The morning passed in a haze for Dorian Viremont, sleep had abandoned him the moment his father uttered the words
You've been entered into the Selection.
Those words echoed in his skull louder than any hangover he'd ever endured, annoying, persistent, and refusing to be ignored.
He sat slouched in his chair, staring at the ornate crest carved into the wardrobe across the room. The emblem of House Viremont; a soaring eagle wrapped in swirling magic runes glimmered faintly in the light.
A symbol of power, prestige and legacy.
A legacy he had no part in.
Dorian clicked his tongue. "The Selection, huh? What a damned hassle."
The Selection was not just a simple assessment. It was the national event of Artoria; a kingdom that prided itself on strength, intellect, and ability.
Every child between ten and twenty was tested before the kingdom's eyes. Magical ability, physical strength, scholastic knowledge, general aptitude. Even temperament under stress.
In other words, it was a place for the kingdom to parade its future talents and for the Viremont bastard to be publicly humiliated.
Perfect, he thought sarcastically. Just perfect.
Normally, the process began with the First Stage; mana attunement testing. Children lined up to place their palms against a crystal monolith. Depending on how brightly the crystal lit up, their affinity ranking was determined.
Dorian remembered his own test at age sixteen. The memory was so clear he could smell the cold stone of the testing chamber.
The crystal had remained as dark as his prospects.
But noble houses had a privilege: each legitimate child received a special invite that allowed them to bypass the First Stage entirely. A symbol of status. A political courtesy.
All nobles have exceptional affinity for mana, so it was basically pointless for them to partake in the test, the invitation extended to all children of the house, legitimate or not, mainly to avoid scandals.
Nicholai had never bothered to give Dorian his and he never asked, but now…
Dorian rubbed his forehead.
"So I get to skip the part I suck at, great."
"But what about the rest?"
Stage Two measured combat potential.
Stage Three tested magical control, even those with low affinity were expected to demonstrate basic fundamental casting.
Stage Four evaluated mental aptitude and knowledge.
Stage Five assessed overall adaptability through randomized trials.
Even prodigies with mana struggled.
"I can't bypass those," Dorian muttered. "Not unless I suddenly sprout magic from thin air."
His thoughts spiraled into frustration.
He wasn't afraid of embarrassment. He could handle people laughing at him, hell, he'd given them such a show the past few years that it'd be more shocking if he behaved properly.
But the selection was different.
It was public, even representatives from other kingdoms were present to watch.
It was recorded and was used for future guild placements, military recruitment, academy recommendations. It followed participants for years.
And the last thing Dorian Viremont wanted was more people questioning why he existed.
Why now? Why force me into this useless tradition?
Nicholai's motivations remained foggy and that bothered him more than anything else.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"…Master Dorian?"
The door creaked open and Milton stepped inside, The butler of House Viremont; an elderly man with a spine straighter than any soldier and a tolerance for Dorian's antics that bordered on angelic patience.
Milton bowed politely. "Lord Nicholai requests your presence in the dining hall. Immediately. It is of importance, so declining is… unadvised."
Dorian groaned long and deep.
"Can't he send a letter? A memo? A messenger pigeon?"
Milton gave him a look that said Do not test my lifespan today.
Dorian sighed and stood. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
The dining hall of Viremont Estate was as stiff and suffocating as every other part of the mansion. A long obsidian table ran across the center, lined with high-backed chairs carved in the shape of eagles. The air smelled faintly of lavender oil, Esmeralda's insistence.
Nicholai sat at the head of the table, clad in a dark military coat adorned with silver insignias. His expression was stern as always. Esmeralda sat beside him, posture perfectly upright. Mirabelle and Bartholomew were already seated. Seraphina stood near their father, clad in traveling attire.
Dorian strolled in, hands in his pockets, looking like he'd taken a wrong turn and wandered into a funeral.
"I'm here," he said, voice flat. "What's the emergency? Did Mirabelle break a nail again?"
Mirabelle glared at him. "You—"
"Enough," Nicholai cut in. His tone was firm, allowing no argument. "This is a formal announcement."
Seraphina stepped forward, calm and disciplined. "Father is departing for the eastern border," she said. "Today."
Dorian blinked. "The eastern border? What for?"
Nicholai folded his hands on the table. "Military intelligence has confirmed that the barbarian tribes are gathering in large numbers. No signs of active aggression yet, but the King has deemed it necessary to place a commander there preemptively."
Esmeralda nodded solemnly. "Your father is the head of the military. It is his duty."
Dorian leaned back, unimpressed. "So it's not an emergency. Just the kingdom being paranoid and this concerns me in what way?"
Nicholai gave him a cold look. "Paranoia is what prevents unnecessary deaths."
Dorian shrugged. Not my business.
"Seraphina will accompany me," Nicholai continued. "To help build her experience"
Seraphina inclined her head proudly.
Mirabelle's eyes widened. "Sister isn't staying? But—"
Nicholai raised a hand. "Which brings me to the next point."
He looked at his children, specifically at Mirabelle… then Dorian.
"I wish you both success in the upcoming Selection." His gaze hardened. "Let this serve as a reminder: Seraphina completed her Selection at thirteen and placed fourth overall."
Mirabelle stiffened in admiration and Dorian nearly choked.
Of course he had to say that.
The reminder wasn't for praise it was a weapon. A comparison. A contrast. An unspoken demand: Stop being useless.
A quiet settled over the hall as the meal was served. No one spoke. Even Bartholomew sensed the tension and ate silently.
Dorian picked at his food, mind drifting in ten different directions.
Barbarians? Military deployment? Seraphina's achievement? The damn Selection?
When the meal ended, Dorian rose before anyone else and walked out without waiting for dismissal.
Esmeralda scoffed as he left. Mirabelle scowled but Nicholai said nothing.
Only Bartholomew watched him leave with worry in his eyes.
Outside, Dorian breathed deeply. The crisp air cleared his head a little, but not enough.
"Selection… barbarians… nobles comparing me to Seraphina again…" He rubbed his temples. "Nope. I need a drink."
His feet carried him on instinct through the streets until he arrived at the one place he always ran to when life became irritating:
The Red District.
The whorehouse he frequented; The Scarlet Indulgence stood proudly at the end of a cobblestone lane. But as Dorian approached, he stopped.
The building… looked different.
"Where in the hells did all the red go?"
Instead of sultry crimson curtains and ruby lanterns, the place was now adorned with soft emerald drapery and flickering green lamps. It looked less like a den of debauchery and more like a forest-themed tea house with identity issues.
Dorian stepped inside. Immediately, several women rushed forward.
"Sir Dorian!"
"You're back!"
"We missed you! Master Dorian always knows the right places to touch"
He offered them his usual charming grin. "Miss me more later. For now, can someone explain the massacre of my beloved red décor."
One of the women giggled. "The new owner changed it."
"New owner?" Dorian repeated. "Since when?"
"This week," she replied. "She thought green would be more refreshing."
"Refreshing?" Dorian said flatly. "It's a brothel, not a riverside picnic."
A gentle laugh floated from above.
"That's where you're wrong."
Dorian looked up and froze. Standing on the top-floor balcony was a woman unlike anything he had ever seen.
Emerald eyes, captivating and piercing.
Flowing green hair cascading like shimmering silk.
Skin fair and smooth as porcelain and a figure that towered even taller than Dorian himself.
Her presence made the entire room feel smaller and Dorian felt something click inside him.
Target acquired.
He flashed his most seductive smile as he approached her "Green, you say? I suppose the color just became the sexiest shade in the world."
The woman stared down at him, unfazed. "Flattery is cheap. Try again."
Oh, she was a challenge.
He placed a hand over his chest. "I must warn you, I have quite a reputation. If you stand that close to me, rumors may start."
She arched a brow. "I own a brothel."
Dorian grinned wider. "Then we're perfect for each other."
"No," she said instantly.
His smile faltered. "Wait—what?"
"No."
He blinked. "At least pretend to think about it."
"No."
Dorian stared at her, offended on a spiritual level.He was Dorian Viremont. Women didn't turn him down. Women threw themselves at him. Even nobles who hated him flirted with him when drunk.
This woman did not even blink. His ego cracked loudly, so throughout the night he tried again and again and again, following Liora around in hopes to win her. All his attempts fell flat.
Finally he sighed, rubbing his face. "This is humiliating."
He turned to leave and the doors burst open.
A muscular man stormed in, breath heavy with alcohol.
"Liora!" he shouted, spotting the woman and Dorian on the balcony. "Are you entertaining this trash? Don't associate yourself with the cripple,"
Dorian froze mid-step, Slowly, dangerously, he turned his head.
"…What did you just call me?"
The man ignored him. "Why give attention to trash like him when—"
Liora's voice cut sharp as a blade.
"It seems you've had too much to drink today but please don't belittle my customer."
The man scoffed. "I can call him whatever I want." he sneered, "Or is he your boy toy? Figures, that'd be the only thing he'd be good for"
"How dare you? Do you have a death wish? Or perhaps you're tired of freedom?" Dorian threatened
The man paused then let out a loud laugh, then his expression suddenly turned angry, "I've always wanted to put one of you noble bastards in their place, you'll be my outlet for today,"
Something inside Dorian snapped, he had no magic but he had never once turned down a squabble and he wasn't about to start now but before he could do or say anything, Liora waved her hand.
Instantly, glowing circles, strange, intricate, unlike any arcane formation Dorian had ever studied materialized in the air.
A burst of wind exploded outward and the man was hurled off the balcony and crashed into the floor below, groaning.
The room fell silent and the circles faded.
Dorian turned slowly to Liora, expression serious for the first time that day.
"What," he said carefully, "was that?"
Liora looked down at him calmly. "Magic."
"No," Dorian said sharply. "I've studied every established school of magic. Ancient, lost, theoretical, hybrid, forbidden and I've memorized more grimoires than most mages breathe spells. I have never seen magic circles like those."
Liora's show of confidence flickered for a split second.
Dorian stepped closer, tone low and stern. "Tell me the truth. What was that? And don't lie, I may not be able to use magic, but I'm still a son of House Viremont." His eyes hardened. "It only takes a few coins and words to have someone arrested."
The room tensed and Liora's expression turned unreadable.
She stared down at him,her emerald eyes cut through the tension in the room like hot knife through butter.