The air in the Questioning Hall was thick, almost suffocating, as a stern feminine voice cut it like a knife.
“Before anything else, know you’re in the presence of the Seven. We will ask you a hundred and one things, and you will answer quickly and clearly.”
I barely had the time to nod as another voice followed, this one old and worn like dry leaves of late autumn:
“You will refer to us as Venerables. You will not summon any Cards unless instructed. You will speak only when spoken to, ask permission if you must. Lastly, you will not reveal any questions we ask of you to anyone outside this room. Trust me, child. We will know and you will be thrown out of Ascent.”
A softer, warmer voice of another woman came next. Her tone was bright as the sun on a chilly winter morning, feeling as if it didn’t belong in this place:
“On that topic, who is the young lady with you?”
I inclined my head slightly, my voice calm and measured. “She’s my Shadow, Venerable.”
The question was a formality. They knew. They had known before I ever set foot in this room. It was all written in my application – everything in order, everything in place.
“Right,” the warm voice murmured.
And then the weight of their attention shifted, pressing against the space where Juliana stood.
“Show us the mark,” came a command from the same resonant voice as before.
Juliana uncomfortably shifted from one foot to another. Then she stepped forward.
Her fingers moved slowly, lowering her sheer top and unbuttoning the upper end of her blouse just enough to reveal the sigil etched into her skin.
It was an intricate mark, drawn from some kind of crimson ink on the right side of her clavicle.
It looked like an inverted ‘y’ with an ‘s’ entwined in the middle of it.
It was a Blood Mark.
My Blood Mark.
Drawn from my blood.
It was what gave me power over her.
With a single thought, I could wake the BloodWorm that slept within her chest and force it to tighten its curl around her heart like a vice.
The Seven turned their gaze back to me, and the weight of it settled over me like a heavy cloak.
“Activate it,” one of them said, their voice neither old nor young, neither masculine nor feminine – just a plain, unremarkable sound with no defining quality.
I let out a quiet sigh. I knew this was inevitable. I didn’t want to give Juliana another reason to hate me. At least not more than she already did.
But there was no escaping it.
I lifted my hand, focusing on the sigil, feeling the connection between us pulse to life. It was simple, like flexing a muscle, like moving your hand with a thought.
The effects were immediate. Juliana flinched ever so slightly.
She tried to remain still, tried to keep her face calm, but I noticed the tremor in her hands, the sharp intake of breath.
And then, despite her best efforts, a small, pained sound escaped her lips — a yelp, barely audible, but filled with excruciating agony.
The BloodWorm was an Infant Spirit. It was the weakest of its kind, the lowest on the food chain. A fragile, red thing, thin and flat like a tapeworm.
It fed on blood like a parasite. But it was a useful parasite.
When put into a deep slumber with some alchemical potions, it could be implanted into a person’s body, coiled around their heart like a noose.
A noble’s blood, mine in this case, would then be used to inscribe the sigil on the person’s flesh – a mark that could rouse the sleeping spirit and command it to crush the slave’s heart.
There were more details to it but I never cared much about them.
The magic behind it was complex, but the effect was simple enough. It obeyed me. That was all I needed to know.
Juliana’s jaw tightened as a strained cry escaped her lips, “Arghh!”
Her pale face was twisted in pain, but it was her eyes that caught my attention. Beneath the agony, I saw it.
I saw fear in her eyes.
It was buried deep, a flicker she tried to hide, but it was there. She was scared, and rightly so.
The sensation of something alien tightening around your heart – squeezing, slowly at first, until it hurt, until it felt like it would burst your heart – was enough to scare anyone.
And knowing that there was nothing you could do about it? That feeling of helplessness would plant seeds of fear in anyone.
Fear that would later sprout into hatred.
Every time I used the BloodWorm on her in the past, I had watched Juliana’s resentment for me grow. A little more each time.
Even now, when she knew I had no choice but to prove the sigil’s authenticity to the Venerables, that hatred still simmered beneath the surface.
Her body bent forward, her breath ragged, her eyes full of pain and fear – and just behind all that, she was seething with unadulterated fury.
I won’t lie. I hated that look. I hated what I was doing to her. But I needed her to hate me more. Desperately so.
Only then would she make haste to accomplish her goal.
Only in her desperation would she make mistakes.
Mistakes that I would ruthlessly punish.
“That’s enough,” came the voice of the stern woman. I released my focus on the Blood Mark, and the tension ebbed.
Juliana gasped, her hands trembling as she clutched her chest. Sweat beaded on her brow, and her lips quivered as she struggled to steady her breath.
It took her a moment before she composed herself again.
She straightened her blouse, brushing her hands over the fabric as if wiping away the pain. Her face was calm once more, but her eyes… her eyes were dark, like a storm churning in an ocean.
The silence in the hall was broken by the booming voice from before.
“Let us begin now that that’s settled. I will go first. We’ll start with the fundamentals of war strategies and politics.”
Without giving me a chance to steady myself, the voice continued, commanding and authoritative as ever:
“Imagine you are a governor with limited troops and supplies. The north is hit by famine, while the south of your territory faces imminent invasion. What will you do?”
Just like that, the interview begin.
My response came swiftly, almost instinctively. “I will fortify defenses in the south and send grain to the north. I will also talk to the nobles, offering incentives to ensure their support.”
A quick retort followed. “How do you prevent the nobles from rebelling?”
“By exploiting their greed,” I answered as if it were obvious. “I will offer tax breaks and grant lands for their cooperation.”
A brief pause ensued, as if my answers were being weighed and analyzed. “Next.”
The next voice, gravelly and tough, spoke steadily. “You command a small force at a mountain pass. Your men are outnumbered three to one. How do you hold your position?”
I considered the question, formulating my answer. “I will place snipers on the cliffs and set traps to slow the enemy. Since I have the higher ground, I will crush them using the mountain itself. I will funnel their forces and strike them from above.”
“And if they have aerial troops?” came the immediate counter.
I paused, searching for a solution. “I’ll neutralize them with ballistae and railguns or lure them into confined spaces where they can be targeted.”
A stretch of silence followed. I felt my response was being scrutinized again. “Acceptable. Next.”
The last Seven to speak had a distorted, almost mechanical voice, “It says in your application that you have studied Sahli. Is that correct?”
I nodded. “I studied it a bit in high school, Venerable. But I’m not fluent.”
The voice continued. “Translate this: Kalbi kathub ‘ala ramal.”
I hesitated, my mind scrambling for the right words. “The heart… is true… to sand…?”
“Incorrect. Next,” they shouted.
The warm, gentle voice took over, focusing on history. “Which clan betrayed the fifth Western Monarch, leading to its downfall?”
“House Remis,” I replied.
“Why?” she pressed.
“For personal ambition,” I guessed. “They sought power by allying with the Southern Tribes.”
“Next.”
The plain, neutral voice returned. “Define Spirit Essence. Quickly.”
I answered without delay. “It is the fundamental energy in all living beings, allowing us to greatly strengthen our soul and perform superhuman feats.”
“Who are the three Spirits humanity has yet to vanquish? Three Spirits that pose the greatest threat to us?” The question was crisp and direct. “What are their powers? What are their ranks and current known territories?”
I considered my answer carefully.
“First there is the Wraith of Somber Hill, known for its power of possession. Next is the Serpent of Aether Claw, which commands storms. Finally, we have the Phantom of Velaris, capable of shifting realms.”
I lingered, then added evenly:
“All three are Elder Spirits.”
The response from the plain voice was swift. “What is the Serpent’s greatest crime?”
I recalled what I had read somewhere in a news article. “It used storms to destroy seven coastal towns in the south?”
“Nine towns,” the voice amended, “but correct otherwise. Next.”
The stern feminine voice interrogated again. “Your application states you’ve studied basic alchemy. What are the ingredients of a Rexerd’s Brew?”
This was difficult. I attended just one alchemy workshop last summer to pass time. I did not have nearly enough knowledge to answer queries in that field.
But I still tried. “Silian Golem’s stone dust, nightshade petals, and– uh–”
“Incorrect,” she interrupted sharply. “Next.”
The warm voice followed, shifting to a different topic. “Biology. Describe the process of cellular regeneration.”
Simple question. I answered confidently, “Cells divide through mitosis to replace damaged ones.”
“Next.”
The resonant voice returned. “Rhetoric. How do you persuade a hostile audience to accept a controversial policy?”
Without any break, I replied, “Present it as a necessity for long-term stability, emphasize shared values, and address their fears to eliminate the risks of revolt.”
“Control them with fear?” he mused out loud. “Okay. Next.”
The stern voice came again. “Mathematics. Solve this: A supplier has 120 units of goods. He sells 30% at a 20% profit, the rest at a 15% loss. What is his net gain or loss?”
I froze, my mind racing through calculations. I was bad at calculations. “He– uh—”
“Next,” she snapped, cutting me off.
Was it just me, or did she seem particularly harsh?
The resonant voice continued, “What is the difference between a Greater Spirit and a Lesser Spirit?”
I responded as quickly as I could, “Greater Spirits have a broader influence over reality and a stronger connection to Spirit Essence in comparison to Lesser Spirits.”
He grunted, hopefully in appreciation. “And the most dangerous Greater Spirit still alive?”
I grimaced. I remembered something like this from the game. “The Nightmare of Zyrith? A Spirit that feeds on despair, causing mass hysteria.”
He paused, then said half approvingly, “Yes. But frame your answers as statements, not questions. Next.”
The grandfatherly voice spoke in a whisper, almost as if incredibly curious. “Your application states your Origin Card lets you manipulate matter.”
My throat was running dry now. “Correct, Venerable. It grants me basic control over matter at my current rank.”
“Can you see on an atomic level as well?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “I can see the basic molecular structure of things if I focus really hard but that’s it. Doing that strains my eyes and hurts my head, though.”
“What do you think are the applications of your power in metallurgy?” he inquired.
“As of now?” I rolled my shoulders. “Refining ore efficiently and creating alloys with precision.”
“Next.”
The resonant voice resounded, “You receive conflicting orders from two superiors, both will punish you for disobedience. What will you do?”
I took a deep breath, thinking carefully. “I would assess the situation, align with the order that best serves the overall objective, and diplomatically delay the other.”
When he spoke again, there was a hint of amusement in his tone. “Haa! Next.”
The stern woman’s tone was unyielding. “Suppose your enemy outnumbers you in a battle, but you’re on familiar terrain. How do you win?”
I made a sweeping gesture. “Use the terrain to set ambushes. Divide and conquer. Try to engage in attrition warfare. Grind them down.”
“Next.”
The soft, warm voice returned. “Current Affairs. Why was the Awakened league’s championship game postponed last week?”
I touched my chin. “If I remember correctly, there were major security breaches in the stadium that jeopardized players safety.”
Another question was followed immediately, “Chemistry. Explain how molecular orbital theory applies to the bonding in benzene and its aromatic stability.”
I stammered. The difficulty was increasing.
Fortunately, chemistry and physics were my specialties, so I dove in. “In benzene, each carbon atom forms sigma bonds with two neighboring carbons and one hydrogen atom. The—”
But I was rudely interrupted.
“Next.”
The plain and even voice resumed control. “Explain particle-antiparticle annihilation and its significance in terms of energy conservation.”
I gulped, “It occurs when a particle collides with its corresponding antiparticle. Both are destroyed, and their combined mass is converted into energy, typically—”
And I was cut off again.
“Next.”
The questions grew both in difficulty and speed.
I kept speaking without any respite, my each answer flowing into the next with barely a pause for breath.
It was a blur of rapid-fire inquiries.
“Next.”
Not all my answers were perfect, many were even incorrect, but most were satisfactory.
“Next!”
At last, the distorted voice spoke the final – the hundred and first question. “Spirit Realm. What is the concept of Portals?”
“…I-It’s the boundary between the physical world and the Spirit Realm,” my voice was hoarse, my tongue was numb, and my head was throbbing.
Even still, I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in confusion.
This was weird.
After all those tough and tricky questions, why was the last one so… simple? So easy?
That was when they finally added, “And how does it happen?”
…Oh. There it was. A curveball.
A question that cannot be answered.
I could sense the unspoken challenge.
They wanted to test me. To see how I would respond when faced with a question that eluded all common sense.
I took a moment to gather my thoughts and smiled a polite smile. “No one truly knows how it happens. But surely you didn’t ask this question merely to receive a conventional answer, did you, Venerable?”
The shadows were silent. The absence of a reply was almost deafening.
They had clearly noticed what I was doing.
Until now, I was playing it safe. I was giving them standard responses without daring to add my own thoughts or beliefs into the mix.
I was giving them textbook answers… like a parrot.
But they sought something more – something that would reveal my thought process.
So, I decided to offer that insight.
“While the exact reasons behind a Portal’s appearance is a mystery, there are many theories.” I said, my voice controlled and my smile widening. “The theory that I support is that…”
I paused, allowing the words to linger in the air.
Allowing the pause to stretch dramatically.
Then when I finally answered, the whole Questioning Hall erupted into a cacophony of chaotic sounds.
“A portal opens when mass death occurs.”