Fulin caught on the word “appropriate.” The Warmth had to land like a needle threading dawn: not hotter, not colder, exactly 23°C.

But a scroll’s Warmth didn’t always hit 23°C. Like a fickle sun behind clouds, it could drift high or dip low, and that killed the bloom.

So using a scroll straight away might get you knocked out on the spot. Only by mastering Warmth and holding it steady could you reach the sweet point.

“I’m giving you a morning,” the mage said, voice like a bell over still water. “It’s eight now. I’ll check your tulips at eleven.”

Three hours. Fulin did the math like counting heartbeats in fog. Enough to grasp a simple Tier‑1 spell.

But the Lance she wore had learned Warmth already—taught in full by the marquis’s private mage, like a lamp passed hand to hand.

With Mana Lv.1, Lance had a beginner’s pool of power. He had several Tier‑1 spells, Warmth among them, like tools on a quiet belt.

That was why Fulin noticed the Warmth on this scroll was different. Its heat‑shift runes were altered with intent, like a reed cut for a new tune.

Less heat, longer burn. It wasn’t so much Warmth as Blooming. The spell wanted petals, not cozy hands.

In Lance’s grip, this was a brand‑new spell, a fresh blade tempered for spring.

If Lance wanted to cast Blooming by himself, then Fulin had to do it alone inside—master the scroll’s spell within three hours.

In Nordland, mastering a spell needed three things. First, the “mana” to feed it, like water to a mill.

Second, the skill to “construct the spell array,” to hold its pattern in mind like a moonlit diagram.

Third, “casting technique,” the handwork and breathwork to keep mana flowing, whole as a river that doesn’t break.

Meditation could raise a mage’s mana, slow as moss climbing stone. Lance, with Mana Lv.1, had enough to cast Warmth on his own.

Memorize the array, then bring it to mind when you cast—that was constructing the array, a lantern traced behind your eyes.

An array only worked when mana ran through it. You had to keep the flow, steer its paths, and hold the frame, like guiding silk through a loom.

Casting technique decided the outcome, the way a knife decides the cut. And technique only grew by practice, like calluses built by rope.

So Fulin sank her awareness into her inner sea. She practiced the custom Blooming again and again, tracing the pattern like frost on glass.

While Lance brooded in thought, the others had already started their attempts, sparks striking flint across the hall.

The Frost Knight chose to use a scroll outright. The warming jar in front of him heated fast, like a kettle singing.

Soothed by warmth, his tulip bloomed quickly, a red mouth opening to spring.

“Frankly, this is too easy,” he said, voice cool as ice over stone.

Knights still wrestling their scrolls glanced over with envy and awe, like sparrows watching a hawk. Those with no mana could only stare.

The Rose Knight also used a scroll. Her tulip opened soon after, fresh as a blush under dawn.

Seeing that, a good number quit studying and went straight to scrolls—quick and simple, like taking a ferry instead of swimming.

Stephen, a knight who’d been a decent noble before knighthood, had learned some basic script and household spells like Warmth.

He barely looked at the scroll. He flung Warmth at the jar with a cry, as if tossing a spear across a field.

“Have at you!” His casting pose was showy, all flaring sleeves and wind.

The jar warmed; that meant the spell took. Stephen grinned, joy bright as sparks.

But the bud opened halfway and stopped, a yawn caught in the throat.

The proctor mage reached in and tested the heat. He shook his head, a willow in wind. “Warmth didn’t last. The jar cooled.”

“How?” Stephen blurted, as if a rug had been pulled.

At that, many knights who had been stubborn about learning gave up. They used scrolls to force a bloom, clean as a knife cut.

That included the Mountain Wind Knight.

Watching tulips pop like lanterns, the proctor mage nodded. He explained, voice steady as rain. “The upside of a scroll is no mental array work.”

“You just pour mana in, and the spell fires safe and fast,” he added, as calm as a shopkeeper tallying coins.

“For a knight‑mage, being able to use a scroll in battle counts as qualified.” His tone was a stamp on paper.

Two hours passed. Of those who could wield mana, only Lance still hadn’t bloomed a flower, a lone lantern unlit.

“Only you remain,” the proctor said, like a drum urging the pace.

“Hmph,” the Frost Knight snorted, a shard of winter tapping stone.

“Lance…” The Rose Knight’s worry was a soft ribbon, but she didn’t dare raise her voice, afraid care would be spurned.

With fifteen minutes to eleven, Fulin rose from her inner sea. Lance opened his eyes, calm as a lake at dawn.

“Blooming!” Lance called as he cast, voice striking flint.

He didn’t use a scroll. He cast the new Warmth by his own power, gentle as a hearth under snow.

In the tender heat, the tulip bud inside the jar unfurled, slow as a butterfly from its sheath.

Seeing the hint of rosy inner petals about to flare, the knights all widened their eyes, a flock startled at once.

Yet after Stephen’s stumble, few felt hope for Lance. Doubt hung like mist.

The proctor mage had his plan. When the flower reached halfway, he spoke at once, a blade cutting time. “Casting is forbidden now.”

“So that was a trick!” Stephen slapped his thigh in dismay, like a gamer missing a last hit. “If I’d timed a second Warmth, it might’ve finished.”

“This is… an add‑on rule,” the mage said, wearing formality like a stiff collar.

By his estimate, the jar should cool now. The tulip, caught mid‑bloom, should freeze like ice on a stream.

But reality slapped him. The bud kept opening. A small ring of pink became a live flame, dancing freely and showing off its grace.

“How’s that?!” Lance’s voice had the swagger of a banner in wind.

The proctor stared wide‑eyed, a statue waking. After a long breath, he only sighed. “Not simple.”

Boom!

The back wall crashed down, dust blooming like thunderclouds. Professor Carlos and others stepped through, faces cut from stone.

They had been watching through the wall this whole time. From mana strength to tulip bloom, the judges had seen everything, root to leaf.

Now they leaned together, whispering like reeds, trading views and weighing scales.

At first, the knights felt baffled and slighted by the setup, a net thrown without warning.

But they remembered the proctor’s promise to “decide placements directly,” and understanding fell like a key into a lock.

The Dean stepped out from the judges’ panel. “Thank you for coming,” he said, words like warm tea on a cold day.

After his greetings, he did what Deans do. He launched into a long speech, a river winding through stones.

On the panel sat the teaching leads of each magical discipline. While the Dean spoke, they had already settled class placements, neat as calligraphy.

“Frost Knight,” the Dean called, voice steady as a bell.

After a brief exchange, he said, “You’ll transfer into Elemental Arts, Year One, Class One.”

“Humbled and honored!” The Frost Knight gave a textbook bow, crisp as frost lines.

“Rose Knight.”

“You’ll transfer into Wardcraft, Year One, Class Two.”

“As you command.” In pale red skirted armor, the Rose Knight’s curtsy was still graceful, a petal falling without sound.

“Unyielding Knight.”

“You’ll transfer into Wardcraft, Year One, Class One.”

“Understood!” Stephen had been middling today, so the honors class surprised him like sun through cloud.

“Mountain Wind Knight.”

“You’ll transfer into Elemental Arts, Year One, Class Three.”

“Babysitting brats? Fine.” Mountain Wind always lazed when there was no one to cleave.

The rest received their placements in turn, names and rooms sorting like birds to branches.

“Lastly—the Blazing Fire Knight.”

At that title, the judges’ whispers died, silence settling like snow.

“You’ll transfer into Battle Magic, Year One, Class One.”

“Battle magic? You mean battle mages?” Lance asked, eyes a flint spark.

“Mm.” The Dean nodded, heavy lids drooping like tired shutters.

He faced everyone. “You’ll live academy life for ten days,” he said, setting the board like a go player.

“In those ten days, your classes will face three mock skirmishes. Work with the students.”

“Use your chivalry to inspire them. Lead them to taste victory,” he finished, planting flags in their minds.

“Hah.” The Frost Knight’s interest rose like a winter sun.

Most were like the Mountain Wind Knight—feeling the hassle creep in like creeping vines. “Lance—don’t blow my ears off then.”

Lance didn’t know how to answer. “I’ll—try,” he said, words like a pebble skipped twice.

The Dean watched the eleven hesitant faces. He weighed and measured, a trader behind calm eyes. Light flashed in his gaze.

“After ten days, no matter the results, the Academy will grant you a special‑authorized Knight‑Magus status,” he declared, striking the drum.

The phrase felt too down‑to‑earth to carry its weight. Confusion drifted like smoke.

The Dean swore then, stacking vows like stones. “In the name of the God of Wisdom. In the name of the Holy King.”

“In the name of the Mage Association. In the name of Doran’s First Archmage. In the name of the King and the Royal House.”

“This status guarantees all the rights of a formal low‑tier mage!” His words rang like a seal pressed hot.

Understanding burst; emotions boiled like a pot. Cheers rose like a tide.

Only Lance looked sullen, a shadow under noon. He asked the Dean, voice straight as a spear, “Does that include the right to advance to mid‑tier?”

The Dean went dumb. The panel mages fell silent, a hall of statues.

By the Association’s rules, a formal mage could apply for promotion after mastering higher spells. If approved, he rose a rank, step by step.

Low‑tier to mid‑tier—that was Fulin’s clear goal. In ten days, she’d make “Lance” a formal mid‑tier mage.

She needed that to legally use mid‑tier attack spells in the Knight Festival, a storm she meant to command.

The water had already spilled; the Dean almost bit his lip. “Of course.”

“If they allow it,” he added, as if tucking a thorn under silk.

“‘They’ meaning?” Lance’s bluntness dropped the room below freezing, breath turning to frost.

But old ginger is spicier. The Dean slid around it smoothly. “For a mage, every question and curiosity is a virtue.”

“They help you seek truth, and seeking truth is learning. Keep them—until you turn back,” he said, a lantern held in fog.

On the way to lunch, three walked abreast, shadows braided like ropes.

Mountain Wind hooked an arm around Lance’s shoulder, lounging like a cat in sun. “You do love the spotlight.”

“That’s not showing off,” Lance said, almost on reflex pushing the arm away, like brushing off a leaf. “It decides if I win the Knight Festival.”

Mountain Wind blinked at the push, puzzled as if a breeze met a wall. He kept on. “So you made the Dean guarantee it on the spot.”

“Yeah. Best to be careful with men,” Lance said, copying the other’s idle tone, face like still water.

“I’ll say this,” Mountain Wind stopped, head lowering slow as a blade.

“What is it?” Feeling the point under the words, Lance stopped and turned, confusion plain as day.

Mountain Wind set his hand on his hilt and raised his head. Cold light flashed in his eyes like steel. “Lance Morrison… you’re not a woman in disguise, are you?”