The Shrine to the Goddess was large enough to seat every resident in Iori with room to spare. Rows of white chairs were broken into four blocks, each facing the raised platform in the center. Above the platform, a statue of the Goddess seemed to float, giving off a dull golden glow. No matter how much he searched, Grant could not find a single wire or cable attaching it to the ceiling.

  It was the largest number of people he had ever seen in one place, and the first time all recruits had gathered in the same location. The men wore formal button-up white shirts on black slacks, and the women wore ankle-length gray dresses. The sea of heads bespoke of the sheer scale of the Campaign.

  As the clock struck two o’clock, a loud bell resounded through the hall, and the lights dimmed. All conversation hushed, and nearly 10,000 people sat in perfect silence. Unfamiliar recruits sat to his left and right, resting gently closed fists on their thighs, their knees bent at 90 degrees. Grant concentrated on keeping his breaths steady. This was the day he had waited for. His patience was on the verge of snapping, yet he would have to wait hours more until he was called.

  Armored soldiers entered from the aisles between the seats, steel greaves clanging against the gray stone floor. They marched in sync, banging the butts of their spears on the ground once every two steps. The frontmost soldiers of each group reached the platform at the same time and began ascending the short staircases, creating a perimeter around the edge.

  Groups of officers entered next. Grant recognized Captain Alaric and assumed those in his company were the other yard instructors. Doctor Holt and his Survival Skills professor also walked down his aisle. Dozens of faces he did not recognize were present, but Caitlyn was not. They took their seats near the platform.

  Slow, gentle, regal music began. A man who must have been Emperor Genus, surrounded by his Honor Guard, arrived between Block One and Block Two. “It’s the Emperor!” whispered someone in his area. Recruits’ heads rose and craned to get a better look. Unlike the others, when he and his guards arrived in the center, they made a full rotation around the platform, waving and smiling to the future Campaigners.

  It was the first time Grant had seen him. He was a type of old that made even Mr. Fletcher look young. His steps were steady and sure, back straight and rigid, and his head was covered with neatly styled white-gray hair, but his sagging face was creased with deep lines that no Healer could smoothen. He wore long, dark cobalt robes closer to black than blue. Servants followed, holding the tail, and the front was adorned with bells that rang as he walked.

  Next to him was a woman of similar age, and she linked her arm to his. She was beautiful in a way that transcended age—high cheekbones, large hazel eyes, and a small nose. Her hair was every bit as gray as her husband’s, and she had it styled in two intricate braids, tied at their ends with colorful bands of jewels.

  Grant had not expected the Emperor’s wife to be his age. Most Dukes from his region tended to marry younger women.

  The Emperor and Empress found their seats, escorted by their Royal Guard. They sat in the center of the platform, facing Block One. A man stood and strode to the podium, spread his hands, and began the opening ceremony.

  “Heroes of Evenon!” he bellowed, his deep, soothing voice washing over the room. “Today is a momentous occasion. In three days’ time, you will march through the Portal to a foreign world, to fight for your Emperor, fight for your countryman, and fight for your Goddess.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in.

  His oratory skills were well-practiced, but as he droned on about the will of the Goddess, the glory of his Emperor, and heroic deeds from past Campaigners, the recruits’ attention waned. Even the Emperor and Empress began to look bored, eventually whispering to each other and giggling like bored children in class during the latter half of the speech. Unperturbed, the speaker continued, his rising cadence and emotion ill-fitted for the audience’s interest.

  Grant’s mind also wandered, eventually to the Emperor himself, or at least the back of his head. He idly pondered what would happen if he tried to Identify the man.

  He imagined it would be extremely painful, at the very least.

  The speech ended with mild applause. The man took his seat near the Emperor, bowing 90 degrees before he sat.

  “Ascend ascend! Heroes ascend!”

  The crowd jumped when the soldiers slammed their spears’ butts against the floor.

  “Ascend ascend! Heroes ascend!”

  They slammed them down again.

  The first row from each block stood up, forming neat lines in front of short staircases located in each corner of the platform. There were 26 recruits per row.

  Two men and two women in white garb ascended the stairs and took positions at podiums facing each block.

  They must be the Readers.

  Grant rolled his neck, finally having the answer to the question that had bothered him all day. To Read and announce the Points of 9,641 recruits, assuming it took 10 seconds per recruit, would take almost 27 hours. With four Readers, they could cut the time to a quarter, to slightly under seven hours.

  Grant groaned. Either way, it was going to be a long afternoon.

  One man across the shrine ascended the platform and approached a Reader. He had a frog-like face, with bulging eyes, a weak chin, and a squat appearance despite his average height. He was obviously no older than thirty, as only those under 30 could enter the Portal, but his light brown hair was streaked with gray.

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  Emperor Genus and the Empress leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Belal Genus!” bellowed the Reader. “Seventh born to Emperor and Empress Genus! 28 years of age!” The Reader nodded with reverence to the young man and placed his hand over his brow. A sparkle of light flowed over him.

  Nearly 10,000 people held their breath. Grant sat at the edge of his seat, hands clenching his pant legs. The man standing in front of the Reader was a potential, although unlikely, heir to the throne. The Reading would not only determine his fate, but the fate of the empire itself.

  “Three-hundred… forty-one thousand… six-hundred and fourteen Points!”

  Forgetting all decorum, the Emperor slapped his knee and the Empress cackled with joy before they embraced each other. Block One erupted in cheers. 341,614 points was among the highest in Campaign history. All watched with awe and envy as the boy beamed proudly, returning to his seat.

  Shitting royals, Grant thought. He bit his lip. The words had almost come out. He had to be careful, as he didn’t know what kinds of Spells and Skills the participants of the ceremony held, and being overheard insulting the royal family could ruffle feathers that should remain unruffled.

  A young woman approached next. She had blonde hair Grant assumed the Emperor and Empress had in their youth, although she looked little like her brother. She was a spitting image of her mother—tall, lean, and with a stunningly beautiful face. The other lines waited patiently as she was Read.

  It seemed as though royalty went first.

  “Raella Genus! Eighth born to Emperor and Empress Genus! 24 years of age!” Again, the Reader nodded and placed a hand over her brow.

  “Two hundred… sixteen thousand… nine-hundred and fifty-six Points!”

  She looked as if she had gargled with lemon juice, and Grant couldn’t help but scoff. Over twice the points required to be considered an Anomaly, but all she could see was her brother standing above her. The Emperor and Empress laughed and applauded, while Block One celebrated again. With a curt nod, she and her brother strode toward the stairs to their raucous cheers.

  With the main attraction over, the recruits waiting in line were ushered up to their own Readers. They began speaking over each other, and recruit after recruit was Read their Points.

  Initially, Grant tried to listen to each Reading, but it was hard to catch them all. For the first few hours, every Recruit had at least 10,000 Points. Every one hundred or so, one of the blocks would erupt to signify an Anomaly had been found. Grant noted the Emperor’s children taking note of non-noble recruits with between 50,000 and 100,000 Points, whispering constantly to each other.

  On further inspection, other nobles in the front rows were doing the same. They practically drooled when one frail young man with a lame leg had 61,231.

  Grant clenched his jaw, finally having the answer to his question. Lira, Ayers, and Roland all knew it the moment they announced the public Point reading, but he just figured it out. It wasn’t about being powerful enough to survive the Campaign. It was about being powerful enough to survive what came after the Campaign. The so-called volunteers were there every bit as voluntarily as the selected were. The future of their houses lay in their hands.

  When they returned to Evenon, a single one of them could be worth hundreds of common soldiers. More Points meant more Classes, Spells, and Skills. More power meant more influence and security for their houses.

  It turned his stomach. They were farming commoners for Points like sheep for mutton, using what they gained to maneuver to a better position on the political chessboard.

  Grant promised himself that no matter what happened beyond the Portal, he would never treat lives as they did.

  Around the fourth hour, he spotted Lira in the line of Block Four. She combed her hand through her long brown hair as her eyes wandered about her surroundings. She seemed as concerned with her Point total as she was with tomorrow’s breakfast menu. When she reached the podium, the Reader spoke.

  “Lira Bradford of Zile! 19 years of age! Seventy-two thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-four Points!”

  Grant almost cheered, but he saw several nobles, including Belal, leering at her like a house cat would a rabbit. The older brother tapped his sister’s shoulder and pointed her out, receiving a nod in return.

  “No,” he snarled. The word had just burst out. “You can’t have her.”

  He was standing, making no attempt to hide his rage, even as those around him looked up, their faces crinkled. The young man sitting beside him tugged at his sleeve, urging him to sit down. If the rumors were to be believed, Emperor Genus commanded Water Magic powerful enough to drown him and everyone else in the building with no more effort than it would take to tie his shoes. At that moment, Grant didn’t care. He wanted the man’s children to look into Grant’s face and know going after her would cost them.

  They did not spare him a glance. They just took note of her and went back to their conversation. Hopefully they would forget her by the time the Campaign began.

  He eventually composed himself with deep breaths and sat back down. Anger would get him nowhere. Points would. All he could do was wait.

  Roland’s reading was not long after Lira’s. The massive man got just 14,462 points. Grant grimaced. It was well toward the low end. However, Roland just shrugged and walked off the platform. A sharp sting of envy caught Grant off guard. He had spent weeks obsessing over his Points, and yet the mercenary didn’t even bat an eye. He trusted in his own skill with a spear.

  While he caught Lira’s and Roland’s Point totals, he missed the Reading of the Priestess from his cart, Abigail, Ayers’, and Col’s. Knowing Col, he was probably passed out drunk somewhere and was subsequently skipped in line, consequences be damned.

  By the sixth hour, the sun had already set and Mana crystals in the building flickered to life, casting a gentle glow on the hall. Most had long grown bored of the ceremony, preferring to talk amongst themselves than pay attention to others’ Points. Emperor Genus hunched to his side, and although he could not see the man’s face, Grant would wager he had fallen asleep. The Empress still sat up straight and rigid, idly picking her nails.

  Finally, Row 93 was called. Grant swallowed and lined up, around the middle of his group.

  He blocked the rest of the world out. Voices became nothing more than background noise, the people around him nothing more than nameless bodies. Every third or fourth breath, he shuffled forward as the line moved.

  High Points. High enough to make them afraid. Too high to challenge me.

  The faces of his friends began to flash through his mind. Dan. Mr. Nerelot. Roland. Lira. Ayers. Caitlyn. Rott. He had a lot of people relying on him. With frazzled composure, he approached his Reader, not having heard the Points of a single recruit before him.

  Enough to protect them.

  The woman smiled at him. She had Read thousands already—how she still had Mana was beyond Grant’s understanding of how Mana and the Read spell worked, but her small gesture put him at ease, and he relaxed his shoulders.

  She lifted her hand above his head.

  “Grant Leeman of Iori! 18 years of age!”

  He held his breath.

  Her face twisted with confusion, and she paused. Her brow furrowed as she opened her mouth, as though she didn’t trust herself to say the right words.

  “Four-hundred and eighty-seven—”

  A gasp rippled through the dome. Other Readers halted their own spells, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Emperor Genus snapped up and looked over his shoulder, mouth gaping with disbelief. His son and daughter, Belal and Raella, jerked themselves up from their seats to get a better look at Grant.

  The hair on his arms stood. It’s happening!

  His Reader stopped and set herself. She started over, Reading him again.

  “Grant Leeman of Iori! 18 years of age! Four hundred and eighty-seven Points!”

  NEW QUEST!

  OBJECTIVE: Teach spellcraft to the magically attuned.

  REWARD: Your greatest desire.

  Immediately, the prompt made Wilbur suspicious. The reward could be anything.

  Inner peace? Belonging? A cosmic therapy session?

  Wilbur rolled his eyes at the broken System. “Nice try.” What could it possibly offer a wizard at the peak of magical power?

  Apparently, a lot.

  The revised reward? Chronomancy.

  The magic to control time. The thing he’d been chasing for centuries. The missing piece to return to Earth.

  Not the strangely empty, radioactive ruin of the present… but the one he’d lost. Full of cheap takeout, terrible movies, and addictive warm beverages.

  …Of course, nothing this good is free.

  Build a magical school? Check, done.

  Train people to use spellcraft? Easy;

  Convince them to burn the arcane into their flesh permanently? Easy...right?

  Just ignore the Radiant church foaming at the mouth, screaming "HERESEY!"

  Turns out, the hardest part isn't the magic.

  It’s people.