The mid-terms began with a drop. Quite literally.
One moment, I was standing in the Academy's preparation hall, weapon in hand and the faint buzz of anticipation thick in the air. The next, I was plummeting through the sky, the wind screaming past my ears and the island below rushing up to meet me like it had a personal vendetta.
The academy didn't bother with subtlety.
The drop pods they used weren't much more than reinforced capsules with just enough tech to ensure you didn't pancake into the ground. It was all part of the experience, apparently—getting you in the right mindset. Because nothing says "elite training" like a near-death experience before the actual trial even starts.
I tightened my grip on my sword, the single weapon we were allowed to bring. No armor, no fancy tools—just the weapon you trusted most and whatever skills you had honed to perfection. Strapped to my belt was the artifact the Academy had provided: a sleek, cylindrical device no bigger than a palm. It hummed faintly with energy, its surface etched with glowing runes.
The Academy called it the Evolver. Part life-saving gadget, part grim scorekeeper. Its primary function was simple: if you were "eliminated," it would teleport you out of danger, initiate a rapid recovery process, and revive you at a designated neutral zone on the island after an hour. It also tallied your points in real-time, broadcasting them to a leaderboard only you could see by pressing its surface.
Of course, it had its limits. The Evolver wasn't a free pass to go wild. If you were knocked out, you'd lose all the points you'd accumulated, handing them over to whoever had bested you. The stakes weren't just survival—they were humiliation. One mistake, and you'd spend the rest of the day clawing your way back from zero.
The capsule rattled violently as it entered the island's atmosphere, the friction and heat adding another layer of discomfort to my already tense nerves. A voice crackled over the comms embedded in the pod walls—Professor Nero, of course, because who else would have the audacity to sound calm at a time ?
"Welcome to the island," he said, his tone as smooth and casual as if he were announcing the lunch menu. "You have twenty-four hours to accumulate as many points as possible. Remember, the neutral zone at the center is worth a hefty ten thousand points, but it's also highly contested. Choose your battles wisely. And don't forget—this isn't just about strength. Strategy, endurance, and intelligence will determine the outcome. Good luck. You'll need it."
The pod jolted as it released its parachute, slowing my descent just enough to avoid permanent damage. Through the reinforced glass, I could see the island sprawling beneath me—a lush, green expanse of jagged cliffs, dense forests, and open plains, all carefully designed for chaos. In the distance, the neutral zone shimmered faintly, its golden beacon visible even from this height. It was both a promise and a threat.
With a hiss, the pod landed, embedding itself slightly into the soft earth. The door shot open, and I stepped out, weapon in hand, the Evolver humming faintly at my side. The air was thick with the scent of greenery and the faint hum of distant wildlife, but I didn't have time to admire the scenery.
Somewhere out there, the others had already landed. Some would be hunting. Some would be hiding. And some—like Lucifer—would be making their way straight to the center, daring anyone to stop them.
The trial had officially begun.
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"Cecilia Slatemark, Cecilia Slatemark," Rachel muttered to herself as she moved, her sapphire eyes scanning the forest ahead like a hawk on the hunt. Her mind was fixed on a single, unshakable goal during the mid-terms: to hunt down Cecilia Slatemark. That irritating, insufferable princess of the Slatemark Empire.
From the very beginning, Rachel hadn't liked Cecilia. They were opposites in almost every way. Where Rachel was kind and composed, Cecilia was teasing and infuriating. But today, it wasn't just a clash of personalities driving her resolve. No, this was personal.
Rachel's cheeks flushed as she clenched her fists, the memory of Cecilia's prank—and the fact that she had the audacity to mention it in front of Arthur Nightingale—flooding her mind like an unstoppable tide of mortification. "Cecilia Slatemark!" she growled through gritted teeth. The name itself felt like an offense.
She stopped for a moment, raising her chin defiantly and balling her fists. "Saintesses can smite evil," she declared aloud, her voice brimming with righteous indignation. "So I'm right!" Her expression brightened as if she had just proven a profound universal truth. Yes, this was entirely justified. A moral crusade, even!
Then, a presence. Subtle, but there. Rachel spun on her heel, her expression instantly composed and polite, though her mana subtly flared beneath the surface.
"O-oh, Your Highness Rachel!" a voice stammered. A boy emerged from the foliage with his hands raised in surrender. "It is I, Morris von Ponfleck, son of Marquis Ponfleck of the Slatemark Empire!"
Rachel's sapphire eyes swept over him. Not bad, she thought. Morris von Ponfleck, current Rank 12, a Light Yellow-ranker. Decent enough, but ultimately not a threat. The gap between their abilities now was as wide as the Grand Canyon on steroids.
To his credit—or perhaps his delusion—Morris didn't seem devastated by the disparity. In fact, he looked… delighted. Radiant, even. Rachel didn't need her gift for reading people to know why. It was written all over his face. He's happy because he knows I'm kind, she thought, her smile unwavering despite the mild exasperation creeping into her mind.
Rachel Creighton and Cecilia Slatemark were similar in one crucial way: both were exceptional at reading people. But where Cecilia used that talent to manipulate and tease, Rachel wielded hers for entirely different reasons. She used it to protect herself, to navigate the web of expectations and alliances around her, while treating everyone she met with kindness.
"Your Highness, let us team up!" Morris said, stepping forward confidently, his grin so wide it bordered on presumptuous.
Rachel tilted her head, her polite smile never faltering. "Hmm," she said thoughtfully, remembering the point system Professor Nero had explained. Lucifer started with a base of 10,000 points. She, Cecilia, Arthur, and Ren had 1,500 points each as high Silver-rankers. Seraphina, Ian, and Jin sat slightly lower with 1,000 points as mid Silver-rankers. And Morris? Morris was worth a modest 150 points.
"I might have considered it," Rachel said, her tone light and sweet, as if she were discussing the weather. Morris's grin widened.
"But," she continued, her smile sharp as a blade, "you once said something bad about someone I care about."
Morris froze. His grin wavered, then collapsed entirely into a look of dawning horror. Before he could stammer out a defense, Rachel raised her finger, pointed it at him like a gun, and mimicked a shot.
Morris screamed—a high-pitched sound that did nothing for his dignity—as the Evolver activated, teleporting him away in a flash of light.
Rachel watched her Evolver tally the points with a faint hum, her expression serene. Then her cheeks flushed as she muttered to herself, fanning her face with her hand. "I called Arthur 'precious to me,'" she realized, her voice barely above a whisper. Her face grew hotter, and she shook her head as if to banish the thought.
Focus. She needed to focus.
Her eyes hardened as she turned her attention back to the hunt. She wasn't done. She wouldn't be done until she'd found Cecilia Slatemark and taken her points—over and over again, if necessary. This wasn't just about rankings anymore. This was justice. Divine, Saintess-approved justice.
And maybe just a little bit of payback.