Chương 33: Chapter 18: The Graduation Exam (5)

"An empty stomach makes a fool of any brave man." – Vurhomu Yaboli, the Fifth Vazaag of Korsivir As Aloric turned toward the back of the tent, the sting in his arm pulsed again. He glanced down at the thin line of blood and clenched his jaw. This was nothing like sparring with classmates. Nothing like fighting Ralovit inside a chalk ring while everyone laughed and cheered. Here, even with the examiner holding back, every mistake felt like a glimpse of what would happen outside the city walls.

A real enemy would not tap his ribs and let him continue. A real enemy would not stop after a shallow cut.

A real enemy would have killed him three or four times already. And this was only the first practical test. Aloric pushed through the rear flap and stepped out of the tent, breathing a little harder than before. The noise of the field returned at once. Students murmuring. Teachers calling names. Boots scraping over dirt. Somewhere farther away, someone yelped in pain, followed by a sharp command from an examiner.

The whole exam field felt even larger now that he was moving through it alone instead of sitting with his classmates. His forearm still stung. Aloric glanced down at the shallow cut. A thin line of blood had already started drying along his skin. It was not serious. The examiner had said as much. But it was enough to make every movement feel sharper, more real. If that had been a real fight, he would have been dead. Several times over.

He clenched his jaw and walked toward the examiner standing just outside the rear flap. The man had a dull blue rank-marker glowing on his inner left wrist. Nourim. He checked Aloric's name on a scroll, then pointed toward the next examination area.

"Next is the throwing accuracy test. Follow the marked path."

"Yes, sir." Aloric followed the indicated path and soon reached an open target area marked off with ropes and wooden posts. Several target boards stood at different distances, some shaped like simple circles, others cut roughly into human silhouettes. A few had marks painted at the vital points. Some distance away, at the far side of the field, a tall black wall stood near the trees. It looked like polished stone, maybe granite, rising too straight and too dark to be natural.

Aloric noticed it for a moment before his attention shifted back to the testing area waiting ahead. Whatever the wall was, it had nothing to do with the exam, and he had more immediate things to worry about. The testing area was open, but it still felt controlled. Students from other classes were being tested in nearby lanes, each under the watch of examiners with dull blue or yellow rank-markers glowing on their wrists. One student was even using a bow, drawing it with stiff concentration.

Another was throwing caltrops at a cluster of low targets meant to represent legs or feet. Most, however, were using skels. That made sense. A skel was easier to carry than a sword, deadlier than a stone, and heavy enough to do real damage when thrown properly. Every student who hoped to become a manaweaver needed at least some skill with it. An examiner standing beside Aloric's lane looked up from his scroll.

"Name?"

"Aloric Sigast." The man checked the list.

"Take ten skels from the rack. You will throw from behind that line. Five at the close target, five at the farther one. Head, throat, chest, and joints are marked as vital points. Misses and weak hits are marked down. Begin when ready." Aloric nodded and walked to the rack. The skels here were real too. Maybe not as sharp as the mission-grade blades from the combat tent, or maybe they had simply been dulled by too many students throwing them before him.

Either way, their tips were still pointed, their blades still thick, and their weight sat comfortably in his hand. He picked up ten and slid most of them into the skel pouch provided beside the rack, keeping one in his right hand. The cut on his forearm stung as he moved. He ignored it. The first target stood close enough that he likely wouldn't miss it. A human-shaped board, flat-faced and scarred by countless previous hits. Aloric took a breath, fixed his eyes on the painted chest mark, and threw.

The skel struck near the shoulder. Not perfect. But not terrible. He threw again. This time it hit the chest mark. The third struck lower than he wanted. The fourth hit the target's side, close enough to count but not close enough to make him proud. The fifth struck the painted head with a hard thunk. For a heartbeat, Aloric stared at the skel buried in the painted head's center mark, and a small spark of satisfaction warmed his chest. The examiner made a note without reacting. Of course he did.

Aloric shifted a little to the side, positioning himself in front of the farther target. This one was harder. The distance was longer, and a light wind moved across the field just enough to make him second-guess his aim. He adjusted his grip, narrowed his eyes, and threw. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Hit. Not a vital point, but still a hit. The next skel struck the painted chest, though not cleanly. The third went wide and buried itself in the dirt beside the target.

Aloric winced. Damn it! He forced himself not to rush the last two. His arm hurt. His nerves were worse. But he had hit targets like this before. He could do it again. The fourth skel struck the target's upper arm. The fifth hit the chest. Aloric let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. Nine out of ten had landed. One had struck the head mark. That was good, wasn't it? Not excellent though. Ralovit would probably hit every vital point without blinking.

Velron might throw hard enough to crack the target board if someone annoyed him enough. But for Aloric, nine hits was not bad. The examiner walked forward, checked the target boards, and marked something on his scroll.

"Throwing accuracy test complete. Proceed to the large tent ahead." Aloric returned the skel pouch, flexed his fingers once, and followed the path. The large tent was impossible to miss. It rose ahead of him like a dark green hill, far larger than the combat tent he had just left. The cloth looked thick and heavy, stretched tight over tall supports. Several ropes held it anchored to the ground, and the entrance flap was wide enough for three students to walk through side by side.

Even from outside, Aloric could tell the space within it had to be enormous. What kind of test needed a tent that big? He walked toward it, feeling like he was walking to his doom. A few students were already waiting near the tent entrance. Not many. Just enough to make it clear that this tent handled small groups rather than one student at a time. A weapon rack stood near the entrance, holding skels, caltrop pouches, short blades, and a few other simple weapons approved for the test.

As Aloric approached, he saw two students from another class being called forward together. Together? He slowed. Were they supposed to fight as a pair? The examiner gestured them forward, and the two students disappeared through the entrance flap. The thick cloth fell shut behind them, cutting off even the smallest glimpse of what waited inside. No movement could be seen through it. No shadows. No clues. Whatever happened inside, the students waiting outside would not be able to tell.

Aloric spotted some familiar faces near the entrance and headed toward them. Arla Farritz was there, sitting with her arms crossed and trying to look more confident than she probably felt. Sikkar stood near Sulia with an annoyed look on his face, his dog sitting close to his leg with its ears lifted toward the tent entrance. Hovaru sat a short distance away, munching on something as if this were a normal break between classes. Ralovit stood a little away from them, muttering curses at the tent under his breath.

Velron leaned against a wooden post, arms folded, glaring at nothing in particular. None of them were talking. That was unusual enough to make Aloric feel even more uneasy. Arla glanced at him as he arrived, then looked back toward the tent without saying anything. Ralovit muttered something under his breath, while Velron did not react at all. The silence around them felt heavier than any conversation would have.

An examiner of Tarim rank stood near the entrance of the large tent, his yellow rank-marker glowing dully on his inner left wrist. He held a scroll in one hand and called names from it every time a Nourim stepped out from the tent and gave him a nod. Two other examiners of Nourim rank stood nearby with their blue rank-markers active, keeping the waiting students in place and making sure no one wandered too close to the tent entrance before being called. There was a lot of waiting.

That might have been the worst part. The thick flap closed behind each pair as if the tent had swallowed them whole. No voices carried out clearly from inside, only the occasional dull thump that gave away nothing useful. A few students shifted from foot to foot. Someone from another class kept whispering a prayer under his breath until a Nourim told him to quiet down. The Tarim examiner looked at his scroll after a Nourim emerged from the tent and gave him a nod.

"Dorrak Hagnaar and Hovaru Yaboli." Aloric glanced toward the red-haired boy who stood a little away from them. Dorrak Hagnaar was from Classroom Two, if Aloric remembered correctly, and one of the better students there. Sometimes Aloric had wondered, idly and a little uncomfortably, why a Hagnaar kid like him had ended up in Classroom Two while Aloric himself had been placed in Classroom One.

They had never really spoken, though, so Aloric knew little about him beyond the obvious: flaming red hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of confidence that seemed to be baked into Hagnaar bones. Or maybe the hair. Dorrak froze.

"What?" Hovaru blinked.

"Us?"

"Yes, you two," the examiner said.

"Step forward." Dorrak's expression twisted as if the academy had personally insulted him.

"Why do I have to do this with him?" Hovaru swallowed whatever he had been eating.

"I should ask the same thing, I guess." The Tarim examiner's eyes sharpened.

"Enough. This test is not about whether you can fight alone. It's to prove you can still think clearly when someone else's life and score are tied to yours." Dorrak glared at the Yaboli boy.

"Don't slow me down, fatty." Hovaru looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Then do your part, carrot-head." A couple of waiting students snorted before quickly looking away. Dorrak opened his mouth, probably to argue again. The examiner pointed toward the entrance.

"Inside. Now." For once, Dorrak seemed to decide that arguing further wasn't worth it. He clicked his tongue, then stormed toward the tent. Hovaru followed, looking far less bothered. The flap closed behind them. Aloric stared at the entrance. So it was a coordination test. Of course it was. Because surviving the written exam, getting beaten up by a Tarim-ranked examiner, throwing skels at painted targets, and bleeding from one arm apparently hadn't been enough for one day. More time passed.

Aloric tried not to think about what might be happening inside. It did not work very well. His mind kept imagining Dorrak shouting orders, Hovaru ignoring him, and both of them somehow stumbling through whatever the examiners had prepared. Finally, the Tarim examiner looked down at his scroll again.

"Arla Farritz and Aloric Sigast." Aloric straightened. Arla stood at once, rolling her shoulders as if she had been waiting for this.

"Good. Finally." The examiner beckoned them forward. Aloric walked beside Arla toward the entrance. His cut stung again as he flexed his hand, and he forced himself not to look down at it. Arla noticed anyway.

"Can you still move that arm?"

"Yeah..."

"Good. Don't make me do everything." Aloric almost laughed despite himself.

"I'll try not to." They stopped in front of the Tarim examiner. He studied both of them briefly, then spoke in a crisp voice.

"This is a two-person coordination test. You will have fifteen minutes to complete it. Once you enter, retrieve as many scrolls as you can—there are twenty-five in total—and exit through the far side before time runs out. The scrolls are small—about four inches long—and made from brown-colored paper. You are not allowed to open them. Returning late will cost marks." Aloric glanced at Arla. She was already watching the tent entrance. The examiner pointed at the weapon rack nearby.

"You may use the equipment provided here. Ten skels each. Two dozen caltrops each. If you brought an approved personal weapon, you may carry it inside. The opponents you encounter inside are examiners. They will not use full strength, but they will not go easy on you either. Treat them as enemies. Treat the objective as real." One of the Nourim handed each of them a heavy pouch of skels and another two smaller pouches filled with caltrops.

Aloric tied one to his waist and the others to his thighs, checking the straps twice. Arla did the same, only faster. The Tarim examiner looked between them one last time.

"Your time begins when you step through the entrance. Move." Arla pushed through the tent flap first. Aloric took one last breath of open air, tightened his grip on the pouch at his waist, and followed her into the unknown.