[Resonance Evaluation: Complete]
Shiddharth exhaled slowly, his shoulders lowering as tension drained from his body. Sweat clung to his skin, but his mind was clear.
He had not won by being stronger.
He had won by being different.
Across the platform, similar battles played out.
Some students screamed.
Some collapsed, overwhelmed by memories they were unprepared to face.
Others lashed out blindly, striking reflections they could not accept—only to be consumed by them.
Abhi staggered backward in his arena, clutching his head as the field flickered violently around him. His reflection mocked him relentlessly, every failure magnified, every doubt weaponized.
"Stand up," Abhi muttered through clenched teeth. "I didn't come this far to break now."
Slowly, painfully, the resonance stabilized.
Not everyone survived the round.
When the stone rings lowered back into the platform, only a fraction of the students remained standing.
The old man surveyed them in silence.
"Round Four," he finally said, "has concluded."
His gaze lingered briefly on Shiddharth.
Not with approval.
But with interest.
That night, whispers spread faster than fire.
About the one-armed swordsman who defeated himself.
About the dragon summoner who refused to rely on his pet.
About the anomaly who didn't dominate—but endured.
In the shadows of the Academy, unseen eyes took notice.
Some with curiosity.
Others with intent.
And far beyond Yejaeta Academy, forces already in motion adjusted their trajectories—drawn subtly, inevitably, toward a single converging point.
Shiddharth lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since entering the Academy, he felt it clearly.
The trials were no longer about admission.
They were about selection.
And whatever awaited in the fifth round would not test what he could do—
—but what he was willing to become.
Morning arrived without warmth.
A pale sun hung over Yejaeta Academy, its light diffused by thin mist that clung to the stone structures like a living thing. Bells did not ring. Servants did not shout. The Academy woke the way predators did—quietly, with intent.
Shiddharth rose before the call.
Sleep had come in fragments, broken by memories that refused to stay buried. The resonance field had not merely tested him; it had peeled him open, laid his past beside his present, and forced him to choose which one would define him going forward.
He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword.
Steady.
Outside, footsteps echoed along the corridor. Doors opened. Students emerged, some with grim determination, others with barely concealed anxiety. The fourth round had stripped away arrogance. What remained was raw ambition, fear, and hunger.
Abhi caught up to him near the stairway.
"You passed," Abhi said, stating the obvious but sounding relieved nonetheless.
"So did you," Shiddharth replied.
Abhi let out a shaky breath and smiled. "Barely. I thought I was going to lose myself in there."
"You didn't," Shiddharth said. "That matters."
They walked together toward the central grounds where the fifth round would be held. The path curved upward, leading them toward a massive amphitheater carved directly into the mountain's spine. From above, it must have looked like an open wound—raw stone layered with ancient arrays.
As they climbed, Abhi spoke again, more quietly. "People are talking about you."
Shiddharth didn't slow. "They always do."
"This time it's different," Abhi said. "Not admiration. Not jealousy. Curiosity. Like they're trying to figure out what kind of problem you are."
Shiddharth's lips curved faintly. "Then I'm doing something right."
At the top of the steps, the amphitheater opened before them.
Hundreds of stone seats rose in concentric arcs, already filled with Academy elders, instructors, and observers wearing insignias that marked them as representatives of various factions. Some bore the sigils of guilds. Others carried no markings at all—those were the dangerous ones.
At the center lay the final arena.
A perfect circle of polished obsidian, its surface reflecting the sky like still water.
The remaining students—just over three hundred—were guided into position around the arena's edge.
The old man appeared once more, his presence heavier than before.
"Round Five," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly. "The final evaluation."
Silence followed.
"This round," he continued, "has no fixed rules."
A ripple of unease spread through the students.
"You will not be judged on victory alone," the old man said. "Nor on defeat. You will be judged on choice."
He raised his staff.
The obsidian surface rippled.
From it rose multiple stone pillars, each inscribed with different symbols—combat formations, support arrays, control sigils, and unfamiliar markings that pulsed erratically.
"You may choose any pillar," the old man said. "Each represents a different path. Combat. Strategy. Support. Adaptation."
His gaze sharpened. "But once chosen, you cannot change."
Whispers erupted instantly.
Some students rushed toward the combat pillars without hesitation, eyes burning with confidence. Others hesitated, weighing risk against reward.
Shiddharth stood still.
He studied the symbols, not with urgency, but with care.
His instincts urged him toward combat—it was familiar, direct. But familiarity had nearly killed him before.
Support and strategy tempted him for different reasons. They aligned with his current limitations, his missing arm, his sealed system.
Then he noticed it.
A pillar near the far edge, its markings faint, almost incomplete. The Urza flow around it was unstable, as if resisting categorization.
Adaptation.
Few students even glanced at it.
Shiddharth turned and walked toward it.
Abhi noticed and frowned. "You're really going to pick that?"
"Yes."
"That one doesn't guarantee anything," Abhi said. "No clear advantage."
Shiddharth stopped beside the pillar and placed his remaining hand against the stone.
"That's exactly why," he said.
The moment contact was made, the pillar dissolved.
The ground beneath him vanished.
So did the amphitheater.
He landed hard, rolling across rough terrain before coming to a stop. Pain flared briefly, then faded as his body adjusted.
Shiddharth pushed himself up.
He stood in a fractured landscape—shattered stone platforms suspended in open air, connected by narrow bridges that shifted constantly. Gravity felt inconsistent. Distance warped strangely, making near objects appear far and far objects feel close.
A voice echoed, layered and distorted.
[Adaptive Trial Initiated]
No opponent appeared.
No weapon manifested.
Instead, the environment began to change.
A bridge ahead cracked, collapsing mid-step. Shiddharth leapt back just in time, heart pounding. Another platform tilted sharply, forcing him to adjust his balance or fall into the endless void below.
He moved cautiously, learning with every step.
Then the attacks began.
Not physical strikes—but disruptions.
A sudden surge of pressure threatened to crush him. He countered by lowering his stance, distributing his weight.
A wave of heat rolled through the air. He shielded his face, moving into shadow.
A distortion twisted space itself, threatening to disorient him completely.
Shiddharth closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Adapt.
He stopped reacting blindly and began anticipating patterns. The environment responded faster, harsher—but he responded smarter.
He used broken bridges as traps, collapsing them deliberately to create distance. He manipulated unstable gravity fields to launch himself forward instead of being dragged down.
Time lost meaning.
Minutes blurred into effort.
Then came the final challenge.
The platforms converged into a single space.
And someone stepped forward.
Not a reflection.
Not a memory.
A stranger.
Clad in simple robes, eyes calm, presence overwhelming.
"You chose adaptation," the figure said. "Why?"
Shiddharth tightened his grip on his sword. "Because power fades. Circumstances change."
"And?" the figure pressed.
"Because I can't rely on what I've lost," Shiddharth said. "Only on what I can become."
The figure studied him for a long moment.
Then smiled.
The world dissolved.
Shiddharth reappeared in the amphitheater.
The obsidian arena had stilled.
All eyes were on him.
"Adaptive Trial," the old man announced. "Cleared."
A murmur swept through the seats.
Not applause.
Recognition.
Abhi looked at him with open disbelief. Others with envy. Some with thinly veiled hostility.
Shiddharth didn't look back.
He simply stepped aside, his role in the trial complete.
As the final students were evaluated, decisions were made—not just about admissions, but about futures.
From the highest seats of the amphitheater, unseen figures exchanged silent signals.
Names were recorded.
Paths were adjusted.
And far beyond Yejaeta Academy, the convergence drew closer.
Shiddharth felt it—not as threat, not as promise—
—but as inevitability.
The quiet before the storm was ending.