Javelinist: Part Two

Javelinist: Part Two

”Yep, I’m truly gorgeous.” Jacques’s ego inflated like a balloon as he admired his stained-glass portrait.

He, together with thousands of other freshmen, stood in a disorderly line that wound its way around the circular fortress, which easily towered over the already towering cathedral beside it—the ’Miraval Educational Center.’ Erected a thousand years ago, the ’MEC,’ with its thirty-six floors filled with hundreds of classrooms and laboratories, stood as the heart of Miraval Academy, ready to nurture the Empire’s future just as he had done with its present and past. However, before beginning their four-years-long rite of passage into adulthood, the new Essentias had to undergo their holy baptism—the ’Class Assignment.’

As Jacques walked inside, he was amazed by the stark contrast between the sobriety of the exterior and the opulence of the grand atrium. The oval-shaped room effortlessly surpassed an Auxerine palace in magnificence, with outstanding paintings covering most of its walls, and between each piece of art, there were bronze statues depicting humanity’s greatest minds standing alongside scale reproductions of the inventions that had consecrated them to history—such as the 'Genes Centrifuge,' the 'Intercontinental Pipeline,' and the 'Antimagic Reactor.'

Slowly, each student reached the center of the room, where they found no ceiling above their heads—only a large and circular hole. The same was true for the firs floor, the second, and so on—true for all thirty-five levels above—and all together, these openings formed a cylindrical void stretching from the atrium all the way to the top of the 36th floor, where a complex system of crystals evenly distributed sunlight, providing natural illumination throughout the entire building.

”Woohoo!” From the holes, human heads and hands sprang up like flowers in spring, followed by loud claps, encouraging chants, and lively choreographies that greeted the students below. They were their seniors, who were meticulously inspecting their juniors to determine who would be worthy of their friendship—for nobles, every personal relationship was business.

*Chkkk—fzmmm* Abruptly, the huge crystal system lost its bluish light, shrouding everything in darkness.

*Tchk—vvvvmmmmmm* On the ceiling of the 36th floor, a lone crystal lit up, projecting a cone of light that slowly swept across the atrium, stopping when it reached the wall opposite the entrance. At first, the freshmen only saw the elevator doors flanked by two spiral staircases, which resembled angelic wings, but soon their vision began to blur, until the silhouette of a tall structure gradually emerged.

”SILENCE!” As the seniors above lowered their enthusiasm, the silhouette stabilized, revealing an elegant old man with a mustache shaped like bird wings above a massive stage. ”Welcome, you who have been blessed with the Gift by the Holy Trinity. I am SS-Class ’Infinitesimal Etymologist’ Narcís De Miraval, the principal of the birthplace of countless legends about heroes who have changed the history of the Holy Rolandish Empire and the entire world alike—the Miraval Academy.” His already booming voice was amplified by a vintage microphone connected to a large tube that led to something hidden beneath the stage. ”Before we begin with the ’Class Assignment,’ I shall explain why you, who hail from such distant regions of our vast Empire, have all gathered here instead of being nurtured in your Fiefdoms.” He tapped his mic three times and three paintings detached from the wall, levitating towards the stage and orbiting around Principal Miraval like moons.

The first artwork depicted a city being purged of its rot and roots by sacred knights whose heavy armor was first blessed with the blood of those too indecisive to take a side, and a second time by those too weak to defend theirs.

The second depicted a withering chrysanthemum with thirty-six petals, each stained by a different tragedy, while the Three-Headed Griffin at its center slowly faded into oblivion.

The third depicted peasants, bandits, priests, and even kings standing side by side, helping each other to push a massive boulder atop a growing mountain of others.

’The Second Sack of New Oasis’, 'The 37 Years of Anarchy,’ and ’The Foundation of Miraval Academy.’ Jacques thought, fascinated by their technique—too advanced for such ancient pieces of art. That Starfolk art connoisseur was right. A photo can merely capture a lifeless instant, while in a painting, each detail reveals more than a thousand books.

”We Essentias are gods among men, and a thousand years ago—during the ’Dark Century’—we learned, far too late to ask forgiveness, the consequences of so much power left unchecked,” Principal Miraval declared before gesturing toward a massive rock slab above the entrance, sporting solemn words engraved on its rought surface—‘NEVER AGAIN.’ ”Noblesse oblige, they once called it. These days, we prefer more refined terms, but the taste remains unchanged. You shall be educated in your responsibility, and the fools who believe their power places them above the law—shall not graduate!” His authoritative tone sent a shiver down everyone’s spine.

”One last thing before we proceed with the Class Assignment. I’d like to introduce the pride of our academy, your lighthouse through the storm ahead—our six Class S Professors.” Principal Miraval turned around with a swift twist, putting on show his Leaves-Ambered mantle—made of red and yellow leaves sewn together—as he pointed behind. Suddenly, new crystals lit up, revealing six very important people seated next to each other on the stage. ”From left to right—”

”Head of the Botanic Department, coach of the Woodland Bigfoots, and professor of Monster Hunting—S-Class ’Everlasting Spring’ Aoife Sinclair.” The young woman was greeted with whistles, claps, and loud praises shouted by the males on the thirty-five floors above the atrium.

Fawn-blue eyes, freckles, and well-defined muscles could be seen beneath her clothes. She looks like an older version of that Barbarian girl, but Miss Sinclair looks far more domesticated.

”Head of the Anthropology Department, established writer, and professor of History, Economics, and Sociology—S-Class ’Fortunate Son’ Xoán Al Córdoba.” The young man was greeted with whistles, claps, and loud praises by the females on the thirty-five floors above the stage.

Warm smile over an angelic expression, warm eyes under his glasses, and a warm voice as comforting as a caring father’s. He looks like a teddy bear—I want to hug this professor and tell him all my secrets.

”Head of the Mathematics department, Chief Security Officer of the Academy, and professor of Magic Encryption—S-Class ’Winged Moon’ Kajerine Fibber.” The woman was acclaimed with respectful claps from the seniors on the thirty-five floors above the stage.

Platinum hair, clothes that resembled a police uniform, and a gaze as cold as iron. Meh, I’m sure dealing with her won’t be any worse than dealing with my uncle.

”Head of the Battlefield Department, war hero, and professor of Advanced Formation Tactics—SS-Class ’Sinful Blade’ Verdan Anhogi.” The man was met with a harsh reaction from the seniors on the thirty-five floors above the stage. Some looked at him with disgust, others whispered dirty rumors, and some booed, fueled by contempt for the man. However, they were all silenced by just one of his grimaces.

The few wrinkles on his face are not a badge of old age, but a medal of honor for surviving the horrors he has witnessed.

”Head of the Magical-Industrial Department, winner of thirty-six ’Sternenstaub Prizes,’ and professor of ’Dungeon Programming’—SS-Class ’Thermal Elegance’ Jack Blues…not again.” Principal Miraval glared in rage at the sleeping old man, but he suppressed it and moved on.

That old man convinced me—I’m signing up for his courses!

”And lastly, the Vice Principal of the Miraval Academy—SS-Class ’Grotesque Mannequin’ Constantine Durere. Now, we will switch places as he will give you a brief presentation on the Class Assignment.” Sheer terror gripped the hearts of the seniors above, and a haunting silence filled the building.

*KEKEKE!* The hunchbacked figure’s crooked laughter sliced through the tension, punctuated by the thump of his ivory cane, which kept him balanced despite one of his legs being shorter, as he rose to take Principal Miraval’s place.

He’s the ugliest man I have ever seen, but, somehow, he looks very confident.

As Vice-Principal Durere’s dark lips reached the microphone, his lazy eyes began scanning the freshmen, one by one, as if he were searching for someone. *KEKEKE!* A new eerie laugh announced the success of his hunt, and after a few veiled whispers, he raised his one-fingered hand toward the crowd, bouncing it up and down while sporting a twisted grin. ”Are you enjoying your last moments as common mortals? Because today is the day your immature Gift will blossom into a beautiful Essentia. Whether it will be a tragedy or the beginning of your legend, only the Holy Trinity knows.”

Jacques was fascinated by Mr. Durere’s various tics. Firstly, after each word, his oversized head witched restlessly in all directions, following no clear pattern. Secondly, his trifurcated tongue was too large for his mouth, slipping out between sentences like a captive animal struggling for freedom. And lasty, his long and coal-black nails were relentlessly scratching the rostrum’s wood, trying to quench a darker type of lust.

”‘Gift’ is a rare genetic trait, the objective proof that God loves us more than the filthy plebeians—we are born with a hollow soul. It might sound bad at first, but it’s a special kind of hole—one we can fill with the countless magical particles scattered throughout our bodies. A soul stuffed with Mana is called ’Essentia,’ and a human with an Essentia is also called an ’Essentia’—very easy to remember!”

Bullshit! You can’t fill something abstract with something tangible—absurd! Like any good Marian, Jacques had never understood the fineness of metaphysics. However, as he thought that, his brown contact lenses met the violet eyes of the ’Grotesque Mannequin’ and his devilish sneer.

”*KEKEKE!* How is it possible, you ask? Well, do you see these things next to me?” On both sides of the rostrum were strange metallic platforms, filled with tubes leading into the understage and engraved with glowing marks. ”These are the 'Miraval Hands,' cutting-edge technology that is going to change your life forever. How? You walk over them and *poof!* you’re an Essentia—very simple.” He hissed. ”But please, don’t ask me how it actually works—your IQ is probably too low to understand that.” Durere’s eyes began to spin in opposite directions. One scanned the confused faces to the left and the other the fearful ones to the right. ”*KEKEKE!* However, I do think you might understand some of the principles behind it.

”All life-forms are able to use magic. Some—like monsters—possess genes that have evolved to exploit the spells embedded in their DNA, while others—like we humans—have developed enough in-tellect to memorize patterns to cast basic hexes. However, it doesn’t matter how advanced our instruments and techniques are, without a DNA that provides the right Mana for the job, years of study and training are required to execute even the simplest of magic formulas.

”We Essentias can trick this system. Once the Mana scattered throughout our bodies is raked into our soul’s hole, the magical particles harmonize with its intrinsic nature, homogenizing into a specific type. As a result, we gain the ability to cast spells instantly like monsters, while still being able to refine them through humanity’s scientific method. But, of course, this comes at a cost of limiting our spells to only those that require our new Mana—reducing them to the essential.”

”To sum up, let’s assume the existence of a set containing all possible magic. We’ll call this set—'Mirafield'

”Now, assume the existence of a set containing all possible particles that can be used to execute a magic formula. We’ll call this set—’Miraspace.’

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

”Lastly, let’s define a function that takes as input an array of particles and returns as output a list of all castable spells. We’ll call this function—’Mirassence.’

”Thus, an Essentia can be defined as an individual capable of casting only those spells found within a specific subset of the Mirafield, whose elements are derived through the Mirassence by using as input the unique subset of the Miraspace contained within our hollow soul. We’ll call the resulting subset—[Class]. And now, you are all going to receive yours.” A tepid applause rewarded the Vice Principal’s speech, who, honored, accepted it with a modest bow.

Soulfuls can use all magic but inefficiently, while we Essentias can use some magic efficiently—Eazy. Nevertheless, Jacques jotted down the Vice-Principal’s words.

”Now, to conclude our little presentation, I need a volunteer for the first Class Assignment. Don’t worry, I won’t bite—*KEKEKE!*” In that sea of humans, many fingered islands emerged—for the students, it was a perfect first opportunity to shine. However, a sword that glowed as white as Hyperborean ice stole the spotlight, and after an approving gesture from the ’Grotesque Mannequin,’ its owner proceeded to the stage. Once there, the professor passionately kissed her hand, but the lady showed neither fear nor disgust, pleasing him. ”I admire your courage, but remember—you might get a Class F in front of our demanding audience. Are you sure you want to risk such an humiliation, Miss?”

She swiftly moved her head toward the public, putting on display her black, long, and silky hair. ”Tsuki Hakka, Moon Princess of Joseong, and I am not afraid of something as frivolous as other people’s opinions.” Still facing the students, the Lawfullian lady lifted the tip of her kimono, respectfully bowing at her new admirers.

Oh, she’s the girl from before. Meh, it must be painful to walk with that, let alone use it in combat.” Jacques scratched his head, confused by a blurred memory now lingering in his mind.

”Very strange, indeed. Why has a noble lady from Lawfullia chosen to become an Essentia instead of a Legalist? Is this some kind of cultural exchange? Did we send our princess to the Northern Dynasty?” Mr. Durere impertinently asked, completely unaware that the way he referred to her homeland as Lawfullia was deeply disrespectful. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the first time Tsuki had endured public humiliation for the sake of her motherland. Moreover now, that she was ready to immolate herself inside the ’Golden Bull.’

”I was sent by my father, the rightful Emperor of a united Lawfullia, to marry the son of the rightful Emperor of a united Chaotia—Chad Rolandsson—to turn the eternal friendship that unites our two great empires into an eternal alliance, through which we will bring peace and prosperity to the world. I am your future Queen.” It took a few moments for the audience to fully process her words, and then, like a tsunami, her joyful tidings flooded the room, leaving no survivors.

Whispers of disbelief spread through the crowd, intertwining with a drama now playing live by three unwilling actors. The first was Chad, whose relaxed yet lifeless expression confirmed he’d known all along. The second was Astary, whose cold composure contrasted with the fire now raging in her eyes. And lastly Tsuki, whose relaxed demeanor now mocked the shining lady beneath her.

The war for the title of Queen of the Holy Rolandish Empire had just begun.

Amidst the general excitement, reactions were mixed. Some were genuinely happy for the new Imperial couple, others didn’t care that much, and a vocal minority resented the idea of a foreigner ruling over their nation. However, throughout all the thirty-six floors of the Miraval Educational Center, only one person showed visible fear at the announcement.

Another fucking war, but now I’m an Essentia! I’ll be forcibly enrolled to die against the Starship Commando because some motherfucker has decided to sell his own daugther to rent our Empire’s army. Jacques’s piercing gaze landed on Astary’s poker face. While she was skilled at hiding her emotions, Jacques, being an expert, detected subtle vibrations at the corners of her mouth. Don’t worry, my Queen, I will ensure you marry Chad—by any means necessary.

”Everyone, shut up! You can waste your time with gossip after the Class Assignment ends. Now, Miss Hakka, would you do me the favor to walk over the Miraval Hand?” Tsuki obeyed, hearing a faint whirring as hidden fans activated, stirring the air and enveloping the girl in a bluish vortex. After a few seconds, a glowing-blue rectangle materialized above her head, levitating in the air while displaying words visible to everyone—a [Window].

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Tsuki’s strict etiquette forbade her from rejoicing, but everyone else, including the professors, couldn’t restrain themselves. Even Mr. Durere, who licked his lips as his violet eyes fixed on the new prey.

”Equality is a false idol, a tautology that holds true for all humans. However, unlike the Soulfuls, whose hierarchy is determined by mere wealth, we are divided according to our power into ranks from F to S.” Mr. Durere turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. ”Essentias make up less than 0.1% of the total population, while Class S are fewer than 0.0001%—a new goddess has just been born before our eyes.” He concluded with a theatrical bow as Tsuki descended from the stage, backed by a standing ovation. ”Now, the Class Assignment has officially begun. There are twelve Miraval Hands over this stage…” The Class S professors rose from their thrones, positioning themselves between each pair of Miraval Hands, but Principal Miraval was forced to take Mr. Blues’ place. ”…You’re welcome.”

The first group of students included a familiar face for Jacques, the Barbarian lady—this time without the giant wolf. She positioned herself next to Miss Sinclair, who embraced her warmly, like a mother, only to be ignored by the girl, pride radiating from her sapphire eyes.

They are like two portraits of the same woman painted by the same artist, only a few years apart. Jacques thought, looking at the shining sculpture of ice that dangled from the girl’s neck. Her pendant isn’t melting despite this temperature? Hmm…I have a strange feeling, as if I’ve forgotten something very important. He shrugged. Well, who cares? Anything it was, it won’t be the 'World’s End.'

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The announcement of a new Class S sent the crowd into a frenzy, overshadowing the excellent result of the ’Virgin Rose.’ She first gazed on the three A’s before her [Prefix], then bitterly glared at the letter S on the window next to hers, before lowering her head in shame—her countless freckles were now completely shrouded by a shameful blush. At least, she still received the warm cheers from Miss Sinclair and encouragement claps from Astary.

Meanwhile, the ’Fullmetal Maiden’ first instinct was to look left and right, clearly confused by the public’s reaction, but when she finally looked up, her face exploded in joy. Without hesitation, she jumped from the stage and landed in Chad’s arms, hugging his neck so tightly that his face showed the first symptoms of suffocation. Rumors around Jacques explained the situation. She was Chad’s twin sister, the Princess of the Holy Rolandish Empire—Bradamanthe Rolandsson.

She’s so tall and muscular that she is making the Barbarian girl look like a puppy in comparison. But her most fascinating traits are her thick golden braid that cascades all the way to her knees and the same diamond eyes of Chad—crystal wonders that could enrapture the soul of anyone who stares too much at them. Jacques thought as he watched brother and sister celebrate together. If only all siblings could get along like them… He grimaced as he remembered his cousins.

After three more rounds, another familiar face for Jacques stepped onto the stage—Astary Von Sternenstaub. As she climbed the stage’s stairs, her skin beamed with a multitude of colors, projecting an aurora borealis throughout the ’MEC,’ bewitching the crowd while leaving the students hailing from the Southern Fiefdoms speechless. With all eyes on her, she walked over to the Miraval Hand next to Miss Sinclair, receiving a warm hug as well.

To her left stood a peasant-looking boy, visibly embarrassed at breathing the same air as what seemed to him a goddess, contrasting with the unbothered expression of the gloomy girl on Astary’s right. Despite being next to a star, no light seemed to touch her pale face, which esoterically juxtaposed with the obsidian black of her lips and hair—the unique beauty of a Nixie Lady.

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Heroine Stella had officially been reborn, and the ’Shining Star’ pridefully glanced at Tsuki, savoring her sweet revenge, knowing she now held the high ground. The public’s attention was firmly on Astary, leaving the peasant boy unnoticed as both Mr. Durere and Principal Miraval congratulated him.

After five more rounds, the heavy thud of sabatons heralded the coming of a Knight clad in dark-green plate armor, from which hung a cape of metallic feathers. He ascended the stage alongside a noble lady wrapped in an opulent gown with sleeves so enormous that they trailed on the ground and a tight corset that cinched her waist into a hyperbola. A griffon-shaped helmet concealed the man’s auburn hair, while the lady wore a silver tiara nestled amid her cascade of blonde curls, making the couple look as if they had time-traveled directly from the Dark Century.

Once they both stood on the pedestals, the Knight knelt, took the lady’s hand, and recited a courtly poem about a type of love long-forgotten by modern society. Unfortunately, courtly love bored Vice-Principal Durere, who decided to have a little fun. He pushed the lady away and made the young man kiss his hand instead, causing him to stumble to the ground in shock as the students’ waves of laughter soaked him in shame.

”There are a thousand students in this room. No time for jokes! Except mine, of course—*KEKEKE!*”

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The first ’Class F’ had finally shown up, greeted by pitying sighs and mocking laughter at the petrified expression on his face. The valiant Knight’s new life as an Essentia was doomed from the start.

”There must be an error!” He yelled before seizing Mr. Durere by the neck—his helmet’s hooked beak pressing against the professor’s crooked nose. ”I am the Scion of the ’Highlands’—a direct descendant of the ’Bio Blacksmith.’ This is absurd! I demand a new Class Assignment!” His pathetic screams of rage fueled the mockery, forcing his beloved lady to cover her face in shame.

”Silence!” The public humiliation was cut short by Mr. Durere, who placed his one-fingered hand on the young man’s shoulder and looked straight into his eagle eyes with a gentle expression that could have rivaled that of an angel. ”Don’t make yourself ridiculous—’Clown’—*KEKEKE!*”

As waves of laughter from the thirty-six floors flooded the stage, the Highlander Knight desperately looked around in search of a lifebelt to survive the storm, but all he found were sharks waiting for their dinner. Hence, his gaze then shifted toward his only hope left. I don’t care if the entire world is rooting for my annihilation. With you by my side, Nellie, I’ll be able to fight destiny itself. I am your Knight, and you are my Princess—now, tomorrow, and forever. The Scion’s heart pounded as he watched Nellie slowly lowering her hands, revealing tears adorning the most enraged of expressions.

”Stay away from me, you pathetic loser!” The ’Toxic Parasite’ shrieked at the ’Clown,’ piercing his already broken heart, and, with no hope left, he ran out of the atrium, tears streaming down his face.

Jacques had just witnessed a live homicide—the complete murder of a young man’s social life. I beg you, Holy Trinity—anything but Class F.

After an hour, the moment everyone had been waiting for finally arrived. The Scion of the Holy Rolandish Empire—Chad Rolandsson—ascended to the stage, but he wasn’t the only notable freshman over that podium. Next to him, in full regalia adorned with the flaming Nixie Cross, stood the Scion of the Evernightmare Kingdom, struggling not to be overshadowed by his blood rival.

Jacques recognized that depressed prince. A lot of time has passed since I last saw Anicet. With my new look, I have nothing to worry about, and he probably doesn’t even remember me, anyway.

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Silence fell across all thirty-six floors of the Miraval Educational Center. Principal Miraval began to cry, and soon, many others followed his example, and this time Jacques didn’t need any feedback. Chad had been blessed by the grace of the Holy Trinity with the only [Class] of [SSS.Rank], which had appeared only once in recorded history—the [Class] of Hero Roland.

The public was witnessing a historical moment. The prophecy foretelling the return of the ’Hero’ in order to fight the ’World’s End Messiah’ in an apocalyptic war that would decide the fate of mankind had now been fulfilled. A new age for the Holy Rolandish Empire was about to begin, and no one cared about Anicet becoming the reincarnation of his ancestor—such was life for Evernightmare Kings.

***

After all the politically relevant Class Assignments were over, the professors allowed the stu- dents to relax in the Relax Section—a vast area occupying nearly one-third of the academy’s total surface. It housed the student dormitories, a sprawling public park, dozens of bars and restaurants, and shops designed to satisfy every teenage desire in such a tumultuous age.

Jacques’s turn was one of the last, granting him plenty of time to enjoy everything the area had to offer. But whether he was at the park, the bar, or even the library, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, ruining his free time.

After a couple of hours, Jacques finally walked to the stage with a sense of unease due to his bad history with luck—to him, the Class Assignment felt like a giant roulette. He positioned himself on the last pedestal near Mr. Durere, who appeared exhausted, granting Jacques the rare privilege of being ignored by the professor’s weird sense of humor.

Very few students remained in the room, and no one seemed to pay Jacques any attention, except for a bronze-skinned girl with amber eyes. She was staring at him with such intensity that it embarrassed Jacques, who instinctively thought his hair must be messy.

Then, the light from the Miraval Hand flared, and a [Window] appeared above his head.

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Weaker than a spear and with less range than a bow, a Javelin was a secondary weapon that broke after just one hit. ”I wish you better luck in your next life,” Mr. Durere taunted after his energy got fueled by Jacques’ painful expression. The mockery of the few students who still watched the show backgrounded Jacques’ fast descent from the stage, who hid himself in a dark corner to check his [Stats].

”[Stats.Window],” he said.

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”What?”

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