Nascent Soul Rebirth: Starting as a Wizard

Solo's mind was like a sophisticated and efficient analytical instrument, rapidly sorting and dissecting the information about the Jade Academy and its various schools that flooded into his mind, constantly comparing and evaluating it with the vast heritage of the Xuanhuang Realm.

The stacking of runes and the flow of energy in alchemy are roughly comparable to the methods of weapon crafting and the connection of rune arrays, but they go much further in terms of standardization and repeatability.

Although potion-making is similar to alchemy, it seems to be more focused on the immediate activation and chain reaction of the material's own properties, rather than pursuing the qualitative change and long-term nourishment when the potion is completed.

As for the Bloodline School's brutal intervention and splicing of the essence of life, it reminded him of certain extreme body cultivation secrets, demonic cultivation methods, and even the horrifying limb grafting techniques in unorthodox paths.

The necromancy school's systematic use of souls and corpses is similar to techniques such as corpse refining, ghost control, and soul possession, but it appears to be even more...

They were justified and assertive, and their actions were systematic.

However, the most fundamental difference lies in the underlying logic.

The myriad arts of cultivation in the Xuanhuang Realm, even with sect inheritances, often rely on the extraordinary talent of powerful individuals and their long, solitary explorations—the pinnacle of brilliance.

Here, the wizards' knowledge exhibits a chilling, systematic, and large-scale characteristic.

Those detailed and logically rigorous academic outlines are more like technical manuals that can be broken down, taught, and quantified for assessment.

Moreover, every word exudes a chilling pragmatism.

It seemed as if they were always preparing for battle, for conquest, for plunder.

This is by no means the tranquil study of a seeker of the Tao.

When he saw the Bloodline School's cold descriptions of "Battlefield Adaptive Organ Optimization Programs," and the Necromancer School's unvarnished "Efficient Soul Fuel Extraction and Basic Maintenance Guide for the Undead Legion," he was struck by their words.

Combined with what he witnessed upon landing on the island—the horrifying army of slaves whose limbs clearly bore unnatural signs of modification and whose eyes were as empty as tools—he was truly impressed.

And those war fortresses on the island's edge, like the fangs of death pointing towards the sky, covered in runes...

A complex mix of heightened vigilance, a chilling aura, and a strange, indescribable excitement crept into his heart.

This "academy" suspended in the clouds is by no means an ivory tower for the simple pursuit of truth and knowledge.

It is more like a complex behemoth cloaked in academic garb, yet possessing the skeleton of war, living by plunder, and holding a radical or even greedy attitude toward forbidden knowledge.

Its internal hierarchy is strict and its objectives are complex and difficult to discern, but "power" and "utility" are undoubtedly its core driving forces.

All new students, after enduring a long, numbing queue, a cold, invasive examination, a slight stinging sensation from an unknown object implanted in the back of their neck, and an initial lecture filled with hints and threats.

Ultimately, like a flock of sheep driven by an invisible whip, they gathered at the "Plaza of Stars," located in the very center of the college complex, symbolizing absolute authority and collective will.

The plaza floor was paved with countless meticulously cut dark "magic-absorbing alloy" plates, each plate etched with a super complex array of runes over a kilometer in diameter, the patterns so intricate and precise that they could cause soul pain to low-level cultivators.

Even though it is in an inactive, dormant state at this moment, standing on it, one can faintly feel a low, even energy pulse coming from the depths of the earth.

It's like stepping on the scaly skin of a sleeping ancient behemoth, constantly reminding you of its potential, earth-shattering power.

However, what is even more striking than the behemoth beneath one's feet is the view surrounding the square.

The huge flags of various schools of thought, each with its own distinct colors and emblems, should have been fluttering in the wind, showcasing the diversity of paths and the freedom of choice.

But at this moment, on all the flags, regardless of whether their background color was noble purple-gold or eerie pale, they were all in the central position that originally belonged to the emblem of glory.

They were all covered by a huge, glaring, blood-red "✗" symbol.

The red was so vivid and domineering, it was full of an unquestionable, final meaning.

Below the flag, a series of floating LCD screens were supposed to display the school's brilliance in a dazzling display.

At this moment, only the same cold and absolute short sentence flashes, its harsh light reflecting off the dark background:

This school of thought is full. Please choose another school.

This school of thought is full. Please choose another school.

This school of thought is full. Please choose another school.

……

Elements, spells, alchemy, prophecy, protection, illusion... those broad avenues leading to the halls of power and knowledge have been abruptly shut.

Even those bloodlines, necromancy, shadows, and demonic doctrines that teeter on the edge of taboo and exude dangerous allure bear this scarlet mark of rejection.

Countless "✗" symbols strung together form a cruel red wall, completely encircling hundreds of thousands of freshmen in the center of the square, who are still pouring in, each with their own dreams. Low murmurs and uneasy commotions surge like disturbed tides in the crowd.

In this suffocating sea of ​​red "rejection," there is only one place that is a different color.

In a relatively secluded corner of the square, on a flag with a gray-green background and a simple emblem, crossed ivy and a cane supporting a faint light, is a clear, distinct "✓" shaped symbol radiating a stable and soft green light.

The screen below it contains only a single line of text:

[Battlefield Medical School - Open for Recruitment, Limited Positions Available.]

That patch of green, amidst the overwhelming crimson, was faint yet incredibly striking, like a silent and eerie hint, and also the only way out.

……

At the end of the square, a white marble platform rises from the ground like a judge's bench.

At the highest point, on the Emerald Throne, the very existence of the Emerald Grand Duke is a chilling abyss.

His face had features as hard as if it had been carved from ancient ice, revealing no emotion. The forest and starry sky embroidered in mithril on his dark sorcerer's robe flowed serenely.

His gaze swept across the area below, not as an inspection, but as if sweeping over lifeless sand and gravel. Wherever it touched, even the air seemed to freeze, and a primal tremor rose from the depths of one's soul.

On the limestone chair to its left.

The standard, formulaic warm smile on the face of the executive vice president, Herbert, appeared pale, powerless, and even somewhat comical in contrast to such extreme coldness and authority.

On the high platform, the other three tall chairs, which were in no way inferior in terms of material, height, and decoration and clearly belonged to the other three tower masters, were empty.

This collective absence at such a momentous occasion, where almost all new students gather, is far more deafening than any roar, like a silent crack hanging in the hearts of every person looking up.

Nearly 100,000 new students were crammed together in a dark mass, maintaining a deathly silence under the double invisible pressure, the extreme indifference above their heads, and the red rejection all around them.

The anticipated incentives and blueprints have not materialized.

Grand Duke Emerald didn't even fully stand up; he merely raised his fingers slightly beneath his robe sleeves, a movement as light as a whisk.

His gaze, as cold as a frozen lake, slowly swept across the ant-like faces below, pausing for about three breaths.

Then, that magnetic voice, amplified by magic yet still calm, indifferent, and utterly unmoved, clearly stated:

"Let's begin."

Three words.

Clean and efficient, leaving no lingering sound.

He then leaned back on his throne, even slightly closing his eyes, completely isolating himself from the 100,000 people below.

Vice Dean Herbert seemed to be used to it, and immediately stood up the moment he finished speaking, his face beaming with an even more ingratiating smile.

He began, in a loud, clear, and inflammatory voice, to read aloud the lengthy and complex set of regulations, rules, ordinances, and detailed rules—enough to make anyone fall asleep standing up…

He enthusiastically described the "fairness" of the contribution point system, the "freedom" of course selection, the "respect" of the two-way selection of tutors, and the "optimization" of dormitory allocation.

They tried to use the warmth of language to dispel the chill of the high platform and the unease brought by the emptiness, and strived to create a positive atmosphere that "the college is still orderly and full of opportunities and hope".

However, the heavy pressure emanating from the extreme indifference and absence of the highest authority that hung over the entire square did not dissipate in the slightest despite the vice president's enthusiastic speech.

The stark contrast between this carefully crafted "normal" and the cruel reality of "abnormality" feels like a more subtle form of psychological oppression.

It seems to be saying:

Look, we have such a perfect and fair set of rules, but unfortunately, except for that one direction, all the other doors are just "full".

Please continue to strictly adhere to our perfect rules within this single door.

The long, exhausting collective lecture finally ended in a somber silence.

Based on previous test results and that preliminary intention, which was now almost entirely invalid, the new students, like turbulent waters, were led in a chaotic and hurried manner by the impatient and wary gray-robed guides to different areas.

Solo withdrew his gaze from the high platform and the lone green figure, and silently followed the taciturn but exceptionally vigilant apprentice assigned to him.

They traversed the intricate, labyrinthine aerial corridors, experienced several brief, dizzying closed-loop teleportations, and passed through courtyards planted with strange, silent magical plants, heading towards a predetermined yet unknown area.

The new stage, in the most unexpected and impactful way, completely drew back its heavy yet magnificent curtain.

He was one of the hundreds of thousands, even millions, of new "parts" being "selected" and "absorbed" by this massive, sophisticated, and ruthless machine. He was about to be thrown inside to be polished, disciplined, and perhaps... consumed.

And outside the window, the silent war fortress and the army of slaves, the three missing tower chief's chairs on the high platform, and the three chilling words of the Emerald Duke—

"Let's begin."