Three weeks had passed since the haunted building incident was resolved. In that ti, the mories of the students who accompanied Erwing had gone blank, as if the mystery of the building had never happened. So said it was the result of fear; others, perhaps, thought it was sothing much stranger, an intervention of forces beyond their understanding. But for all of them, the mory faded like a forgotten dream.
Erwing, however, couldn’t forget. Sothing inside him had changed since that night he faced the man-eating demon. His deanor, once so carefree and complacent, had been replaced by an almost palpable caution. He no longer walked the halls with the sa lightness, and his eyes, which had once reflected indestructible confidence, now weighed each decision with deep reflection. As if sothing inside him had awakened a unique sense of responsibility and acuity.
Sotis, I would catch him staring off into space, as if searching for answers in the deepest corners of his mind. During those monts, so of our classmates would watch him with so trepidation, wondering what he had seen that night that seed to have left such a profound mark on him. And although his routine continued, with classes, howork, and exams, Erwing could sotis be seen walking through the gymnasium hallways, silently sweating, as if every drop of physical exertion was a way to release sothing within him.
The atmosphere at NOVA was also changing. The approaching exams seed to have strained everyone. Students were running back and forth, crossing between the library and the labs, so with books in hand, others with a palpable sense of urgency. But amid the hustle and bustle, sothing strange hung in the air; a strange presence moved among the students, watching them unseen.
That day, as Erwing headed to class, he noticed sothing peculiar: in the hallway of the old science room, a shadow seed to be moving among the crowd. It was difficult to distinguish, but he saw it. It wasn’t an illusion. Sothing or soone was watching him. Perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
However, he decided to ignore it, deep inside. He had learned not to let fear or doubts get the better of him. Sohow, he knew that everything was interconnected, that what he had experienced wasn’t a simple incident, but a prelude to sothing bigger. What fate had in store for him? He didn’t know that yet, but he was sure of one thing: his life would never be the sa.
As he entered the classroom and ate more, he sat at his desk, barely paying attention to the murmurs of his classmates and the class representative. The air in the room was thick with fear, as if everyone, though oblivious to their situation, was connected to sothing invisible that bound them together. Perhaps, Erwing thought, the magic of that world he had once touched still sohow lingered between them.
***
The day of the exam had arrived, and the atmosphere in the classroom was a bit somber. So students were still flipping through books, while others, with more relaxed expressions, appeared in the classroom with a confidence that could be felt in the air.
"Are you ready?" one of my classmates asked , a look of doubt in his eyes.
I simply nodded slightly. I couldn’t even begin to feel nervous anymore. Passing these exams wasn’t a big deal. Since I got here, all it takes is a quick glance at a book to fully comprehend it, much less morize it.
While we were speaking briefly, the classroom door opened with a low, dry creak. Almost imdiately, the previously somber atmosphere felt as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over it. It seed as if everyone in the room was holding their breath. A blond man with a serious face and a distant expression entered the room. His bearing was elegant, almost arrogant, and his icy gaze quickly scanned each of us.
"Well, I hope you’ve studied enough," the man said, his deep voice echoing in the air. His tone, though calm, carried a palpable threat. "Rember, if you cheat, you won’t just get a failing grade. I will personally see to it that you are expelled."
His gaze fell on so of the more restless students. You could see how many of them felt chilled. The professor seed to enjoy this mont.
After a brief pause, his assistant, a young woman with an expressionless face, began handing out the exams. The tension in the air grew even more. When the exam arrived in my hands, I felt strangely relieved. I don’t know if it was because of the atmosphere, but I felt a strange weight, as if the paper were much thicker than it looked.
I looked at the first question, which unfolded before like a maze of words:
"In the 18th century, mana was believed to be a force of nature given by demons, which led the church to organize a witch hunt. Ironically, to wipe out the "demon," they used the very users of mana, claiming its power was granted to them by the gods. It wasn’t until 1986 that researcher Johan Cabeth formally proposed that mana consisted of tiny particles..."
The sentence continued, but I had already answered it. It was a history question that required a lot of thought, so I answered it and quickly moved on to the next question. "Reflect on the possible origins of mana and its impact on society at the ti," it said in smaller letters.
I sighed. I knew this exam wasn’t as simple as it seed. This test wasn’t just about morizing facts; There was an intention behind every question, a layer of complexity hidden beneath every word. Not only did it involve reflecting on the past and questioning mana, that mysterious force that had been the cause of so much suffering and, in turn, saved humanity, it was no easy task. I knew I had to connect the dots between history and magic, between what was known and what was not. I had to say anything that would alter the course of events.
A murmur ran through the classroom, the sound of pencils and pens beginning to move frantically. So classmates, visibly nervous, shifted in their seats, while others seed deeply focused. A nearby whisper broke from my concentration:
"Cyan, can I pass question number 3?" my classmate next to asked.
I looked at him for a mont before answering. His face reflected uncertainty, as if he were about to question if all the studying he’d done was worth it. But I didn’t have ti for a deep conversation.
"No. The teacher’s assistant is watching..." I replied quietly, without much conviction, and returned my attention to the exam.
My thoughts instantly scattered. The history of mana had always been confusing: so saw it as a power of the gods, others associated it with dark forces, and still others treated it as a simple necessity. However, excessive power only led to tragedy.
Witch hunts, for example, were a paradox in themselves. Those who supposedly fought "evil" ended up using what had once been a cursed power, a power that, if not properly understood, was considered a manifestation of the demonic. However, "mana was never an enemy, but a misinterpreted tool." Johan Cabeth, the 1786 researcher, seed to have found an answer that many refused to accept: mana was energy, a force of particles that existed in nature. Sothing that, if understood and channeled correctly, could change everything.
My pencil touched the paper, drawing words faster than I could think. Each paragraph I wrote seed to connect with another, as if, in that mont, the words ca to my mind and faded away, to be replaced by new words.
The creaking of the door interrupted again. The professor had returned, walking slowly through the halls, observing each of us with an implacable gaze. But I didn’t feel the least bit pressured. Sothing inside had fallen into place, like a puzzle piece, and it seed I had found an answer that satisfied .
Ti flew by as my hands slid frantically across the page, jotting down answers, adding ideas and thoughts that surfaced in my mind almost instinctively. The words flowed without being able to stop them, almost as if I were in a trance and sothing was guiding my pen. Only on rare occasions did I force myself to stop and check what I had written.
The pages in front of were filled with words, runic symbols. Not just the magic the books spoke of, but a personal magic, one that allowed to understand and channel the power of mana in a different way.
When I finally looked at the clock, I realized there was almost no ti left. The classroom, once filled with murmurs, had long since beco a place where only the soft sound of pencils on paper could be heard. So were still writing hastily, others with tired eyes and aching hands, we were in the sa fight against ti.
Suddenly, the teacher’s voice, firm and authoritative, cut through the air:
"Stop writing!" he ordered, his tone of voice seeming to put an end to any attempt to continue. "Put your pencils away and hand in your tests."
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