to that one guy who turned himself into a frog and never reversed it.
For a moment, the room's collective breath hung thick, everyone's pulse was a marching drum.
Medivh, with his trademark calm but twinkling eye, asked politely, "You understand the conditions for passing the test. Apprentice Edmund Duke, are you sure you want to proceed now?"
"I'm sure!" Duke's voice rang out like a battle cry.
With a nod, Medivh loosened his fingers and whispered an arcane incantation. Suddenly, his palm lit up with a strange blue flame, flickering wildly as if it wanted to break free. The light floated out and stretched, twisting into vibrant, swirling ribbons that carved out a shimmering dome—a perfect circle more than ten meters wide, centered on Duke.
To the outside world, nothing had changed. The hall was exactly the same.
But Duke knew better. This was Medivh's signature move: a terrifying pocket dimension, a deadly independent arena where failure could mean oblivion.
System alert popped in Duke's mind: "Warning! You have been sucked into an unknown independent space by Medivh (aka Sargeras)."
Thankfully, Medivh wasn't looking like he wanted to vaporize Duke just yet—in fact, a gentle smile played on his lips, almost comforting in its eerie calmness.
"This space is isolated but won't block your connection to the elemental realms," Medivh explained. "Mr. Marcus, you may begin. Cast any three different level-1 spells without magical props, and you will be declared a formal wizard of the Stormwind Royal School of Magic."
Duke inhaled deeply and braced himself.
He spotted Daniel and Anya, their faces etched with worry, silently pleading with him to tone it down. "Don't make waves. Don't piss off the old guard," their eyes begged.
Duke could only flash a bitter smile.
He had to fight. He wasn't rolling in gold to pay tuition, and if he wanted any hope of making money—or surviving the academy's cutthroat politics—he had to carve out a reputation.
Even Medivh's promise wouldn't protect him if he stayed a lowly apprentice too long. Conservative factions in Stormwind would swarm him like angry wasps.
Sure, dying during a field trial wouldn't be the end of the world—apprentices die all the time. But a wizard, even a beginner, was registered with the Stormwind Wizard Corps, noted by Commander Lothar and King Llane themselves.
That kind of attention was the best shield against covert attacks from jealous nobles or scheming wizards.
Duke's chance—his amulet—to survive the brutal novice period.
Another deep breath. Time to cast.
Now, anyone who'd ever seen an apprentice trial knew it was babysitting at its finest. Watching novices mimic spells in crystal balls was about as thrilling as watching a sheep count grass blades. Apprentices lacked the keen intuition to reverse-engineer complex spellwork just by staring at props.
Normal mortals would have as much chance as a toddler wrestling a lion.
Everyone present knew Duke hadn't stolen so much as a scrap of spell knowledge through official channels.
But the moment Duke began to chant, jaws collectively hit the floor.
What nobody saw: Duke's tongue was controlled by a hidden system, his mind had rehearsed this complicated incantation over a thousand times, karaoke-style, subtitles included.
The words flowed in perfect High Elf—each syllable sharp, quick, and laced with mysterious cadence.
Without a single magical prop, Duke felt like a faucet unleashed—his mental and physical strength draining fast—but his soul linking solidly to a different dimension: the elemental plane.
A hot breath gathered on his arm, coalescing rapidly.
A massive fireball bloomed in Duke's palm.
"Fireball? No—this is Pyroblast!" whispered an awestruck mage.
When was the last time anyone younger than twenty managed to cast Pyroblast? Never, that's when. Yet here was this kid, just days into awakening his magic, controlling elemental power with surgical precision.
Not a trace of excess magic wasted. The control was exquisite—impossible for a newbie.
"Whoosh!" The Pyroblast—about the size of a water tank—whistled toward Medivh's face.
For a seasoned guardian like Medivh, it was a mere annoyance. Without lifting a finger, blue light surged around Duke, snuffing out the blazing fireball like a cosmic fire extinguisher.
"You cast the first spell well," Medivh nodded, impressed despite himself. He noticed Duke's sweating brow. "Need a break? The test lasts an hour."
"Nope!" Duke's voice was firm, though he saw his mana gauge drop from a full 26 to a dangerously low 12.
He had a feeling: push harder, and maybe, just maybe, a breakthrough would come.
Shaking off fatigue, Duke raised his hands again. A soft, pale blue glow formed, sharp and biting, cold enough to freeze a yeti's nose hair from ten meters away.