The Blackspike Tower Academy stood in a remote corner of the Wizard Continent. To its east stretched the vast, enigmatic heartland of that realm, severed by the menacing Bramblethorn Forest; to its west lay the Gem Sea, part of the boundless ocean, walled away by the Blackspike Tower Mountains.
Thus, Blackspike Tower was a wizarding academy with a relatively open expanse.
Of course, for ordinary wizard apprentices, the Bramblethorn Forest and the Blackspike Tower Mountains were formidable barriers. But to a formal wizard—one who commanded the power of flight—such obstacles were of little consequence.
After half a month, Green had at last traversed every corner of the Blackspike Tower Academy, gaining a true grasp of its layout and design.
In essence, the Blackspike Tower Tower formed the heart of the entire academy. Yet to most apprentices, only the lower seven floors were open; the near hundred levels above remained shrouded in secrecy, accessible solely to those of great magical power.
Beyond the Blackspike Tower Tower, three main gathering places drew the apprentices: the Grand Lecture Halls, the Library, and the Bounty Loft.
Today marked the decennial Apprentice Recruitment Day—an occasion shared by every academy across the Wizard Continent.
Typically, each academy possessed its own sphere of influence, claiming territories proportionate to its might, and selecting promising novices from within those bounds.
Yet clearly, Blackspike Tower was no place for convention or fair dealings.
A throng of new initiates, led by senior apprentices, flooded into the academy. These newcomers, wide-eyed with curiosity and tinged with pride, wandered through the grounds, pointing in hushed tones at the strange buildings. Some even boasted lofty dreams aloud—proclaiming their future as grand wizard-kings.
The members of the Bloodsail Alliance moved quietly within this tide of recruits. Unlike the bright-eyed novices drawn from the continent's heartlands, they were calm—too familiar with the ways of the world. Having survived cruel trials, they saw in these youths a reflection of their own former arrogance and ignorance.
Upon the smooth marble plaza, nearly two thousand newcomers stood in neat rows. Upon the towering dais lounged over a dozen wizards, each cloaked in voluminous robes that hid their forms and secrets.
Wizards had no need for the polite courtesies of nobles. Especially between ranks, the high spoke to the low as commanders to subordinates—an accepted truth in a world governed by ruthless competition.
Here, time was kept by hourglass and by the natural day, though in some places mechanical clocks were in use. A natural day equaled twelve sandglasses; in terms of the hours kept on Eastern Coral Island, each sandglass was roughly two hours.
After three-quarters of a sandglass, the wizards spoke in varying voices, explaining the academy's rules and the trials apprentices would face.
Recalling their grim "tasks" aboard the sea vessel, the Bloodsail members shed any last illusions about Blackspike Tower.
Green took stock: new initiates enjoyed a so-called three-year "grace period." In truth, this meant only a meager stipend of two magic stones per month and freedom from mandatory assignments.
At the end of this period came the Trial of the Newcomers—designed, no doubt, to cull the academy's deemed "unworthy refuse" with ease.
As for the magic stones themselves—Green had yet to grasp their full potential, but it was evident that nearly every means of advancement was tied to them. A week's loan of a wizard's tome cost one stone; a single lecture, half a stone; materials for experiments—never enough stones to spare. With abundance, one might even buy the ear and counsel of a formal wizard.
To wizards, magic stones were more than currency—they were vital, indispensable fuel.
When the address concluded, the wizards offered a final announcement:
"Attend! The academy grants every apprentice a crystal sphere and seven introductory lectures on the fundamentals of wizardry—gifts from the illustrious Seven-Ring Holy Tower."
Crystal sphere? Foundational lectures? Seven-Ring Holy Tower?
While Green was delighted by the first two, it was the unfamiliar name of the Seven-Ring Holy Tower that caught his deeper attention.
…
Three days later, Green, Yorklis and his sister, and Binhansen had claimed seats at the front of Lecture Hall Nine. The instructor had not yet arrived, and Binhansen—ever the chatterer—pounced upon the chance to torment Green with talk.
"I'll tell you a secret. Those owls around the academy? Not owls at all. I heard from a senior—they're the eyes and ears of the Enforcer Corps, guardians of this place!"
He licked his lips, pleased with himself. "Also, there are two places newcomers must never go. One is plagued with bizarre occurrences; the other is nothing less than a gladiatorial arena for apprentices!"
"Bizarre occurrences?" Green mused. Likely mere tales born from the ignorance and fear of lesser apprentices toward higher wizardry.
As for the arena—Green had heard of it. Though the academy's rules forbade killing, enforcement was… selective.
Two unwritten laws prevailed: first, if you could kill without the Enforcers detecting it, your victim's death would be ignored; the academy harbored little sympathy for the weak. Second, there was the "Desolate Court," where the Enforcers merely collected the corpses. Hence, it was known as the Apprentice Gladiator Pit.
Seeing Green's skepticism, Binhansen pressed on: "It's real! Even high-ranking wizards encounter these oddities. They can't stop them!"
"Where?" Green asked at last.
The grin was almost audible in Binhansen's voice. "The abandoned water tower in the south wing. But only at night—and only when you're alone…"
Green gave no answer, neither dismissing nor accepting the bait. Deep down, he did not believe, yet he dared not investigate rashly.
By now, the hall was crammed with new apprentices. On Green's side, quiet talk passed between him and Binhansen, while Raffi and the Yorklis siblings whispered on the other.
Then, an unwelcome voice cut in.
A girl entered—not in the loose robes most apprentices wore, but adorned in elegance. Her short violet-brown hair was crowned with a circlet of red and blue gems; her dress bore intricate patterns in black and purple, hinting at nobility and mystery, accentuating her graceful form and porcelain skin.
Her bearing eclipsed even Raffi's former poise. But in the academies of the Wizard Continent, birth mattered little—only knowledge and power set wizards apart.
Yet the girl's tone was tinged with annoyance toward the fawning boy behind her. "Nine lecture halls, and not a seat in any! Didn't you say seats were always left empty? We dawdled all the way here!"
The boy flushed with embarrassment. By his information, filling eight halls was remarkable. Yet this intake had crowded nine, with many left outside entirely. He swallowed his failure, unwilling to admit it before her.
Instead, his gaze fell upon Yorkliana. Weakness was plain to see in her—whether aboard ship or here, her gentle demeanor inspired no fear.
"You two—move," he ordered, assuming Yorklis must be her suitor.
He cast a look back. At once, over a dozen youths rose from the rear, clearly his fellows, advancing with hostility.
Bang!
Raffi slammed the table, eyes blazing. "Were you speaking to us?" she asked, her voice edged with steel.
Green and Binhansen rose beside her, Yorklis bristling. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he roared.
The entire hall turned to watch. Nearby, a bespectacled boy slid discreetly away from Yorklis, mentally labeling them fools blind to the situation. A girl at his side covered her mouth, a trace of pity in her eyes.
The hostile boy froze for a moment, then seethed. These "commoners" had dared defy him—and humiliate him before her!
"You'll kneel and slap yourselves, and perhaps I'll let you live. Otherwise, I swear—you won't last half a year here."
Raffi laughed, cold and bright. "Half a year? I'm curious to see how you'll manage that." She sat down again, meeting his fury without flinching.
"Fine. Since you seek death—"
Smack!
A sharp crack split the air. The boy turned, stunned, to see one of his own companions lowering a trembling hand. "Not me—some kind of spell—"
At that moment, seventy or eighty figures rose silently from the crowd, faces shadowed with killing intent, encircling the boy and his allies.
Two figures strode forward—Amrond, wielder of the Lightblade, and the one-armed Puppetmaster. The latter frowned. "A tenth of a sandglass till class begins."
Amrond smiled faintly, toying with a jeweled ring. "Plenty of time."
His voice rang cold across the hall:
"Bloodsail Alliance—clear the hall!"