The torment felt endless. Morris had started to wonder if *he* was the one losing his mind—not others. Only the girl in his arms letting out soft whimpers now and then kept him from snapping, bolting out, and hurling Arcanum blasts wildly in every direction.

Amid the chaos, Klein began collecting exam papers, glancing at each as he went. Jaelman strolled beside him, scanning the answers. Morris, utterly drained from chanting “Long live Lunhai!” one too many times, slumped in his seat and stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Hm?” Jaelman’s eyebrows lifted as Klein handed him Sherlock’s paper. He skimmed the first page, flipped further, and his expression brightened. “Best so far. Even the young master of House Igquintine doesn’t compare.”

Klein nodded mutely, thinking: *Thank goodness you haven’t seen Morris’s paper yet. You’d be speechless.*

Just then, Constans—having wandered over—glanced at Morris. Seeing the boy seemingly unconscious, he shrugged, then peeked at the paper. A choked “Holy shit!” escaped his lips.

Jaelman frowned. “Mind your image.”

“Screw the image!” Constans waved him over urgently. “Come quick!”

Sighing, Jaelman ambled closer. His gaze lazily swept Morris’s paper—then froze.

“Holy shit…” Jaelman whispered, stunned.

“Told ya,” Constans grinned.

“Holy *shit*!” Jaelman snatched the paper, flipping through it three times. On the fourth pass, Constans yanked it back. Jaelman blinked, staring at the vacant-faced Morris. “A commoner? A *commoner*?!”

Pretending to be catatonic, Morris glanced sideways. Seeing Jaelman’s shock, he froze—then realized with horror: *I overdid it.*

Having been away from theology exams too long, he’d instinctively gone all out. To him, Lunhai theology demanded perfection. He never imagined others saw these questions as soul-crushing.

What if they traced his identity? He only wanted a safe place to hide from Lenna. Was even that too much to ask?

“Oh—almost forgot,” Constans said suddenly. “The Headmistress mentioned the royal family notified her: Princess Sherlock is among this year’s candidates.”

“What?!” Jaelman and Klein gasped in unison. “*The* princess?!”

“Yep,” Constans scratched his head.

“So that means…” Klein glanced at Sherlock curled in Morris’s lap, then shook his head. “No way the princess would be this close to a random boy. If it were Lord Bael, maybe. But who *is* this Morris?”

“Quality?” Constans smirked at Jaelman. “Terrifyingly high, right?”

“The grading professors will give him full marks,” Jaelman sighed, shoulders slumping. “Annoying… though he did chant ‘Long live Lunhai’ earlier?”

Morris instantly raised a limp hand, eyes glazed. “L-Lunhai… long live Lunhai!”

Constans shot him a pitying look. Jaelman rubbed his forehead. Only Klein stood frozen—as if struck by lightning. *My meticulously crafted exam… perfectly matched this kid’s specialty?*

“Fine. He passes,” Jaelman set the paper down, steadying his breath after the double shock. “Anyway, the Lunhai Holy Church is about to… never mind. He won’t have it easy later.”

Morris’s gaze flickered inward. *What does that mean?* He knew the Church had lost its dominance—but was collapse imminent?

Jaelman snapped his fingers toward the ceiling.

A visible layer of Arcanum shimmered at the room’s center, then dissolved outward. Unnoticed earlier, it had coated every wall. The impoverished boy who’d first succumbed to emotion blinked awake, confused to find his paper already collected.

One by one, students regained clarity.

The girl touched her tear-stained collar, bewildered.

Near the Igquintine heir—who’d been laughing heartily while four others clapped—the applause now felt hollow. His smile vanished. “Am I your court jester?”

Sherlock jolted awake, curled like a rabbit against Morris’s thigh. She sat up too fast, bonked her head on the desk, and winced, tears welling. “Wh-what happened…?”

Morris smiled gently, stroking her hair. “Nothing.”

*No need to compensate me for the soiled clothes,* he thought.

Sherlock scanned the room. Everyone seemed to wake from a shared dream. Though memories were hazy, a lingering sorrow clung to their hearts—inescapable.

Her nose stung. Head throbbing, she buried her face in Morris’s chest and sobbed like a child.

Morris knew this was the aftereffect of *The Emperor’s New Clothes*—a spell that, like a dream, erased actions but left buried grief raw and exposed. He wrapped an arm around her, patting her back softly.

Sherlock cried even harder at his touch.

The Igquintine heir gritted his teeth.

A pall of sorrow hung over the classroom. Everyone ached to collapse into someone’s arms and weep—but only restraint remained.

Before meeting Morris, Sherlock would’ve buried her pain too.

But not anymore.

She clutched him tighter.

*Morris is the salvation the gods sent me.*

“Alright, kids!” Constans clapped, drawing all eyes. “I’m Constans. This is Jaelman.”

A student gasped. “The two Saint Radiant-level Arcane Source Wizards serving as Royal Academy’s vice-deans?!”

Wizard ranks spanned seven tiers: Apprentice, Artisan, Law Aspect, Arcane Blood, Saint Radiant, Sage, Pope. Saints were simpler: if the Twelve Apostles played mahjong, whoever bowed lowest and lost most money was clearly the weakest.

Saint Radiant was already formidable—a city-level threat. Sages? Army-level. Popes? Nuclear options. Bound by treaties alongside the Twelve Apostles to stay neutral in mortal conflicts. Nations avoided dropping spells near their territories. Back when the Luna Duchy was on its last legs, it barely survived by clinging to Judas’s coattails.

Only five Popes existed worldwide. Fewer than ten Sages.

Hearing these two unassuming men were Saint Radiant-level masters electrified the room.

“The Arcanum examination continues under our supervision,” Constans announced, pulling a palm-sized crystal from the lectern. Knowledgeable students recognized it instantly: an Arcanum-testing crystal worth tens of thousands of gold coins.

Morris blinked. *This quality? Pathetic.* His pocket held tens of thousands of scale-sized crystals—each auction-worthy at 100,000 gold. High-grade ones didn’t just measure Arcanum; they deepened a wizard’s connection to it.

“Hey, you!” Constans, enjoying the awestruck stares, noticed Morris’s utterly unimpressed face. “You! Front and center—first tester!”

Sherlock lifted her head. Morris gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bold kid,” Constans chuckled as Morris approached. “Let’s see if you’ve earned it.”

A staff member hesitated—*Should I mention he’s already Lawform Tier?*

Morris reached for the crystal, relaxed. He’d tested countless times at the Church. Habit kicked in—*Wait. Full power?!*

Too late.

**BOOM!!!**

The crystal exploded without warning. A flash of white. Powder scattered across the lectern.

Jaelman stood frozen.

The staff member’s jaw dropped.

Professor Klein silently pressed a hand to his cheek, stung by fragments.

Silence swallowed the room. Even breaths stilled.

“I…” Morris turned stiffly. “Sir, that wasn’t me…”

“You—you—” Constans’s lips trembled, voice cracking into a wail. “WHAT HAVE YOU *DONE*?!”