Chapter 18: Dean Theresa Sterling

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Dean Theresa Sterling

Leaving the Verdant Pavilion behind, Rowan followed the polished stone corridor leading into the heart of the school’s central complex. He stepped through a pair of towering double doors into Grand Hall 3, a massive amphitheater with soaring vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows depicting the founding Awakeners, and tiered seating designed to hold hundreds of students.

The seating arrangement was strictly divided down the center aisle, creating a sharp contrast between the two halves of the freshman class.

Rowan walked down the right aisle and took a seat toward the middle row of the Non-Combat section. Around him sat fellow auxiliary candidates—alchemists organizing their potion kits, scribes arranging parchment, and agrarian students holding quiet, tense conversations.

Across the central aisle, the Combat section was already packed and brimming with noise.

The students on the left wore custom-tailored combat coats, polished leather bracers, and fine silk cloaks. Glinting brightly on their lapels were ornate enamel pins bearing the crests of prominent noble houses from the inner city—the silver dragon of House Sterling’s rival houses, the burning falcon of the Ignis crest, and the crests of top-tier adventuring guilds.

As the auxiliary candidates trickled into the right side of the hall, sneers, mocking titters, and open laughter echoed across the aisle.

"Look at them," a young noble with slicked-back hair and a golden lion crest pin sneered loudly, leaning over his seat to gesture toward the right side. "They brought actual dirt under their fingernails. Imagine coming to Sol-Aethel just to play in the mud for three years."

A few swordsmen beside him laughed, tossing a small copper coin onto the floor of the center aisle. "Hey, farmer! Pick that up and buy yourself a better pair of boots!"

Several non-combat students flushed red, pulling their heads down and staring at their lapels to avoid eye contact.

Rowan, however, remained completely unbothered. He leaned back in his seat, resting his arm over the back of the wooden chair, his gaze calmly sweeping across the noble combat students.

With his 17 Intelligence and 17 Wisdom, Rowan could easily read the subtle mana fluctuations radiating off the combat crowd. Despite their expensive gear and arrogant postures, most of them possessed unrefined, volatile mana channels. They were flashy, but wildly inefficient.

Let them mock, Rowan thought with a cool, faint smile, adjusting the strap of his bag where his Peak Grade-E produce and wild flora rested. When they’re bleeding out in a high-tier dungeon begging an alchemist for a single purity-grade healing salve, they’ll realize who actually holds the power in this Academy.

Just then, a deep resonance hummed through the floorboards as the heavy brass doors behind the main stage began to open.

The heavy hum vibrating through the floorboards settled into a profound, breathless silence as a single figure stepped out from behind the velvet curtains onto the grand stage.

She didn’t wear ornate ceremonial robes or flash high-tier magic. She wore a simple, charcoal-colored combat coat over dark trousers, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a neat, practical bun. Yet, the moment her foot touched the hardwood floor, a subtle, crushing aura rippled through the entire hall—a dense, suffocating weight that caused even the most arrogant noble students on the left to instantly straighten their spines and shut their mouths.

Dean Theresa Sterling.

Former S-Tier Vanguard, legendary frontline commander of the Grand Expedition, and one of the exceedingly rare human Awakeners to have pushed past the dreaded 70th Floor of the Celestial Tower before retiring from active guild service.

Her sharp, amber eyes swept across the vast amphitheater, cutting through the divide between the combat and non-combat tracks with absolute impartiality. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t amplified by magic, yet it echoed with crystal-clear authority off every stained-glass window.

"Look to your left. Look to your right," Dean Sterling began, her voice cold and even. "Some of you sit here boasting of noble lineage, expensive heirlooms, and offensive class designations. Others sit quietly, wondering if your auxiliary tools and field bags make you lesser in a world ruled by blade and spell."

She paused, letting her gaze linger directly on the cluster of noble students who had been jeering moments prior. The young man with the golden lion crest pin visibly swallowed hard, sweating under her glare.

"Let me clarify the reality of the world you have just entered," she continued, resting her hands on the wooden podium. "Past the 50th floor of the Tower, there are no city guards to protect you. There are no family names that frighten floor bosses. Out there, a warrior who insults his logistics support is simply a corpse waiting to rot."

A quiet rustle went through the right side of the hall as the non-combat candidates sat up a little straighter.

"I have watched S-Tier swordsmen bleed to death in the abyssal zones because they ran out of high-purity stamina potions," Dean Sterling said, her eyes glinting with decades of harsh memory. "I have seen entire vanguard guilds wiped out because their equipment lacked proper elemental enchantment, or because they lacked the botanical rations required to purge miasma poison. The combat track earns the glory, but the non-combat track keeps humanity alive."

Rowan leaned back, watching the Dean with calm appreciation. Her words mirrored the exact truth he understood through his 17 Wisdom—individual martial strength was worthless without a sustainable, foundational core.

"Whether you hold a sword, an anvil, a staff, or a trowel," Dean Sterling concluded, her voice ringing out like a iron bell, "you are here to become the pillar of this realm. Disrespect your peers, neglect your craft, or bring your petty arrogance into my academy, and I will personally strike your name from the imperial registry. Welcome to Sol-Aethel."

As the Dean turned and walked off the stage, the hall erupted into a thunderous, deafening applause. On the right side, the auxiliary candidates were beaming with renewed pride—while on the left, more than a few noble combat students looked thoroughly humbled.