The heavy oak doors of Wing Theta-9 loomed over Alex like some kind of ceremonial judgment gate.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, surveying the entrance with the air of a man waiting for a sentencing rather than a meeting.
"Cold enough to chill ambition itself," Alex muttered under his breath before pushing the doors open.
The interior was exactly as miserable as he expected.
Rows of polished desks. Stacks of parchment. Flickering crystal lamps that made everything feel more clinical than welcoming. Half the people inside wore the kind of stern expressions usually reserved for failed duelists and tax collectors.
Alex couldn't help but think it resembled a halfway point between a bad job interview and an execution line.
The central long desk had seven people behind it—various academy heads, instructors, and administrators—all seated stiffly, pretending not to judge him before he even opened his mouth.
'Fantastic. A firing squad, but with paperwork.'
He strolled in with the casual swagger of someone late to his own surprise party and dropped into the lone chair placed dead center like a prisoner's seat.
A dry cough echoed from the leftmost instructor, who was already fiddling with a parchment.
"Alexidrin Finch," the oldest-looking member said, peering at him over ridiculously tiny glasses. "Do you know why you're here?"
Alex leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded.
"Because the Academy enjoys long, cold mornings, bureaucratic redundancy, and making extraordinary students feel like delinquents?"
There was a sharp snort from somewhere down the table, hastily disguised as a cough.
Two of the professors frowned.
One visibly scribbled something down. Probably "Attitude problem—watch for rebellion."
The head at the center, a woman with silver hair pinned in a too-tight bun, didn't react beyond a slight narrowing of her eyes. "You are here," she said, "to confirm your department placement."
Alex nodded solemnly. "Sounds serious."
"Take it seriously."
He gave a theatrical little salute, which earned him two more glares and another poorly hidden chuckle from someone at the end.
Before anyone could launch into their prepared speech, Alex leaned forward slightly, voice full of mock earnestness.
"So, before we begin," he said, "a few important questions."
Several eyebrows lifted.
"First," Alex said, counting on his fingers, "how many accidental potion explosions is considered acceptable before probation?"
Silence.
Then a faint choking noise from the younger instructor near the right.
"Second," Alex continued mercilessly, "if a fresher accidentally tames a building-sized elemental spirit, who exactly fills out the custody paperwork?"
The woman at the center actually blinked.
"And third," Alex added, "if two students duel on top of the library roof using banned magic but claim it was part of a sanctioned class project—does the Academy reward creativity or punish property damage first?"
A full-bodied laugh escaped someone—loud, unrestrained—and the silver-haired head shot them a glare that could've frozen magma.
A few others were less amused.
One professor, whose face seemed permanently set in the grimace of "kids these days," leaned forward sharply. "This is not a forum for jokes, Brightward."
Alex tilted his head innocently. "Are you sure? Because given the age of some of these professors, I assumed I wandered into an alumni retirement gathering."
Another snort. This time two people couldn't even pretend to hide it.
The grim professor's face darkened to the color of an undercooked tomato.
Before the storm could really gather, one of the more practical-minded members—an instructor with ink-stained cuffs—cut through the mess.
"Enough," he said bluntly. "You know why you're here. State your department."
Alex shrugged, almost bored. "Diplomacy."
Dead silence.
He blinked, looking mildly offended. "What? Was this supposed to be a shocking reveal?"
The silver-haired woman recovered first. "You understand that many departments placed offers based on your scores?"
"Sure," Alex said brightly. "And I understand I gave one test. Diplomacy. One. Uno."
He held up a single finger.
"So unless we're handing out departments based on handwriting contests, I don't see why anyone's confused."
Muttering broke out among the assembled members. Some muttered about wasted offers. Others complained about the politics. A few simply sighed heavily into their paperwork.
One brave, battered-looking administrator finally asked, almost in despair, "Then why this delay, Mr. Finch?"
Alex smiled, that slow, lazy grin that always meant trouble.
"I thought the Academy enjoyed wasting fresher time with endless 'urgent' notices. I was just trying to fit in."
A ripple of very poorly concealed amusement ran through the room.
"And besides," Alex continued, voice dropping to a lower, teasing tone, "maybe some students like to make quick choices. You know—quick gunners. Always in a rush."
He shrugged lightly. "Me? I like savoring the moment. Makes it all the more fun when you drop a hammer on everyone's expectations."
No one dared respond immediately.
The silence stretched out, awkward but not hostile.
Finally, the silver-haired woman straightened the sheaf of papers before her, nodding curtly.
"Diplomacy Department, confirmed."
"Lovely," Alex said, rising with a stretch. "Let's all pretend this was a hard decision and move on with our lives, yeah?"
Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and sauntered out the doors of Wing Theta-9 with the kind of casual disrespect only the best and the maddest could balance.
Behind him, a few muffled sighs and one loud "Finally!" echoed through the once-frozen hall.
The heavy doors of Wing Theta-9 clicked shut behind Alex.
He rolled his shoulders lightly, as if shaking off the suffocating layer of formality he'd just waded through, and strolled down the long, polished hallway like he hadn't just mildly roasted half the Academy's placement board.
Behind those doors, the conversation he left behind wasn't exactly ending quietly.
Inside the council room, a handful of instructors stayed seated, exchanging glances over the mountain of parchments and formal seals that now seemed almost laughably unnecessary.
"Well," one of the younger professors said, stretching lazily, "Flinch certainly lives up to the rumors."
Another, older and much grumpier, grunted. "What a headache. Half the faculty's been on edge since he enrolled."
The silver-haired woman who had presided over the placement nodded once, sharp and curt. "At least he chose sensibly. Diplomacy will need his kind of chaos."
A snort came from the ink-stained instructor at the end of the table. "Or they'll break him before he breaks them."
"You sound hopeful," another muttered.
He shrugged. "I'm realistic. You can only bend rules so far before something snaps."
The grim professor from earlier—who had worn a scowl deep enough to carve wood—still looked displeased. "The boy mocks structure. He's either going to be a keystone... or a catastrophe."
"Maybe both," someone added dryly.
That earned a few tired chuckles.
One of the more perceptive members, a slender woman with a light laugh but razor-sharp eyes, tapped her fingers against the polished wood. "He's not what most of the Houses expected," she said. "No leash. No promises. No easy hooks."
The room quieted at that.
For all the casual chatter, they all understood the same unspoken truth:
Alex wasn't just another bright student. He was a wildcard in a game that didn't tolerate wildcards for long.
And now, with his department locked, the board had officially shifted.
The instructors quietly began gathering their parchments and sealing their notes. No loud declarations. No grand debates.
Only the quiet, inevitable preparations for the tribulation that loomed ahead—a tradition so ancient even the Academy's oldest libraries couldn't quite agree on who had started it.
Freshers like Alex would soon be tested.
Hard.
And not every test had a score at the end.