The Mages Association office stood barely a kilometer from the Saxton Merchant Guild—impossible to miss. Even from the city gates, its towering Mage Tower pierced the skyline, mystic runes etched across its surface pulsing with radiant light. It proclaimed magic’s supremacy in this age, commanding instant reverence from any commoner who dared glance its way.

Strictly speaking, this tower was merely one of two Association branches within the Westeris Empire—one of ten scattered across the continent. The true headquarters, the Mage Academy, lay on the outskirts of Frostbite City, capital of the Brittara Republic. Still, for matters like formal Mage evaluations below tier 7, the Saxton City branch held full authority.

The first floor served as reception. A young woman in gray apprentice robes sat behind the front desk, greeting me warmly: "How may I assist you today?"

"Registration. Evaluation."

As I spoke, I subtly manipulated the ambient mana, sending faint ripples through the elements. The apprentice sensed the disturbance immediately and rose with deference. "Honored Mage, have you ever been registered with any branch of the Association before?"

"No."

"Per Association protocol," she explained, "initial evaluations or promotions require at least seven Mages and one Archmage present. You’re fortunate—today’s quarterly assembly has gathered nearly every Mage in the region upstairs. If all goes smoothly, we can assess you immediately. Please fill out this personal information form first. I’ll alert the administrator at once."

Mages were ranked in five tiers: Apprentice, Mage, Archmage, Grandmaster, and Sage. The Mage tier itself split into nine sub-levels, with tiers 7–9 commonly called Archmages.

The form asked routine questions—family, birthplace, mentorship. For mentor, I boldly wrote: *Richard Charlemagne Hughes*. But family details? How could I admit I wasn’t from this world? Fabricating lies risked exposure. After hesitation, I left those fields blank.

Thirty minutes after submitting the form, the apprentice led me to a conference hall on the fifth floor. Around a long table sat ten figures clad in pure black mage robes. Only the middle-aged man at the head wore robes with snow-white shoulders. His sharp eyes studied me before he spoke: "You claim to be Lord Hughes’ disciple?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then… where is Lord Hughes now?" His voice tightened with urgency.

"Master said he was bound for the Snowy Wasteland before he left."

*The Snowy Wasteland…* A collective gasp rippled through the room. Whispers erupted: "So the rumors are true—he’s nearing his end…"

Soon, a Mage challenged me: "Your family records are blank, yet you insist Lord Hughes is your master. Proof?"

I recalled my cheap master’s warning. From my space ring, I withdrew an ancient copper coin. Silence swallowed the hall the moment it appeared.

After a long pause, the Archmage spoke, his voice hollow: "This Archmage’s token confirms it. He is Lord Hughes’ disciple—and his only one. If Lord Hughes trusted him, we shall not doubt. Begin the evaluation."

Most Mages nodded. The apprentice returned with a large crystal orb. Following instructions, I placed my palm on it and channeled mana. The orb blazed with chaotic colors as the Mages analyzed:

"High elemental affinity, but unstable mana core."

"Strong red dominance—he’s fire-aligned."

"Low elemental capacity. Clearly undertrained."

The Archmage remained silent, scribbling notes. When the chatter faded, he cleared his throat: "Raelin Black. Cast three spells of your choice—any type or tier. Restrain their scale; we’re indoors."

I complied: *Fireball. Ice Spike. Stonehide Skin. Wind Blade.* Basic apprentice-level spells, one for each element.

The Mages scrutinized every motion, murmuring terms I didn’t yet grasp. The Archmage wrote furiously, then passed his notes around the table. "My comprehensive assessment. Review it."

After reading, the Mages murmured agreement. They could grade my skill—but not my innate talent. Only a master like my cheap teacher had seen *that*.

The Archmage announced the verdict: "Raelin Black. We grade you at tier 3. You may contest this at another branch, or retest here in one year."

I shook my head. "No objection."

*Less than a month as a formal Mage. Just practicing after homework. Tier 3… No wonder they called me a once-in-a-century prodigy.*

"We’ll craft your robes and insignia. They’ll be delivered to your residence in two days. Where in Saxton City are you staying?"

"I… just arrived. Haven’t found lodging."

"Convenient. I’m heading home after this meeting. I’ll escort you to the Merchant Guild—they handle housing."

As we descended the tower, the Archmage introduced himself: "I am Eide Lawrence. Tier 8 Mage. Raelin—why conceal your face and form?"

He was an Archmage, an administrator. I’d likely need his help someday. I bowed slightly. "A childhood fire, Honored Lawrence. My skin was severely burned. This is how I must present myself."

"I see." His tone stayed flat, giving nothing away.

He probed relentlessly about my master as we walked. I answered what I knew, feigned ignorance for the rest. Passersby bowed deeply to him—some even dropped to one knee.

Ten minutes later, we entered the bustling guild hall. A bespectacled man rushed over, bowing obsequiously. "Honored Lawrence! To what do we owe this honor?"

Lawrence gestured to me. "A newly registered Mage requires lodging."

"Understood! Please wait in the VIP lounge—I’ll find a residence suitable for a Mage immediately."