After some hassle—and thanks to a kind old janitor’s directions—the two, freshly scolded by an administrator, finally stepped into the candidates’ waiting hall.
Nearly two hundred examinees filled the space. They clustered in small groups, clearly acquainted. Most were noble scions: lavish robes, glittering accessories, every gesture oozing “I’m a young master or miss from a prestigious house”—pure side-character energy. The few commoners stood scattered, stealing nervous glances at others. When their eyes met another commoner’s, they flinched like lone wolves.
Morris wiped his brow. Rushing here had been exhausting. A quiet sadness stirred—he thought, *Three years ago, I’d have run a full marathon without blinking. This little sprint? Nothing.*
Sherlock scanned the room, then gently tugged Morris’s sleeve. “The Royal Arcanum Academy exam has only two parts. Listen up.”
Morris nodded absently.
“First, the written test. We’ll be seated in a classroom shortly,” Sherlock said calmly. “Then comes the Arcanum assessment. Written score weighs heaviest; Arcanum is supplementary. Don’t assume these nobles will all pass—the bar’s always high. Even Miss Kaiser we saw today? Her knowledge is no joke.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Morris yawned. “Got it.”
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. She grabbed his collar, yanking their faces close. Breath warm against his skin, she locked eyes with him. “Pay attention! For *my* sake, try. If you don’t get in fairly, Morris… I’ll drag you in myself—as your bodyguard.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice…” Morris murmured, the faint scent of the Blood Pact stirring something deep inside.
Before he could finish, a man’s voice echoed from the hall’s end near a corner: “This way.” He turned and vanished around the bend.
Candidates instantly straightened, falling into line behind him, eager to impress.
Morris walked the corridor, tilting his head at the portraits lining the walls. At first, he almost quipped to Sherlock:
“This blond ‘helpful citizen’? Gilgamesh, King of Heroes—nicknamed ‘Golden Sparkle.’ Skip him; he’s usually just background noise.”
“This knight with the ahoge? Used to stan him hard—Kakashi.jpg—but after Qin Shi Huang dropped in, I switched loyalty to the Space Emperor.”
“And this one? Joan of Arc, the Holy Maiden. Honestly kinda hot… sigh, anime adaptation ruined her.”
“King Hassan! Long time no see! Haven’t used you since Kama showed up. You good?”
Sherlock blinked, utterly lost. *Where did he hear these wild tales?* In Lunhai scriptures, these were sacred legends—not old buddies you greet casually. She sighed inwardly. *Hopeless. He’s a total slacker.* She already pictured his score. *After the exam, I’ll confess to the dean. Morris stays with me—no matter what.*
But Morris’s chatter faded. The portraits grew younger—from myth to documented history. The latest two? Actual photographs. A chill crept up his spine.
Sure enough, steps later: Alex’s face. Solemn this time. Crisp white suit. A face that looked twenty despite forty years, blending youthful charm with mature grace. Nearby girls blushed, whispering, “Such a handsome gentleman!”
*“Handsome gentleman?”* Morris grumbled inwardly. *“I watched him strip post-shoot, bounce on the bed yelling ‘Damn, I’m hot!’ at the mirror. Lucky you didn’t see that—total disillusionment.”*
Still, he smirked. Funny seeing living Alex crammed among the departed. He’d keep the embarrassing stories quiet. *Almost wrecked his image today.*
He glanced back, expecting Sherlock to clutch his sleeve, starry-eyed: “Look! My OTP!”
Instead, she barely glanced at the portrait and looked away.
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock caught his puzzled stare. “Interested in Alex?”
“No… really not…” Morris shook his head. Just thinking of *that banana* from the book made him dizzy. “I thought *you’d* be into him.”
“Me?” Sherlock shook her head slightly. “Only when he’s cozy with the new Pope. Otherwise? Can’t stand him. The Stuart royal family always treated the Lunhai Holy Church… never mind.” She didn’t notice Morris had already sunk into quiet despair. “Forget it. I hate the Lunhai Holy Church. Memorizing those scriptures as a kid? Pure torture.”
Morris knew that pain. As a Pope candidate, Alex force-fed him bizarre doctrines. Locked in libraries, memorizing entire texts—routine. Only his two lifetimes of death and abuse forged resilience strong enough to endure. Others would’ve shattered long ago.
The photograph marked the corridor’s end—a path honoring humanity’s greatest legends. The man halted before a door, turned, face stern.
“What you walked was not just a corridor. It is human history itself. Every Royal Arcanum Academy student walks this path—because *you* will forge new miracles. We wait. We hope. One day, a student’s portrait will hang here… standing shoulder to shoulder with these giants.”
He flung the door open. Voice booming:
“Give it your all, children! May Lunhai be with you!”
