Chapter Two: The Strange Bloodline

Joan’s dreams were rich and full, but alas, her wallet was painfully thin.

Leighton Harbor lay on the central eastern coast of Alfheim, far removed from the inland southern heartland where Derlin Town stood. The journey by foot would take at least a month; even with a sled, it would be a week or two, traversing wild, beast-ridden forests, all the more perilous in the deep snows of winter. Yet neither hardship nor danger could dampen the fervor of youth pursuing dreams. Since last summer, Joan had set her sights on traveling to Leighton Harbor for the entrance exam, spending half a year planning her route and working tirelessly to save up for the journey. After the New Year, she finally gathered enough funds.

One morning, Joan left a letter for her grandfather, shouldered her pack, carried all her belongings, and, with her loyal and intelligent hound Jamie, quietly slipped out of the house. She boarded her sled, braving the winter winds, racing across the boundless snowy plains, thus embarking on her quest for learning.

It was Joan’s first time venturing far from home, relying solely on youthful courage and ignorance of the world’s dangers. Had she been older and more aware of the risks lurking in the wild, she might never have found the nerve to leave.

Perhaps it was the blessing of the goddess of fate; this thirteen-year-old country girl, utterly clueless about her future, managed to pass through snow, forests, and beasts unscathed, arriving at Leighton Harbor after ten days.

Joan had no wish to recall the hardships of her journey, nor did she pay attention to the city's bustling splendor. Her first order of business was to ask directions to Leighton Academy. Then, leading her dog and dragging her sled, she entered the admissions hall, perfectly fitting the city folk’s stereotype of a “country bumpkin.”

She ignored the glances of the fashionable city children, walked straight to the sign for “Arcane Admissions,” and summoned her courage to ask the examiner in a gray robe seated behind the long table.

“How much does it cost to take the entrance exam?” Joan asked nervously.

“No fee,” the examiner replied kindly. “Register here, get a number, and wait your turn for the test.”

Joan breathed a sigh of relief—her greatest worry on the journey had been lacking money.

The examiner, noting her reaction, looked at her with a trace of pity. He had seen countless poor youths with nothing but dreams. If they were lucky enough to pass the test, they would soon realize their joy was premature—Leighton Academy had never been a haven for “poor kids.”

Joan was assigned number 13. With her registration done, she sat on a bench to wait. Around her, other candidates, mostly her age, lounged or nervously wiped sweat, many buried in spellbooks.

Sitting in a corner, Joan opened her pack and took out a piece of hard, stone-like black bread, chewing in silence. Each swallow scraped her throat painfully, forcing her to gulp it down, veins bulging on her forehead. Thankfully, the hall provided free hot water; Joan filled her waterskin, washed down each bite, just managing to fill her stomach before the test.

Spellcasting was intense mental work; an empty belly spelled poor performance. To save money, Joan had never eaten her fill on the journey, and though the coarse bread would be spurned by city pets, the rare feeling of satiety brought her a secret happiness.

Thanks to that half piece of black bread, Joan faced her destiny-shaping exam in excellent form. She listened to the examiner’s instructions, focused her mind, executed a practiced sequence of spell gestures, softly intoned the incantation, and finished with a trigger word.

“Rúma!”

“Rúma” was an ancient Quenya (Elvish) term meaning “lift, raise, move... heavy objects.” Arcane spells of the Transmutation or Evocation schools often used it as a trigger when manipulating objects magically.

Joan performed flawlessly; her gestures and rhythm were nearly perfect. As she spoke “Rúma,” pale ghostly light flared from her right hand, her fingertip pointed to the left end of the table, and the five-pound test weight floated into the air, moving along her gesture as if held by an invisible hand, landing steadily on the other side.

“That’s enough,” the examiner nodded.

Joan relaxed, beads of sweat visible on her brow.

“Did I pass?” she asked.

“Yes, you passed,” the examiner said routinely. “Classes start April first. Be sure to pay your tuition the day before.”

“Tuition...” Joan’s heart clenched. “How much?”

“Three thousand gold Dugas,” the examiner raised his head, eyeing the stunned country girl with pity. “Three thousand per year, not including board or other fees.”

Joan felt as if her throat were stuffed with cloth, unable to speak. She’d known tuition would be costly, but not so outrageously so. Three thousand gold Dugas—how much was that? Her impoverished mind couldn’t fathom it.

“Is your family struggling?” the examiner continued in his routine tone.

Joan’s face reddened; she nodded honestly.

The examiner set aside his quill, pressed his thumbs together, and said thoughtfully, “Your situation isn’t uncommon. The Academy has aid programs for cases like yours. Would you like to hear about them?”

Joan nodded eagerly, hope rekindled in her eyes.

The examiner gazed deeply at Joan, and a faint magical gleam seemed to flicker in his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened a drawer and took out a rainbow-hued ruler, a gray slip of paper, and a box of steel needles.

He handed Joan a needle. “Prick your finger and drop a bit of blood on the test paper.”

Joan hesitated, then followed instructions, pricking her middle finger and smearing her blood on the gray paper.

The examiner held the paper above the ruler and carefully compared the colors.

Joan had no idea what it meant. But soon, she saw her blood change from red to blue, finally settling as violet-blue.

What did it signify? Was it normal, or abnormal? While Joan puzzled over this, the examiner whistled and smiled.

“Just as I suspected. No wonder your Charisma is unusually high among your three mental attributes—you have a special bloodline.”

“How do you know my mental attributes?” Joan asked, curious.

“By magic, of course,” the examiner pointed to his eyes. “To handle today’s proctoring, I prepared a second-level ‘Greater Insight.’ Now, to the point: from the color band results, you likely possess an ‘Aberrant Bloodline.’ Do you know anything about this?”

Joan’s lips trembled, and she shook her head.

“You know nothing of your bloodline?” The examiner looked at her doubtfully. “Not surprising, coming from the countryside.”

“Sir, what does ‘Aberrant Bloodline’ mean?” Joan resisted the urge to rub her neck, struggling to remain calm.

“That’s not easily explained. Simply put, your ancestors likely had contact with powerful aberrations—mind flayers, beholders, or abyssal demonfish—or forged some mysterious pact. Thus, your family’s blood carries a trace of non-human power. This bloodline may lie dormant for generations, only to manifest in some fortunate descendant—and you are that lucky one,” the examiner smiled at Joan.

“Lucky?”

“Yes, you are lucky. Young lady, your blood contains mysterious magic. Though we don’t yet know its source, it undoubtedly grants you a great advantage—a shortcut to arcane power.”

“A shortcut?”

“The path of the sorcerer,” the examiner said. “Have you heard of ‘sorcerers’?”

Joan nodded. Sorcerers, like wizards, were mainstream arcane practitioners. The difference was wizards gained power through study and research, while sorcerers developed and strengthened innate bloodline magic. Wizards’ abilities depended on intelligence; sorcerers depended on charisma—the outward sign of bloodline potential.

“My advice, young lady: if you insist on the wizard’s path, with your merely above-average intelligence, you might spend your life as a mediocre low-level wizard. But if you’re wise, choose sorcery as your profession, fully develop your aberrant bloodline, and you could become an outstanding high-level sorcerer.” The examiner met Joan’s gaze. “Which path will you choose?”

“Sorry, I need time to think.”

“You have plenty of time. Just decide before classes start.”

“And... about tuition…”

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” the examiner slapped his forehead, pushed a form toward Joan. “If your family struggles, you can apply for the ‘Targeted Contract Training Student Loan,’ jointly offered by the Colonial Company and Leighton Academy—it will greatly ease your tuition burden.”

“What loan?” The string of jargon confused Joan.

“Targeted Contract Training Student Loan—simply put, a company pays part of your tuition as a low-interest loan. You can repay the debt before graduation, or, if you don’t, sign a long-term employment contract with the company. It’s like the company sponsoring your professional training, and you work for them after graduation in return.”

“Is it really that good?” Joan was dubious.

“Talent is rare,” the examiner smiled wryly.

“If I sign, how much do I get?”

“That depends on your major. If you choose wizardry, you get fifteen hundred gold Dugas a year. If you choose sorcery—well,” the examiner whistled dramatically, “you won’t need to pay a single copper; the loan covers everything.”

“So sorcerers are more sought-after than wizards?” Joan mused.

“No, it’s just that your sorcerer talent far exceeds your wizard talent. The company is happy to invest three thousand gold a year in a promising young sorcerer, rather than… forgive me, a rather average wizard apprentice.”

Joan was deeply moved. On the surface, choosing sorcery seemed wiser—it matched her talents and saved a fortune in tuition. Yet she could not decide. For one, she had no idea how to cultivate sorcery or unlock her bloodline’s power. More troubling was a secret fear—an unease about the strange force lurking in her blood.

Joan couldn’t help but touch her neck; a hard lump rotated beneath her hand. She shivered, sensing that if she chose sorcery, she might indeed excel, but as her bloodline’s power grew, she would become ever more strange, perhaps even a monster—like the source of her blood.

Thinking thus, Joan’s burning hope cooled. She picked up the loan application form, bowed deeply to the examiner, and left the hall.

Postscript: Quenya comes from “The Lord of the Rings,” created by Tolkien. Some diacritical marks can’t be displayed properly in my writing software, so I’ve had to substitute similar English letters. I hope readers will understand.