The next morning began with three annoying peals of the bell.

  The schedule was fixed for all trainees. Every morning, they would be woken up by the bell at five o'clock, followed by an hour-long morning "exercise." After breakfast, theoretical classes ran from seven until noon. The afternoons were reserved for practical training.

  This routine would only change during examination periods. And once every two months, the trainees were permitted to return home for a short visit.

  The first morning exercise was a fifteen-lap run around the classroom and dormitory area. Most students were unaccustomed to waking up so early, shuffled forward like wandering corpses.

  In contrast, their exercise supervisor looked incredibly energetic. For reasons unknown, he carried a wooden sword while running at the rear of the formation, ensuring no one dared to drop out. As he ran, he bellowed:

  “Come on, youngsters! Put your backs into it!”

  The first five laps were manageable. They even helped chase away the last remnants of sleep.

  By the next five, those with stronger stamina began pulling ahead, while the younger or less disciplined ones revealed glaring gaps in their conditioning.

  By the final five laps, the formation had split cleanly in two.

  One group was still running. The other had exhausted all dignity and was dragging themselves toward the finish line.

  Ferir collapsed onto the ground, panting, as soon as he arrived.

  The exercise supervisor strode about with his wooden sword in hand, voice booming across the yard:

  “Up, up! Don’t sit down right after a run like that! Walk it off! Keep moving!”

  Ferir braced his hands against his knees and forced himself upright on trembling legs. Every muscle protested. Through ragged breaths, he muttered a fragile promise to himself:

  “After a few days… I’ll definitely get used to it…”

  At that exact moment, the supervisor cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted:

  “That’s it for today! Starting tomorrow, we add one more lap each day until you’re running thirty laps every morning!”

  Ferir’s legs nearly folded again on the spot.

  They had a full hour for breakfast, and by the end of it, feeling finally seeped back into Ferir’s legs. That was enough to drag himself to the classroom.

  The instructor for the morning session was a terrifyingly large professor named Cliff. The subject, however, was Union History, which felt wildly mismatched with his imposing physique.

  Cliff’s deep voice rolled through the room.

  “So. What do you know about the previous Sovereigns?”

  He pointed directly at Ferir.

  Ferir had read countless books about them. If there was one question he could survive on the first day, surely it was this one.

  “The Union was founded exactly 283 years ago, with a total of twenty-seven previous Rulers. The current ruler is the Twenty-Eighth Ruler. The First Ruler reigned for nineteen years before passing the throne to his successor. The ten-year term system was proposed by the Third Ruler, and the first Selection system was also his idea. However, the one who had the most profound influence on today’s Selection was the Sixth Ruler. He was also the pioneer of the complete reform of the Grand Palace, especially…”

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  Cliff suddenly cut him off.

  “And his name is…?”

  Ferir froze.

  His mind, so smooth a second ago, turned into a blank page.

  “It’s…”

  He paused for two seconds before realizing the question was directed at someone else. The girl with short, shoulder-length black hair stood up and answered quickly, then rattled off the names of the nine most recent monarchs.

  Ferir swallowed and sat back down.

  He had not been able to recall the name of the Sixth Ruler.

  In truth, he could not fully remember the full names of most of them.

  Ferir had always struggled with names, especially those belonging to people he had rarely or never met.

  Knowledge usually formed chains in his mind, each idea linking neatly to the next. That was how he remembered things. But names were different. They were random, sometimes meaningless, sometimes unnecessarily long.

  “Good.” Professor Cliff’s praise. “Remembering the names and faces of others is an essential skill in diplomacy. No one appreciates having their name mispronounced, even if the one speaking is the Sovereign.”

  As he spoke, Cliff’s gaze shifted toward Ferir. The hesitation from earlier had not gone unnoticed.

  The afternoon was physical education class. The teacher was a woman with a sharp face and healthy tan skin, her black hair cut short like a man's.

  She introduced herself as Shea, a member of the Grand Palace's Martial Arts Council.

  Every movement she made was clean and decisive, carrying a rare and unbending forthrightness.

  “If you have finished evaluating me,” she said evenly, “you may present your weapons for inspection.”

  Ferir immediately drew the Divine Flame from its sheath. The red gem set within the blade shimmered beneath the sunlight. As he held it steady, he quietly surveyed the others.

  Kevin was not carrying the sword he had used during the Practical Combat round. This one was different, but also long, slender, and rigid.

  Most of the other candidates also wielded swords, though their shapes varied widely, from broad and imposing to narrow and precise.

  Among all the weapons present, Ami’s stood out the most.

  She did not use a sword but carried a spear.

  It was a beautiful spear, its length perfectly matched to her height. The shaft was polished to a rich brown sheen, and where it met the blade, an elegantly patterned metal collar wrapped around the joint, both decorative and protective.

  Shea stopped in front of Ami.

  “Why a spear, young lady?”

  Ami smiled, calm and unhurried.

  “Women usually lack the advantage when using swords or other close range weapons that rely heavily on muscle strength. A spear allows me to maintain a safe distance from opponents who possess greater physical power. Its killing force may not be the highest, but it can be used with great flexibility.”

  Shea nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer. With a small dip of her chin, she stepped to the next student.

  He was a very young boy with lightly curled brown hair. His sword was plain, even somewhat worn. It did not resemble an expensive blade at all.

  The instructor ran a finger lightly along the body of the sword.

  “A good weapon. Simple, but reliable. You’ve taken proper care of it.”

  The boy smiled, unmistakably pleased by the praise.

  Shea moved swiftly down the line, offering brief comments on each sword. She nodded in approval at the blades of the older students, their steel steady and well balanced. But when she encountered a few weapons with overly extravagant shapes, her brows drew together in faint displeasure.

  Then she stopped in front of Ferir.

  “You… only recently began learning swordsmanship?” Shea asked, her expression stern.

  Ferir hesitated.

  “I learned the basics before, but I’ve only been training seriously for about two months…”

  At once, several heads turned toward him, no bothered to hide their surprise. Many candidates who had studied the sword for years had been eliminated in the second round. Yet this boy, who had trained in earnest for merely two months, had managed to pass.

  If that was true, then he could only be a genius.

  But the instructor clearly did not share that opinion.

  “You don’t even know how to maintain your sword properly. You likely don’t know how to wield it correctly either. The blade is far too good for you.”

  Shea’s gaze sharpened, cutting far deeper than steel.

  “I believe Lady Luck had to exert herself quite a bit to carry you this far. You’ll need to work much harder to reach the level of those around you.”

  Ferrir awkwardly put away his sword, couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy.