Morris shuddered violently. He glanced back several times, certain something eerie was watching him.
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock turned, still fiddling with the Ring of Verity on her index finger. Noticing his tension, she asked, “You seem really on edge. Is it the exam?”
“I wouldn’t get *this* worked up over just an exam,” Morris sighed helplessly, scratching his head. “It’s nothing. Once I sprinkle some salt on myself and do a quick spirit-cleansing ritual, I’ll be fine.”
“That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ at all…” Sherlock murmured.
The exam began at 4 p.m. Along the way, Morris saw few students heading to take it. He frowned slightly, wondering if something felt off.
Finally, they reached an iron gate. Through the wire mesh, ancient towering trees stood dense and serene. Academic buildings rose between them. Beyond the woods, the bronze bell atop the clock tower swayed gently. A handful of students in black-and-white Western-style uniforms walked silently beneath the canopy. The scene carried a timeless rustic charm, while the architecture radiated deep solemnity—enough to stir quiet reverence.
Curious, Morris stepped closer to the threshold for a better look, but an elderly man in casual clothes by the gate stopped him. The man pushed up his hat brim, lifted weary eyelids with a yawn, then smiled. “Hello. Here for the exam?”
Sherlock stepped forward, gave a crisp formal bow, and replied, “As you said.”
“Proceed to the academic district. Someone will guide you for the assessment.” The old man extended a hand. Arcanum flowed from his fingertips into the lock. The gate creaked open. He nodded warmly. “May Lunhai bless you.”
Morris and Sherlock nodded slightly and stepped inside. Honestly, Morris was already tired of this “solemn sacred” vibe—he’d had his fill back in Macedon. The Royal Academy clearly focused only on aesthetics. Whoever designed it was likely still a mortal. Meanwhile, the Grand Cathedral in the Holy City had been personally overseen by Judas from conception. If any human wished to truly grasp a wizard’s greatness, the Holy City of Macedon was the undisputed choice—mortal or wizard.
Morris yawned, feeling weary. Sherlock’s eyes, however, sparkled with excitement. Walking under the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, she squeezed Morris’s hand. “This place is amazing! Fresh air, such a solemn atmosphere.”
Morris smiled wryly and tightened his grip, afraid she’d get lost among the buildings. To ordinary eyes, yes—it was awe-inspiring. But alas… you’re facing none other than the Pope of the Lunhai Holy Church: the most powerful, and youngest, in two centuries!
He’d always carried a hint of pride in that title. No wonder his first thought upon hearing the princess would enroll him was *playing weak to flip the script*. Too bad hiding his identity left no room for showboating—just quiet inner smugness.
“Alright, Your Highness. Once we’re in, you can look all you want,” Morris said, glancing at a few uniform-less youths passing on the path—clearly also exam candidates. “Let’s go.”
Sherlock reluctantly tore her gaze away and gave a firm nod.
*Only when she’s slightly out of it does Her Highness become unbearably cute*, Morris thought, tightening his hold on her hand as they walked toward the distant academic building.
***
High in the Royal Arcanum Academy, Professor Cline Angus—a well-known figure on campus—rubbed his temples while staring at a crumpled note from his niece. Scrawled messily across it, he barely deciphered two words: *“Eat people”*… no, wait—*“Eliminate people!”*
His niece had demanded he—the exam designer—make it harder. Not mainstream. Obscure. Niche. The kind that’d make candidates burst into tears calling for their moms. Wasn’t that blatantly meant to wipe out crowds? And rewriting an exam last-minute? Pure torture.
Cline’s headache deepened. His niece’s temper was legendary in the Angus Clan. Everyone knew the clan boasted two wizard prodigies—his brother’s most treasured gems. The maid who delivered the note said Kaiser wrote it sobbing, then tossed her pen and collapsed onto the bed wailing, utterly heartbroken.
He could guess what happened: her fiery arrogance met a hard wall. Now she dragged *him* into career-risking schemes. And this year’s examinees included *Princess Sherlock*. If she failed… royal fury loomed. Cline exhaled sharply. *Trapped between family and crown—what a lonely, unlucky soul I am.*
“…Hah.” He stared at the original exam paper. An idea struck. He clapped his hands. Inspiration surged. Pen flew across the page. In under ten minutes, a new paper was born. He checked it thoroughly, set the pen down, and called a guard. “Print this. Immediately.”
*Pressure unlocks human potential*, he mused, slumping back, quietly proud of his genius.
“I don’t know who you are, unlucky soul,” he murmured toward the unknown student, voice low and sharp, “but you provoked the Angus Clan. Bear our wrath. Prepare for your end.”
After all, the Angus Clan stood second only to the Valentyn Family in Helsing City. Offending a daughter of such a house? Terrible luck. And as a mere examinee? Catastrophic.
Cline rose, gazed out the window, and breathed deeply. “This… is the power of the Angus Clan!”
Just as he savored the line—
“Miss Sherlock, don’t run off!”
“Miss Sherlock, that’s the auditorium!”
“Miss Sherlock, hold my hand…”
“SHUT UP!” Cline yanked the window open, glaring down at the approaching pair. “No public displays of affection on campus! Mind the school rules—ALL OF YOU!!!”
