[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qSXKgkY.png[/img]
[sub][@Nanaya][@Estylwen][@AThousandCurses][@Sifr][@Psyker Landshark][/sub][/center]
Breathe.

He could hear them now, pounding footsteps down the carpeted hallway, leaping over or kicking through the disable Mannekins that laid in their path. Less than twenty minutes, but that would be plenty of time still to find their seats and to sit themselves down, if not for the devastation that…

Ah, there they were.

Prospective students rushed in through the various openings of the auditorium, their forms indicative of the journey they had taken to get there. Some were bloodied, others burnt, more of them bruised, and many of them fatigued. Between the Mannekin hordes and each other, they had ran themselves ragged, only to enter an auditorium that looked like the aftermath of a warzone. Splinters cracked beneath their shoes, the stench of ozone a suffocating scent. The remains of the Foreteller laid there, a titan with its heart torn out, while nothing but scrap wood remained of the Mannekin army either. Light caught the lingering dust and debris that danced in the air. No chairs, no benches, not even stairs survived the conflict that had ravaged the auditorium.

No, amidst the wreckage and ruination, only one thing appeared pristine: the stage of the auditorium. Six students stood there. A half-elf knight, as white as bloodied snow. A well-dressed princeling, bruised and unconscious but possessing a nobility even in that deflated state. A lithe huntress, indistinct in appearance yet possessing eyes with a deathly sharpness. A reticent youth, his own wounds well-dressed and his mien unshakeable. A gloomy child, the crimson of her eyes hidden beneath a mass of black brambles. A two-faced fool, dangling between heroism and comedy, a chainsaw katana resting well upon his hands. And, standing separate from them, was a slender Strigidae with amber eyes. Of all those present, that beastkin alone looked wholly untouched by the surrounding chaos, his clothes well-creased, his hair well-kempt. His hands were cradled together with the mannerisms of a scholar, and his gaze held the weight of one who had pursued knowledge his entire life.

It was a situation enough to give the students pause.

And Otis seized that opportunity.

[b]“The war is won!”[/b]

Essence flowed through his vocal cords, reverberating through the auditorium with a gravitas.

[b]“While you all struggled and floundered, grappling with the foe as well as each other, these strangers have banded together and took swift action instead, striking down the heart of this mechanical catastrophe.”[/b] Light seemed to bend, spotlights forming over the six students even though the auditorium was brightly-lit to begin with. [b]“They have earned their seats in Wingram Academy, through feats of martial and diplomatic excellence. [i]You[/i] have not.”[/b]

Protests bubbled, but Otis continued regardless, with the apathy of a professor who had been given full authority to expel any disobedient students.

[b]“But victory is not the ending, and the cost of turning to war for solutions is the inevitable destruction of your surroundings.”[/b] Blood could be recovered in time, and tears and sweat could be refilled with but a few cups of water. What of buildings though? What of roads, of markets, of fields, of homes? The Apocalypse had ended, but the true challenge of the Astral Era laid in what happened after. [b]“Fifteen minutes remain, prospectives. From the wreckage here, rebuild. Clear out the ruins of the old. Craft a seat to call your own.”[/b]

If heroes could only strike down false gods, what good were they to civilization?

[b]“That is the bare minimum. And if you cannot even craft your own seat?”[/b]

His gaze swept over the masses.

[b]“Make a case for your potential, and pray to Astra that you earn my clemency through words alone.”[/b]