Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai

Tim found him again two hours later, sweat sealing his hair to his forehead, and his hand wrapped in fresh gauze after a fire spell had gotten a bit too intense, but not enough for the wards to intervene.

"Lunch?" he asked, a little breathless. "Please tell me you're not one of those people who fast before an important event. I need food."

Nick laughed. "Food sounds good."

It had been a productive morning. After the initial humiliation, Tim recovered well and stopped trying to force himself into a casting style that didn't suit him. Instead, he focused on what he did best: buff and debuff magic.

Twice, he cast a light-foot charm that made him quick enough that Nick had to get a little serious, and once, he even tagged Nick with a [Slow] spell that made the world feel like it was made of syrup.

I had to hold [Blasphemy] back to let him get away with that, but it was worth it. The kid needs a little more confidence. And it's not like I let him win the spar anyway.

Nick had held back a lot, foregoing his layered defenses and choosing to focus on practicing with individual specializations, but it hadn't been too annoying. He needed the practice anyway.

One duel involved only kinetic pushes, cuts, and precise shoves that caused Tim's footing to betray him. Another duel allowed him to practice precise water magic, turning the ground slippery or using the thinnest veils to absorb spells.

Then, for two bouts, he relied on spiritual magic to shape his intent, sticking to the weakest application he could and trying to mimic Tim's buffing magic.

To the stands, it looked like bursts of haze, but Eona had narrowed her eyes on those rounds, and the moment the last bout ended, she hopped down from the stands and fell in step with them as they left the field.

The two heiresses, who had heckled everyone equally, trailed behind, giggling, with their attendants following at a distance.

"Shall we get my brother?" Nick asked, nodding toward the slope field, where he could feel Devon's signature.

"Will he want to come? I wouldn't want my first introduction to my future overlord to be annoying," Tim replied, sounding worried, and Nick was reminded that, for these kids, nobility was a serious matter.

He's also doing his best to appear comfortable around the girls, but they make him very cautious due to their high status. Both of them are already members of the Tower, so it's a double whammy.

"I doubt he encountered much of a challenge," Eona said as she walked ahead. Up close, she was just slightly taller than Nick, with a lean, straight-lined presence. She enunciated her words clearly, and her accent was cultured in a way that suggested careful refinement, rather than the natural posh drawl of Drusilia. "There's a restaurant two streets over that masquerades as an adventurer's tavern. The steak isn't served on a silver tray, so most nobles see it as a refreshingly rough place."

Penelope nodded, lips quirking up at the description. "Oh, yes. The Antler & Ink. Their steak is acceptable."

"High praise," Drusilia murmured.

Nick tipped an imaginary hat. "Lead on."

They watched Devon face his fifth opponent in a row. The slope required precise footwork and punished lazy hips, which Devon fully took advantage of.

When he tapped the flat of his sword against his opponent's blade and then subtly unbalanced him with a shoulder check that barely seemed forceful, the crowd cheered and clapped. The young man he defeated bowed, chastened but not humiliated.

Devon's eyes flicked up as Nick approached, and he grinned in triumph. Then he saw Eona and nodded respectfully, knowing she was Sir Leon's younger sister.

"Food?" Nick said.

Devon slid his blade home and nodded. "Gimme a moment to drink and wash my face, and I'll be with you."

Once he was presentable again, he rejoined them, smirking at the two heiresses in a way that implied a history between them.

Still, no one complained about his presence, and before long, they were heading toward the restaurant.

The Antler & Ink had fully committed to its theme. The sign showed a stag head above a quill, and the door was reinforced with iron bands. Inside, rugged tables, flickering candlelight, and a chalkboard menu with a blade mark set the scene. The staff wore deliberately rumpled and dirt-stained uniforms, carrying plates heavy with roasts and stews. Linen napkins were designed to resemble burlap.

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All in all, it was the closest one could get to the real experience without offending any snobbish noble.

A hostess with a courteous smile welcomed them and promptly showed them to a booth.

"Order meat, you need to put on some muscle," Eona instructed Tim, without looking at him.

"Yes, ma'am," Tim replied, as if to a military leader.

"So," Penelope said after they had placed their order, propping her chin on a fist and looking not at Nick but at Tim with mischievous focus, "how does it feel to get saved by the reflex ward in front of a crowd?"

Tim's head thumped against the table. "Is that gonna haunt me forever?"

"Until someone else does something more amusing," she said, unapologetic.

"We hadn't set a start count, so I took him by surprise," Nick said, saving Tim, if not from the truth, then at least from getting thwacked by it. "That's on me."

Eona glanced up, having officiated the duel, but didn't contradict him, "he shouldn't be too sad, he got better results by the third bout."

"I still didn't win a single duel. I only managed to hit him once," Tim groaned.

Devon picked up his water. "You managed to hit my brother?"

Tim perked up at the thought of impressing Devon. "I did. Nothing that put him down, but my [Slow] is actually pretty fast."

Nick nodded. "It was a well-crafted spell." It also gave me a few ideas for new applications of Spiritual magic.

Tim glanced down at his fingers, suddenly bashful. "I've been practicing those instead of the big flashy things. Buffs, debuffs, crowd commands. It's not glamorous, but I seem to have a talent for it."

"Anything effective is worth pursuing," Eona told him.

The food arrived soon after, and they were all served mushroom soup, a type of tuber mash made with fine butter, and Thunderhoof steak. Nick tried not to look too pleased at seeing his catches already being sold.

"So," Devon said after swallowing, "exams. Any advice you can give my little brother, Lady Penelope, Lady Drusilia?" He asked.

The heiress put her spoon down, regarding him with careful consideration. "We're not allowed to give you anything useful," she said. "But some things are public domain by now."

So no details. Well, not that I need them, but anything is better than nothing.

"There are two parts, as usual. First, a written exam, which everyone agrees is a fair test. The graders are not your enemies and don't care about your House. You either pass or fail."

"And the practical?" Devon asked.

"That is much more subjective," Drusilia interjected. "But not necessarily lawless. There are official examiners who pass or fail based on the listed criteria. But," she glanced at Penelope, who tried and failed not to grin, "any Master or Archmage may attend the practical. If they see something they like, they can recommend a pass regardless of the official examiner's decision, as long as they justify it and sign their name to the choice. The administrative board reviews those afterward. It doesn't happen for most cases, but the rare few who are lucky enough will get a ten-year apprenticeship out of it."

Devon nodded slowly. "That would probably allow for the untrained to pass if they have enough talent."

"It prevents the Tower from becoming just another school. There are already plenty of those in any city, but a Tower is something different. Something more," Eona said.

"Recommendations can, of course, be abused," Drusilia continued. "This is why immediate family members of candidates are not allowed to attend that session. If your aunt is a Master, she can proctor the written exam, but she cannot sit in on the practical unless she signs a declaration of conflict, and even then, she cannot rule on you. If your parent is an Archmage, they are not permitted to even enter the practical."

"So you're saying there is a chance," Tim said, only half-joking.

"If you pass, you'll have earned it," Penelope shrugged. "And if you fail, you'll know it's your own fault."

"Failing the practical is not failing to be a mage," Eona added, unexpectedly sensitive to Tim's worries. "It just means you're not entering the Tower this season. Most novices have to try at least a couple of times."

"What about observers?" Nick asked before Drusilia could add any other worrying detail. She seemed to derive pleasure from teasing them, but he didn't particularly care for it. "Are they allowed?"

"Encouraged, even," Penelope replied. "Though they aren't allowed to enter the rooms, they have observation chambers where people come to watch future mages make mistakes."

"Masters use them to hunt for apprentices," Drusilia continued, confirming Nick's suspicions.

After that, the girls clammed up, replying with many flowery words but saying very little.

Nick didn't really enjoy going in half-blind, but at least he wasn't at risk of eating through his thumbs like Toni.

Eona, on the other hand, looked as cool as a cucumber, but he was starting to realize that this was her default expression.

On the morning of the exam, Nick woke up before dawn and lay still for a while, letting the room come into focus. He wasn't particularly worried about passing.

The last two days confirmed that One-Ear kept his part of the deal, as the number of watchers had grown. They were people in plain robes, blending into the crowds. Professional observers who knew how to watch without being noticed, whom he only sensed because he could feel their interest.

Interest wasn't the same as success, of course. If Archmage Tholm truly was curious, that curiosity had to turn into action, and those actions needed to develop into an offer he could accept.

There are still many things that could go wrong, but there's no need to get worked up just yet.

In the kitchen, Sonya already had food prepared: eggs, bread, and a serving of sweet cakes she had made just for good luck. She slid it onto his plate with a smile and gave him an affectionate pat on the back.

"Eat," she commanded. "You won't go anywhere on an empty stomach."

Nick obeyed, shoveling the food in while ignoring her hovering with amusement.

Devon entered next, moist from his morning bath. He placed a hand on Nick's shoulder and gave a quick squeeze. "I believe in you," he said cheerfully. "Show everyone what House Crowley is made of."

"I'll strive for thoughtfully humiliating," Nick said.

"You'll pass," Devon said with simple conviction. "If they don't take you, they deserve to have the whole thing torn down."

Xander appeared last. He stood in the doorway and nodded slightly. He didn't call Nick by name or say "good luck," but he appreciated the support nonetheless.

Nick departed the manse with a confident smile.

Alluria, on the day of the exam, felt like a child's room after they had been told their mother was about to check it for cleanliness.

Vendors moved away from the main path so candidates wouldn't be tempted to buy a talisman at the last second and then blame it for their failure. Guards at the corners stood more upright than usual. People in fine clothes walked a little too quickly, eager to get the day over with and learn the results.

Nick passed by the square with the iron fountain, the arch beyond, and then the side door of the public office with barely a glance, where he could feel the same mage who had commanded the wards when he went in to sign up.

As he rounded the last corner, the front plaza came into view. Hopefuls were lined up loosely, some chatting, others pale and silent. The Tower's wards hummed intensely, almost overwhelming Nick's senses.

He took a breath through his nose and exhaled as he stepped into the line.