Chapter 255: Failing to Rank

The assessment results were posted the next morning.

Grading those exams only took the associate professors a few glances.

The entire special class clustered in front of the bulletin board in the department lobby.

When Richard walked into the lobby, the crowd automatically parted for him, looking at him with obvious awe.

He looked toward the board.

A red list was pasted at the top, its header reading: "Training Program Passing List."

Twenty names were ranked in order below it.

First place.

Alexander Montagu.

Second place.

Richard Williams.

Richard stood before the list for a few seconds, lingering on the top two names.

Congratulations rang out from behind him.

"Congratulations, Williams."

"Congratulations, Richard."

Richard turned and gave his classmates a slight bow.

He turned back and scanned down the red list.

Third place, fourth place... he stopped at the sixth line.

Catherine Blackwood.

Catherine walked over from the other side of the crowd, her expression unreadable.

Based on assessment scores alone, she should have ranked higher than sixth.

But on the board, she sat at sixth.

Richard quickly put it together.

He remembered an inconspicuous line of fine print at the bottom of the notice next to the board.

"Grading Criteria: Assessment Score + Comprehensive Evaluation (Based on Development Potential)."

Comprehensive evaluation—a phrase that hid a lot beneath the surface.

Circuit stability, the resources a family could mobilize, wartime utility... and the marks in the notebook of that expressionless representative from the Department of Internal Affairs.

Richard understood instantly.

The so-called development potential did not judge how well you were doing right now.

It judged how high you could climb in the future.

Behind Montagu stood a Virtuoso of the Solar Tradition.

The resources he would need to make his Signature, take his first oath, and climb the ranks step by step—his family had already prepared everything for him.

Even if he tied with Richard right now, the evaluators knew his ceiling was simply higher.

Behind Richard stood Ashford House, a declining beacon.

Catherine's case was even worse.

The members of her generation were either dead or scattered; she had no one backing her.

The narrow opening Professor McPhee had just provided couldn't prop up her development potential.

Weighed down by that metric, she dropped from a probable third straight down to sixth.

Standing before the list, Richard recalled Mr. Hutton's words from back then.

...You do not have that kind of tree behind you.

The development potential metric simply measured how tall that tree was.

Richard looked at the bottom few lines of the red list.

Eighteenth place, Edith Carter.

He glanced toward the other side of the lobby.

Edith stood in the farthest corner, clutching the book she never let out of her sight.

She read the red list from the bottom up. The moment she spotted her name, she visibly exhaled in relief.

Her foundation was still a bit thin for the written assessment—she probably ranked around fifteenth.

Factoring in the development potential metric, a daughter of a mill worker who hauled flour sacks had absolutely nothing behind her.

She should have fallen off the list entirely, yet she remained.

Richard knew exactly why. Old Clarke would occasionally keep the two of them after his small classes for extra tutoring, and he had briefly mentioned it.

Every year, the academy admitted one or two students through a recommendation quota.

As long as they performed decently, a few associate professors were usually willing to put in a good word for them.

Thinking of that, Richard scanned the twenty names from top to bottom again.

Phillips was not on it.

He checked again, but the name was still missing.

Richard frowned.

Phillips really had failed the cut.

He left the lobby and looped around to the old sycamore trees behind the building.

A certain young master was sitting on the stone steps, showing no hint of distress over failing the program.

A pot of tea sat in front of him, and he was still holding his copy of The Metamorphosis.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up and smiled.

"Here already?"

"...You didn't make the list," Richard said, sitting down beside him.

"I know." Phillips poured some tea and handed him a cup.

"I checked myself first thing this morning. My name isn't on it."

Richard took the tea but did not drink.

"What are you going to do now? Do you have a backup plan?"

"Of course. The Royal Academy," Phillips answered casually.

"My father pulled some strings a while ago. There are even more young nobles there than at Imperial Capital University. When it comes to extravagance, it's a step up."

"And the academics?" Richard asked.

"A cut below," Phillips answered frankly.

"But only a cut. For someone like me, it's a perfect fit.

I'll coast into a lecturer position, read the books I actually want to read, and live comfortably for the rest of my life."

Richard took a sip of tea and said no more.

"There is one thing that pisses me off, though..."

Phillips slammed his teacup down.

"That brat Oliver," he muttered darkly. "He's over there too."

Richard remembered now. No wonder he hadn't seen the guy during the summer program.

"You'll be schoolmates now. Try to get along."

Phillips shot him an annoyed glare.

He smacked his copy of The Metamorphosis, as if he were slapping Oliver upside the head.

"If I'd known, I would have forced myself to finish those assignments properly."

The two of them sat side by side on the stone steps and finished the pot of tea.

...

At noon, Isabella visited his dorm room.

She carried a lunchbox.

"Since the exams are over."

His aunt set the lunchbox on his desk.

"Don't read any more today. Give your brain a break."

"All right."

Isabella opened the lunchbox.

Inside were dishes far more exquisite than anything from the campus dining hall; she had clearly ordered them from a nice restaurant in the city.

She sat on the edge of the desk and poured herself half a cup of citron tea.

As she poured, she finally managed to force out a word of comfort.

"Second place is actually quite good."

Richard could not help but laugh. His aunt's personality was genuinely endearing sometimes.

"I know why I got second."

"Oh?" Isabella glanced up at him.

"In the written assessment, I was probably neck and neck with Montagu, maybe even tied."

"I lost in the comprehensive evaluation—specifically the development potential metric."

"Catherine stumbled on that metric too," he continued. "And Edith."

Isabella speared a piece of roasted pork knuckle and chewed.

Richard glanced at his aunt.

"The development potential metric."

"It doesn't evaluate me as a person at all. It evaluates how tall the tree behind me is."

Isabella put down her fork. "You see it quite clearly."

"There is no need to be upset over it. We can make up for that metric with other methods."

"What methods?" Richard's eyes brightened.

Isabella laid out the development plan she had mapped out for her nephew.

"Once you enter the prep program in the Department of Classics, don't just slog through it step by step.

Go as fast as you can. Knock out those prep courses as early as possible. It would be best if you graduated a year early."

"And after I graduate early?"

"Graduating from the prep program doesn't require another exam; you go straight into the undergraduate program."

"Once you are an undergrad, whatever research resources I have on hand that I can spare, I'll funnel to you."

"Aunt Isabella..."

"Don't thank me yet." Isabella waved her hand.

"Sparing you my resources doesn't break the rules, but I only have so much.

You'll have to earn the rest yourself."

"During your undergraduate years," she said, her tone slowing, "I want you to build a rock-solid foundation. Don't rush to jump ranks."

"If you can hit Senior Practitioner before your graduate studies, that would be ideal."

"And if I can't?" Richard asked.

"If you can't, I would rather you delay graduation than force your way up unprepared," Isabella answered bluntly.

"Why?"

Isabella gave him a look.

"Because once you hit the graduate tier, you are considered semi-independent."

"The academy will start sending you out on field assignments."

"Usually, that's fine." She furrowed her brow. "Normally, field missions aren't a matter of life and death."

"But these are not normal times."

She picked up her cup of citron tea again and cradled it in both hands.

"In wartime, every asset must be utilized to its fullest extent."

"If you get sent out before your foundation is rock-solid..."

Richard understood. Without a solid foundation, a person wouldn't come back.

"Sophia and Clara," Isabella said, suddenly changing the subject. "I expect they'll be sent out in a few days too."

"On independent field missions?"

"Yes."

As she spoke, Isabella glanced at the lunchbox on the desk.

A large, chubby cat was drawn on it in marker—a gift from Sophia.

"The two of them crossed the Practitioner threshold less than two years ago."

"By the old rules, they would have had to train under me for at least two more years before getting independent assignments."

"This year is different."

"Aunt Isabella, try not to worry too much," Richard offered in comfort. "Both seniors are Practitioners."

"Practitioners." Isabella looked at him. "Your uncle was a Practitioner at seventeen."

His uncle—the one his mother had mentioned but never spoken of in detail.

Richard was completely unfamiliar with the man.

Isabella ran her fingers over the chubby cat on the lunchbox.

"...Did your mother ever tell you? About your uncle."

"A little. She only said he walked the path of a Hunter. She didn't say much else."

Isabella took a couple of sips of citron tea, her brow smoothing out a fraction.

"Your uncle is the eldest of our generation. He is almost ten years older than me."

"When he was thirteen, our father dragged him into training."

"He crossed the Practitioner threshold at seventeen, but remained stuck right before the door of Minor Adept until he was thirty."

"And then?" Richard asked.

"And then, he made a decision on his own," Isabella said. "He went to the New Continent."

Richard's breathing slowed.

The New Continent.

The subject of endless front-page headlines, the place where expeditionary forces lost contact time and time again... the New Continent.

"Is Uncle still..." Richard didn't know if he should finish the question.

"He is still alive," Isabella cut him off. "We even got a letter from him a while back."

Richard breathed a sigh of relief.

"There are plenty of Hunters stuck at the door of Minor Adept."

"Most accept it when they get stuck for life, settling down as lifelong Practitioners in peace."

"My eldest brother didn't."

"He went to the New Continent to find an opportunity to break through to Minor Adept."

"Did Grandfather agree to let him go?" Richard asked.

"Father tried to stop him, of course." Isabella shook her head. "But he couldn't."

"My brother..." Her mouth twitched in a way that might have been a smile, or something else entirely.

"He is just like his son, Vincent. Normally he seems completely carefree, joking and laughing with everyone.

But once his mind is set on something, no one can pull him back."

"Before he left, he said one thing to Father."

"What?"

"Rather than staying stuck in the Old Continent for life, I'd rather take a gamble in the New Continent."

Isabella mimicked her eldest brother's exact tone as she recounted the words.

"If I win the bet, the Ashford family will have one more person to prop up the family in this generation."

"If I lose, just consider me a scout clearing the way for the family."

His aunt said no more.

The two looked at each other in silence and slowly finished the remaining dishes in the lunchbox.

"There is one more thing."

After they finished eating, just as Richard was preparing to wash the dishes, Isabella suddenly remembered something.

"Since we have time today, I should explain it clearly."

"Okay."

"If war really does break out, you can submit an application to the Branch Office."

"Apply for what?"

Isabella looked at him.

"With your parents in Briston, there will be specialists to arrange their evacuation.

Using the Ashford family's connections, they'll receive top-priority protection."

Richard stopped clearing the dishes.

His aunt sighed softly.

"Actually, the safest method would be to bring my sister's entire family to the Imperial Capital."

"The Ashford Residence is here in the capital, and beneath it lies a proper seal array. It's much safer than an industrial city like Briston."

Richard thought of his father, Rogers, and his stubborn, contrary personality.

"My dad won't agree to it."

"The things he values most in this life are self-reliance and his job as an engineer."

"Making him eat free meals every day at the Ashford Residence..." Richard shook his head. "He would never agree to it."

"Last year during the Cicero Cup, he stayed in the capital for half a month."

"For those two weeks, he fought the urge to leave every single day. Even the butler adding an extra dish to his meal made him deeply uncomfortable."

"He would rather go back to Briston and live off his blueprints and his salary."

Isabella didn't look surprised.

"...My brother-in-law certainly has a stiff backbone. That is probably one of the reasons my sister fell for him back then."

"Yes."

"Then we'll arrange things according to the evacuation protocol for now."

"If it really comes down to it, the Branch Office will have someone escort them to a safe zone."

"When lives are truly on the line, that 'self-reliance' of his will just have to take a back seat."