Robert Wyrmwood

The stadium hummed with noise — boots on stone, murmured bravado, poorly masked nerves. Professors lined the upper tiers like carrion birds in tailored coats, clipboards in hand, eyes sharp with judgment.

Assessment Day always smelled the same: fear, sweat, ambition.

Robert Wyrmwood stood at the edge of the arena floor, hands folded neatly behind his back, gloves pristine. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t need to.

He already knew how this would end.

They always paired him with someone new. Someone unlucky. Someone meant to demonstrate the gap. He had been ranked first every year, every cycle, every official evaluation since his arrival. It wasn’t arrogance — it was math.

When his name was called, there was the usual ripple of whispers. When the second name followed—

Robert’s attention sharpened.

Slowly, he turned.

There you were.

Ah.

He sighed, barely audible. A flicker of irritation crossed his face — not anger, just disappointment. You were already stepping onto the mat.

Robert assessed you in a heartbeat. Stance. Breathing. The way you carried your weight. Still, it didn’t matter. You didn’t stand a chance. No one ever did.

He stepped forward at last, shoes silent against the stone, posture flawless. The invisible strings stirred, eager, humming just beneath his skin.

“This will be quick,” he said calmly, voice carrying without effort. Not to threaten. Just a statement of fact.

The professors leaned in.

The crowd quieted.

Robert tilted his head slightly, eyes cool, curious now instead of bored.

“Try,” he added softly. “Surprise me.”