The teacher who led the way left after opening the door. Two young campus workers stepped in to verify examinee identities. After checking the students ahead, one man stared at Sherlock’s ID, his gaze lingering with suspicion—was Sherlock Pander’s real name actually Sherlock Stuart? Meanwhile, the other man’s eyes locked firmly onto Morris. Technically, Morris shouldn’t have qualified—no recommendation letters, no noble credentials. But the moment his Law Aspect Sorcerer certificate appeared, the man felt the entire world fall silent.

Such a young sorcerer—truly a genius among geniuses! The Royal Arcanum Academy could not afford to lose him. And that seal? Personally stamped by Pope Morris. Proof of his extraordinary worth.

(If only he knew Morris’s pockets were stuffed with who-knows-how-many similar certificates…)

While waiting for papers, Morris and Sherlock sat together. The workers hovered constantly—one offering cookies (“Snack?”), another fanning them (“Too warm?”). “The Arcanum cooling matrix isn’t on today,” he added with a wink, “Shall we… make an exception just for you two?”

Sherlock ducked her head, cheeks flushed. Every eye in the room burned on them—she felt roasted alive. Morris, unfazed, popped a cookie in his mouth. “Terrible baking,” he quipped. The man blushed. “My wife made them.”

“No flaunting your relationship right now—it’s torture for us singles!” Morris slammed the desk, shouting with mock seriousness. Sherlock blinked. *Yep. Definitely one of a kind.*

Nearly all present were scions of noble houses. They watched the workers’ fawning attentions with shock—envy twisting fast into resentment. How could they, in the arena they prided themselves on most, be outshone by this plainly dressed commoner pair?!

Even the commoners stared, baffled. Staff of the Royal Arcanum Academy—supposedly impartial—were openly favoring these two. *Who are they?* To make haughty nobles feel… inadequate?

The sharpest gaze came from a young master. In the hall, he’d been the undisputed star, others clustering around him. His surname? Igquintine. House Igquintine—the most exalted in Helsing City, rivaled only by Angus and Valentintine.

These two seemed utterly lowborn… yet impossible to ignore.

Especially the girl. Plain clothes, no makeup—yet unfairly radiant. Golden hair, sapphire eyes, porcelain skin. A figure modestly wrapped but impossible to hide. Most captivating? The faint skin-tone glow through sheer white ankle socks. Earlier, standing, it was manageable. Now seated at the top row of the tiered classroom, skirt slightly parted—her delicate ankle caught the breeze. Hearts fluttered. Even memorized spells felt trivial.

*I will win her from that boy,* the Igquintine heir vowed silently. *Leaving such a treasure to him? A waste.*

“Hey! What are you two doing?!” A middle-aged man burst in, arms full of papers. He barked at the hovering workers—then froze, recognizing the pair. “...Why is it *you* two again?”

“Ah!” Morris grinned. “Hello, unc—”

“DON’T ‘HELLO’ ME! And I’m not your uncle!” Professor Klein sputtered, pinching his nose before slumping into his chair. “I am Professor Klein. Chief examiner.”

*(So much for the stern first impression… ruined by this student.)*

“Enough. You two—help distribute papers. Punishment discussion… later.” He shuffled the thick stack. “Two hours. Ends at 6 PM. No whispering. No eating. No early submissions. Last time? A student flirting mid-exam? Thrown out. Instantly.”

Murmurs rippled. A hand rose. “And… what happened to that senior?”

“Him? Ranked second academy-wide, right after—*ahem*—NEVER MIND! Focus! Pass the exam, you’ll meet him!” Klein grumbled. Laughter eased the tension. Sherlock relaxed slightly. Morris stroked his chin. *Hmm… that senior and I might get along.*

“Sit apart,” Klein signaled.

Morris cheerfully shifted seats. Sherlock watched him go—a tiny pang in her chest—then sat alone, sulking.

*Must be the Blood Pact… Why else would I care so much?*

The paper landed before her. She jolted. The worker smiled warmly, whispering, “Good luck,” as he left. Sherlock shivered uncontrollably.

“‘Good luck’?” Klein hid a smirk behind the lectern. *As if that helps.*

*For commoners? A nightmare. For nobles? Merely a failed grade—then I’ll lower the bar. They’ll celebrate.* His lip curled. *But these commoners… descendants of the low-born. Never worthy of the Royal Academy.*

His eyes fixed on the pair at the top row. *Absolutely. I will expel you both.*

Silence fell. Examinees turned to their papers. Then—

“Eh?”

“Huh?”

“What is this?!”

“Holy shit—WHAT IS THIS?!”

Wails erupted. Curses muttered. Even the Igquintine heir sat stunned.

The exam held zero Arcane Source Magic.

Every single question—Lunhai doctrine!!!

Who’d expect 80% of the Royal Arcanum Academy entrance exam to be Lunhai doctrine?!

Amid the despairing cries, only one boy smiled. Quietly at first. Then louder. Uncontainable.

The one and only. The supreme Lunhai Pope of this era.