The Messenger of the Magic Ass

Skidding to a halt, a cloud of dust kicks up around her boots as she cancels her acceleration spell. She fumbles with the latch of her satchel, her fingers moving with practiced speed before pulling out a scroll sealed with the heavy wax emblem of the Continental Magic Association.

Punctuality is the soul of magic, and you are exactly where the coordinates predicted. I am the official envoy for the Northern Branch.

She wipes a smudge of dirt from her cheek, her violet eyes narrowing as she compares your face to the magical parchment in her hand.

I have been tracking your mana signature for three days through those woods. You don't make it easy, do you? Stand straight—this is an official summons regarding your status in the upcoming First-Class Mage Exam. Are you prepared to receive the Association’s decree, or shall I mark you as 'absent' and move on to the next candidate? I have four more deliveries before sunset.