Three weeks passed like a whisper of wind. The planned encampment in Friedrich County, a region ruled by old nobles more preoccupied with inheritance disputes than tending to their lands, was cancelled. The official reason cited was internal conflict among the elder hawks. In truth, Fravikveidimadr likely didn't want a valuable asset like myself beyond their reach for too long. The cancellation was replaced with another agenda, a more controlled and, at least for the instructors, far more useful event: the Situational Assessment Exam.
And here I am now. Standing in the academy's bustling corridor, over two months since I woke up in this world. The date read 17th of Quintilis. Spring in the Eastern Cledestine Kingdom felt cool, with bright sunlight that warmed without burning. The air carried the scent of flowers from the gardens and a faint trace of coal from the industrial district in the distance.
"Welt!"
I recognized that panicked voice without turning. Only one person in this academy could sound like a rabbit constantly chased by a wolf. I turned around, and sure enough, Finnian O'Connell came running toward me with a comically terrified expression.
"What happened?" I asked, my tone flat. "Did you just accidentally declare war on another noble family?"
"No!" he panted, trying to hide behind my back, useless, of course, given our height difference.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Firm and rhythmic footsteps approached. The steps of someone who didn't waste energy.
"Finnian! You tore up my notes on Essence fluctuation patterns!" The voice was cold and sharp, belonging to a girl clearly enraged.
"Welt… please…" Finnian whimpered.
I had no interest in being a shield in this childish drama. I stepped aside, pulled Finnian from behind me, and pushed him forward, directly into the predator's path. "No. You deal with it."
Irene Cheva stopped in front of us. Her usually calm face was flushed, not from embarrassment, clearly, but from suppressed anger. Her green eyes glared at Finnian, who trembled like a leaf in autumn.
"Compensation. Now. Fin!" Irene shouted. Her voice wasn't shrill, but it carried an intensity that made several students around us stop and stare.
I watched her. Interesting. Her anger seemed genuine. She truly valued her knowledge, and the destruction of her research notes was treated as a grave personal offense.
I decided this was no longer my concern. I turned to walk away, pretending nothing had happened. But a hand grabbed my arm. The grip was firm, her long, slender fingers surprisingly strong.
"You too, you brat," Irene hissed, her eyes now shifting to me. "I need you as a witness."
I gave in and turned back around, my expression blank. "Witness for what? Did I also do something wrong?"
"Your mistake was being here and doing nothing," she replied curtly. "Now you'll come with me and Finnian to the administration office to ensure he replaces every parchment sheet and every drop of special ink he's wasted."
An incredible waste of time. But outright refusal would only complicate things. I needed to use logic to escape this social trap. "That's inefficient," I said. "The administrative process will take at least an hour. That hour could be used by Finnian to begin recopying your notes. I'll supervise and ensure the copy meets your standards. That would be a more productive form of compensation for all of us."
Irene stared at me for a moment, her anger subsiding slightly, replaced by cold analysis. She weighed my logic. "Fine," she said at last, releasing my arm. "But if there's even a single error in the copy, you'll be the one paying for it, Welt."
Before this little drama could continue, the large bell in the academy's main tower rang, signaling the call to assembly. All students, including the three of us, quickly moved toward the main hall. The announcement of the Situational Assessment Exam was about to begin.
The hall buzzed with conversation. I stood at the back row, alongside Finnian and, surprisingly, Irene, who chose to stand near us, keeping a safe distance from the other crowds. From the corner of my eye, I saw Roshtov in another row, also alone, a thick book in his hand like a shield against the world. And far in another corner, I caught a glimpse of William Salwors. He didn't look at me directly, but I knew I was within his surveillance field. This chessboard never stopped moving.
Master Borin stepped onto the stage, his wrinkled face more serious than usual. "Attention, cadets! As you know, the expedition to Friedrich County has been cancelled. In its place, the Annual Situational Assessment Exam will begin tomorrow at six in the morning."
The hall fell silent.
"This year, the scenario is the 'Monolith Tower Incident,'" he continued. "A 'murder' has occurred. The victim is a high-ranking official from the Royal Research Bureau. Location: a closed training facility in the North Wing. You will be divided into several investigation squads. Your task is to examine the crime scene, analyze evidence, interrogate 'witnesses,' and submit a final report containing the perpetrator's identity and motive within twenty-four hours. The squad with the most accurate and logical analysis will be declared the winner."
A detective game. A perfect simulation to observe how these people think under pressure, how they process information, and how their social hierarchy functions in crisis. Far more useful than camping in the woods.
"Squad assignments will now be announced," said Master Borin, taking out a scroll of parchment.
I knew I would be placed in a squad designed to test me. I just didn't know who else they would choose as the variables.
"Squad Gamma: Lian Valerius, Finnian O'Connell, Roshtov Valerius…" Master Borin paused as he read Roshtov's name, as if realizing the oddity of placing two estranged siblings in the same team. "…Irene Cheva, Cassian Droct, and… Welt Rothes."
I showed no reaction. Perfect. This squad was a deliberate construct. Lian, the arrogant instigator. Finnian, my pawn. Roshtov, the observer now forced to interact. Irene, the unregistered variable, the "Queen." And Cassian Droct, I glanced across the hall, son of a marshal, a firm believer in military supremacy who looked down on anything not solvable by sword or conventional tactics. He would try to seize command immediately.
This would be an interesting show.
...
William observed the squad assignments from his inconspicuous position. He was placed in Squad Beta, a competent but predictable group. That was fine. His focus wasn't on his own victory. This exam was a golden opportunity for data collection.
He flipped to a new page in his notebook.
Situational Exam Entry. Subject W-01 placed in Squad Gamma.
Squad Gamma Composition: Lian Valerius (aggressive variable, high hierarchical bias), Finnian O'Connell (submissive variable, easily influenced, loyalty to W-01), Roshtov Valerius (internal observer, possible sibling conflict/alliance), Irene Cheva (most intellectual variable, independent), and Cassian Droct (alpha leader variable, enforcer).
Conclusion: This squad is designed to generate maximum internal friction. The instructors aren't testing their collective investigative skills. They are testing each individual's capacity to operate under extreme social and psychological pressure. The primary target of this exam is clearly W-01. They want to see how he navigates chaos.
William closed his eyes briefly. He already knew what he would do. His squad would discover an important clue, perhaps an encrypted message or strange alchemical trace. When reporting it to the shared data center accessible to all squads, he would alter one small detail. A number. A symbol. A subtle inaccuracy, barely noticeable, yet enough to contaminate the entire dataset.
He wanted to see how W-01 handled misinformation. Would he detect it? Dismiss it? Or build a brilliant theory upon a rotten foundation?
This was an experiment. And William Salwors was very eager for the results.
...
The next morning, Squad Gamma gathered in front of the training facility in the North Wing. Cassian Droct had already taken position at the front, acting as though he were our commander.
"All right, listen up," he said with a heavy voice, scanning us one by one. "I'll lead this operation. Lian, you and I will examine the main crime scene. Roshtov, check the outer perimeter for entry traces. Irene, review the victim's communication logs. Finnian, go make us tea. And you," his eyes stopped on me, filled with barely concealed contempt, "stay out of the way."
A task distribution based on social hierarchy, not competence. He assigned himself and Lian, fellow high nobles, the most critical duties. He dismissed Irene as a secretary, Finnian as a servant, and me as something even lower.
I said nothing. I merely nodded. Let him lead. The more he felt in control, the greater his error would be.
We entered the scene. It was a luxurious office made to look ransacked. A mannequin dressed in high-official uniform lay on the floor, a fake "stab wound" on its chest. There were "bloodstains" scattered, papers strewn about, and an open, empty safe.
Cassian and Lian immediately dove in like overzealous bloodhounds. They examined the "body," searched for the "murder weapon," and shouted obvious discoveries. "There's mud near the window! The culprit entered here!" Cassian exclaimed.
Irene ignored them entirely and went straight to a data terminal in the corner. Roshtov, after a brief hesitation, followed Cassian's orders and went to check the perimeter. Finnian looked confused, unsure whether he was truly meant to make tea.
I did nothing. I simply stood by the door and observed. I saw no clues. I saw a stage. Every object in this room had been placed deliberately. Every "hint" was a sentence in a story prewritten by the instructors. To win this game, I didn't need to find the truth, I needed to understand the author's intent.
I slowly walked around the room, my eyes recording everything. The unnatural blood patterns, the overly theatrical mannequin position, the type of mud by the window that didn't match the soil outside. All fabricated, made to appear neat when it was deliberately messy.
After about an hour, Cassian gathered us. "All right, report!" he ordered.
Lian reported the victim was stabbed, based on the wound. Cassian concluded the culprit was an intruder who stole something from the safe. Roshtov said there were no clear footprints outside, just a few unidentifiable ones. Irene, without lifting her head from the terminal, said, "The victim's final communication was an encrypted message sent to an unregistered address, five minutes before the estimated time of death."
Then all eyes turned to me.
"And you, Rothes?" Cassian asked mockingly. "Find anything useful while daydreaming in the corner?"
I looked at him. "Yes," I said softly. "I found that we're all asking the wrong question."
"What do you mean?" Cassian growled.
"You're all asking 'who killed this official?' The right question is, 'why do the instructors want us to believe this official was killed this way?'" I stepped into the center of the room. "This wasn't a murder. If you actually deduced properly, it was a suicide made to look like a murder."
Complete silence. Even Irene looked up from the terminal.
I pointed at the various "clues." "That mud? Red clay, found only near the ceramic workshop, three kilometers from here. No reason for an intruder to bring that here. It was deliberately placed."
"The body's position? With all my heart, I can tell it's too perfect. Outstretched hand, 'shocked' expression. That's the exact pose from the famous painting The Death of Senator Cato, which conveniently hangs in the instructors' dining room. They gave us a visual clue."
"And most importantly," I pointed at a shattered teacup near the "body." "There's only one cup. The official wasn't hosting anyone. He was alone. No sign of struggle. Clearly, he poisoned himself, then in his final moments stabbed himself to create a wound, opened the safe, and ransacked the office to create the illusion of a robbery. As for the encrypted message Irene found? Look closely, it's a will, or a confession."
My theory hung in the air, shattering their simplistic conclusions. Cassian stared at me with a mix of anger and confusion. Lian looked stunned. Roshtov's eyes reflected understanding.
Then an alarm went off on Irene's terminal. "New data from the central hub," she said. "Report from Squad Beta. They found traces of rare poison, Black Aconite, in the ventilation system connected to this office."
Data from William's squad. Clearly flawed. Poison in the vents implied an external attack, contradicting my theory. I knew William was testing me.
Cassian laughed mockingly. "Suicide, you said? He was obviously poisoned through the vents! You're just bluffing, Rothes!"
The situation stalled again. They now had "evidence" supporting the murder theory.
That night, our squad splintered. Cassian and Lian clung to the murder theory, supported by Beta Squad's data. I stuck to my theory, but had no evidence to refute the poison discovery.
I sat alone in a corner, contemplating my next move. I couldn't prove the data was false without revealing my knowledge of William. I had to find another way. I had to create my own truth.
Irene approached me in silence. She sat on the floor beside me, not too close.
"You knew the answer from the beginning, didn't you?" she asked softly, not an accusation, but an admission. "Not just about the case. About everything."
I stared at our chaotic investigation board, filled with conflicting red threads. This game was becoming dull. Its designers had made a fundamental mistake. They thought they were testing our ability to find the truth.
"They're wrong," I said, finally looking at her.
"Then what are they really testing?" Irene asked, her green eyes searching mine.
I gave her the first smile I'd offered since arriving in this world. A smile not warm, but coldly certain.
"They're testing our ability to create the most convincing truth. And tomorrow," I said, "I'll give them a masterpiece."
That dialogue was a declaration. My childhood in this world, my passive phase of observation, had ended. From now on, I would no longer read the stories given to me.
I would write them, my own story.