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Chapter 1: The wait before interview

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  The sky is draped in a deep shade of blue, faintly illuminated by the soft glow of orange street lamps. Dawn has yet to break. The chill in the air bites sharply, even for a prosperous city like Ljóseoree, where gold glimmers from every town hall and wine flows freely for the wealthy and influential. The town lies in a peaceful slumber.

  Yet, outside the administrative magistrate's office, tranquillity is nowhere to be found. Agitated whispers and the sound of shivering footsteps fill the cold air.

  A line of impeccably dressed young men stand anxiously, clutching papers with their names written on them, waiting for the magistrate's arrival.

  Some have graduated with distinction, while others rely on their vast fortunes. Some are scions of noble houses, others claim divine ancestry. Some have published acclaimed papers, others several. Some have held professorships for decades, others for centuries. All stand obediently in line, desperately eyeing the position of Junior Luminary Coordinator.

  The position involves wielding a small quantum of thauma—a term that, in common phases, is often referred to as magic by the neutral, mana by the enthusiasts, and witchcraft or hexes by the pious. However, the study of magic, now officially termed Thaumatology, was hastily re-constructed, re-defined and rewritten some 30 years ago overnight, as suddenly decreed by the goddess Athena’s incontestable and unshakable authority.

  This drastic and unexpected change sent many scholars into a state of panic. A council of them hastily assembled, and the name Thaumatology was the best they could agree on, amidst drool-streaked sleeping gowns, half-awake eyes and incessant squabbles—most of which degenerated into contests over one another’s reputation rather than the change itself. Then for those less involved, countless sleepless nights were spent memorizing the new system by heart.

  The changes were too much for the already weary minds. Those who were set to graduate at that very moment feared for their futures and returned to their institutions, prepared to spend decades re-mastering and reworking their discoveries. Meanwhile, countless journals teetered on the brink of bankruptcy, and many publishing houses saw their work rendered obsolete in an instant.

  For those young men, today stands as a testament to the decades of study and effort that have finally come to fruition.

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  They stand, trembling with impatience, waiting for the examiners to appear. Hours pass. "They will be late again," some sigh.

  The line of scholars stretches from the gate to the city entrance, their once-bright clothes faded into dull shades of gray. Worn and torn fabric exposes skin beneath, just as their positions in society, commoners’ children —though they are surely at the back of the queue, likely in the thousandth position. Slowly, some begin to drift away, realising they will not get a chance to take part.

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  Suddenly, from somewhere in the middle of the line—where the merchant’s sons stand—an eerie silence ripples outward. A beggar, miserably hooded and covered in rags, emerges from an alley. He holds out his hand to each of them, starting on the right, begging for coins and scraps of food. Some pity him and drop a coin in his palm; others loosen their pouches and spare a bit of bread. But most hush him away, urging him to leave.

  Yet, the beggar moves forward, dragging his filthy hands along the robes of the candidates. Visible annoyance spreads through the line. "Who let him into the city?" one mutters. "As if we don’t have enough vagrants. Greedy beggars, disrupting us at this crucial moment!" Some ignore him. Others kick him aside. A few shove him to the ground.

  "Where are the guards? Who sent this nuisance to torment us? The wait is long enough!"

  The beggar rises, unfazed, and marches toward the front of the line, where the most influential stand—about a hundred of them. Initially shocked, then amused, they gather around him. Some, unwilling to appear lesser than their peers, toss him a coin out of pity. Others sneer.

  "Insolent, shameless beggar!" one spits. "You come to each of us, taking what we've earned. Begone, or you’ll find yourself in a place worse than a cell!"

  "My wise lords," the beggar says, voice low and measured, "it seems your minds do not match your appearance. Earned? Look around—those brighter and wiser than you are leaving, while you sit in their place."

  A murmur of discontent spreads. Some scoff. Others curl their fists.

  "You won’t walk away unharmed after insulting us," one threatens.

  Before the moment can escalate, another figure emerges from the shadows—a hulking vagrant, instantly recognizable to all.

  Grigori.

  A name none dare to whisper in plain sight, not even among the affluent. Grigori prowls every corner of Ljóseoree, hoarding unwanted knowledge about nearly everyone. He is also infamous for his insatiable hunger and iron grip over his self-proclaimed domain.

  "Get off my land, you filth," he cried loudly while twisting his fists, "This is the domain of Grigori."

  "But good sir, this street has space for both of us," the beggar replies smoothly. "There’s no need to be upset over what the other gets."

  The nobles burst into laughter. "Look, my friends! Heaven has sent us entertainment!" More people press forward, eager for distraction. Even the guards, previously yawning at their post, straighten with mild interest.

  Grigori hunches his broad shoulders, circling the ragged stranger. "What’s your name? Speak before I knock your teeth into the dirt."

  The beggar remains silent.

  Grigori grins. "No name? Or just a mute dog?"

  The crowd erupts in laughter, coins tossed at the beggar’s feet.

  "Pin him to the ground, Grigori!" someone jeers.

  With a sudden lunge, Grigori swings a fist at the silent beggar—only to freeze mid-motion. The beggar’s eyes. A tremor runs through his massive frame.

  "Those cursed eyes—" he falters.

  The beggar is already moving. His fist smashes into Grigori’s nose with a sickening crack. The larger man stumbles back with a howl of pain but recovers swiftly, driving a brutal kick into the beggar’s stomach. The smaller man staggers, forced to one knee.

  Grigori’s hand shoots out—but he grasps nothing but the frayed edge of the beggar’s cloth.

  Before he can react, the beggar pivots sharply and slams a fist into his chest. Grigori crashes into the dirt, groaning, teeth grinding against the pain.

  The city guards stir into action. Their hands move to weapons, ready to seize both men—

  But then, a hush falls over the crowd. Heads turn toward the city gates as a grand carriage, drawn by fine horses, rolls through.

  "Must be the magistrates," someone murmurs.

  The nameless beggar is gone.

  Grigori, still sprawled on the ground, spits blood into the dust. Two guards seize his arms, drag him to a side alley, and toss him into the filth.

  "I won, you mutant scum!" he snarls. "I won!"

  The laughter is gone. The crowd, once rowdy and entertained, shifts back into anxious silence, their thoughts returning to the examiners who have yet to arrive.

  The street falls quiet once more.

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