Chapter 1006 - Gate examination
"I guess you could say I'm one of the lucky ones. I get to travel, meet new talents, and... maybe even steal a few stars away before the bigger guilds grab them."
He grinned, but behind that grin, Sylvie sensed something—an edge too smooth to be careless.
Her instincts twitched faintly.
But Leonard's gaze was warm. Familiar. A brother's gaze.
It made doubting him feel wrong.
"You always liked wandering around," Sylvie said, forcing a small smile. "I guess it suits you."
"It does," Leonard agreed. "And besides…" He turned his head slightly, looking toward the Academy's sprawling training grounds, where the distant clash of practice bouts echoed faintly against the stone. "Arcadia's not a bad place to find stars waiting to rise."
Sylvie followed his gaze, but the unease lingering in the pit of her stomach didn't fade.
She wrapped her arms a little tighter around her bag and walked a bit closer to him, drawing comfort from the simple proximity even as questions stacked quietly in the corners of her mind.
Leonard didn't miss it.
He didn't push.
There would be time enough for that later.
For now, he simply smiled again—a smile full of fondness and patience—and led her onward, deeper into the heart of a campus blooming with talent, ambition… and sleeping danger.
*****
They found a quiet diner tucked away from the main arteries of the Academy—a modest place with soft, warm lighting and thick wooden tables, far from the flashier, bustling venues closer to the central plaza. Sylvie led the way to a booth near the back, settling her bag beside her as Leonard slid in opposite her, leaning his elbows casually on the table.
The smell of freshly baked bread and simmering stew hung in the air, cozy and familiar. It calmed her a little, easing the last of the tension that had followed her like a shadow.
Their meals arrived quickly: a simple roast plate for Leonard, a creamy herb soup for Sylvie. The warm broth soothed her chest, still tight from the pressure of the week.
Leonard waited until she had taken a few bites before leaning back slightly and flashing her a relaxed smile. "So," he began, "how were your exams?"
Sylvie swallowed and wiped her mouth neatly with a napkin. "Not bad," she answered, choosing her words carefully. "Theory was... decent. It could've been better if I had guessed the topics better, but I think I held my ground."
Leonard arched a brow, amusement flickering across his features. "Held your ground, huh? Sounds like someone's being modest."
Sylvie chuckled softly, a genuine sound. "Maybe. But my healing practical? I'm pretty confident about that one."
She smiled, a faint but proud curve of her lips. "I think I aced it."
Leonard's grin widened, the kind of grin that made her chest ache a little with nostalgia. "Of course you did. Little sister's a real prodigy now."
Sylvie flushed slightly and busied herself with her spoon. "Tomorrow's our team exams," she said, changing the subject quickly. "That's the last part."
Leonard nodded knowingly. "Yeah. I figured."
His gaze was calm, thoughtful. "Since I'm stationed here as a scout, we get updates. I know the schedule."
Sylvie nodded, stirring her soup slowly. She knew what he would ask next even before he spoke.
"So, should I come watch? When's the best time to see my brilliant little sister in action?" Leonard's tone was teasing, but there was a sincerity behind it—he genuinely wanted to see her at her best.
Sylvie bit her lip, thinking. She wanted to impress him. Wanted to show him she wasn't the timid little girl he remembered from years ago.
"If possible," she said after a pause, lifting her gaze to meet his, "come Wednesday or Thursday."
Leonard tilted his head slightly. "Oh? Planning something?"
"We'll be better then," Sylvie said, her voice firm. "More adapted to the course conditions. I think... no, I'm sure we'll be in a better state by then."
Leonard chuckled, rapping his knuckles lightly against the table. "So confident now. I'm impressed."
Sylvie smiled shyly, but her eyes gleamed with quiet determination. "We'll adapt."
Leonard leaned back, folding his arms with a content nod. "That's good. That's how it should be."
He paused, studying her for a moment with a rare, serious look. "Sylvie... I'm proud of you, you know."
The words caught her off guard, making her throat tighten unexpectedly. She nodded quickly, looking down at her soup again to hide the emotions swelling inside her chest.
"I'll be there," Leonard said, his voice lighter again. "Wednesday or Thursday. You better not disappoint me."
"I won't," Sylvie said quietly, her fingers tightening around her spoon.
'I'll make sure you can be even prouder next time you see me.'
And under the dim golden lights of the quiet diner, for the first time in days, Sylvie allowed herself to believe it.
*****
The soft chill of the early Monday morning clung to the academy grounds, mist curling lightly around the stone pathways as the sun struggled to break fully through the lingering clouds. Students moved in small groups, their voices hushed with a mixture of nerves and excitement—the buzz of the upcoming practicals hanging over everything like a living thing.
Inside the café where they had met so many times before, Astron's team gathered once again, settling into their usual corner. The atmosphere was calm, a layer of quiet focus draped over them. Their drinks steamed faintly on the table, untouched for now.
Layla was the first to speak, leaning back casually in her seat and glancing over at Sylvie with a sly smile. "So," she said, tilting her head, "how'd your healing exam go yesterday?"
Jasmine perked up at that, crossing her arms and grinning. "Yeah, spill. You looked pretty smug when you came back."
Sylvie, sitting neatly with her hands folded in front of her coffee cup, blinked once before giving a rare, self-assured smile. "It went well," she said simply. "Really well."
Layla raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Jasmine. "Oh? That confident?"
Sylvie nodded without hesitation, her green eyes calm and steady. "Yes. I think I'll be ranked first."
There was a brief beat of silence, followed by Jasmine letting out a low whistle. "Whoa, listen to you! I didn't know our little Sylvie could flex like that."
Layla laughed, nudging Sylvie lightly with her elbow. "Yeah, seriously. You're scaring me a little."
Sylvie allowed herself a small chuckle, the confidence in her voice unshaken. "I mean it. Everything clicked perfectly. My mana control was sharp, my recovery efficiency was the highest among the group… I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be."
Jasmine grinned, tossing a thumb over her shoulder. "Damn. Confidence looks good on you."
Irina, who had been quietly sipping her coffee, glanced at Sylvie with a faint smirk. "Good. If you're that confident, then that's one less thing we have to worry about today."
Astron, seated across from them, remained silent, merely observing. But his gaze lingered a second longer on Sylvie—a subtle acknowledgment that he, too, approved of what he heard.
Layla tapped her fingers on the table lightly. "Alright, then. Healer's ready. Shield's ready. Pressure line's ready." She nodded toward Irina and Jasmine. "Now we just need to review positioning one more time before our slot."
Jasmine checked her wristband, flicking through the digital schedule. "Our time's between 1 PM and 2 PM. Plenty of time to eat, finalize our plan, and triple-check our gear."
Sylvie smiled faintly, the steady thrum of anticipation settling into her chest.
For some reason she had a good feeling today.
Chapter 1007 - Gate Examination (2)
The café doors swung open with a soft chime as the group stepped out into the crisp midday air. The sun had climbed higher now, casting sharp, clear beams across the academy grounds. A light breeze carried the faint scent of mana residue from the training fields, and everywhere cadets hurried to their own stations—checking gear, coordinating strategies, running last-minute drills.
Their group moved in steady formation, their steps measured, a reflection of the quiet understanding between them.
Their gear was familiar, each piece chosen with purpose. No flashy new equipment. No unnecessary changes.
After a brief discussion that morning, they had agreed: it was better to stick with what they knew. Their armor, weapons, and enchantments were already calibrated to their fighting styles. Confidence came from familiarity—and today wasn't about flashy displays.
It was about setting a tone.
Their first dungeon round.
Their first real impression.
Sylvie tightened her gloves slightly, feeling the familiar hum of mana running through the fabric. Irina adjusted the clasps on her combat jacket, flames flickering faintly along her fingers before fading. Jasmine twirled her dagger once, casually slipping it back into its sheath, while Layla gave her shield strap a sharp tug, securing it firmly against her arm.
Astron simply walked at the head of their group, silent as always, his presence steady as a compass point.
As they approached the central training grounds, the noise grew louder. The familiar gateway into the Mana-Linked Dungeon Arena loomed ahead—its massive arch inscribed with runes that pulsed faintly with silver-blue light.
But it wasn't the gate that caught their attention.
It was the crowd.
Lines of observers stood behind the barriers, their uniforms and badges marking them clearly—guild representatives, scouts, academy affiliates, and even a few private contractors. Their sharp eyes tracked the cadets moving toward the arena, clipboards and digital tablets in hand, murmuring notes to one another.
Layla let out a low whistle under her breath. "Whoa. That's… more than I expected."
Jasmine tilted her head, scanning the crowd with a grin. "It's not festival level, but still... this is serious."
Sylvie's heart thudded a little harder, but she kept her face composed. The number of scouts wasn't overwhelming—but it was definitely more than she had imagined.
Each one a potential opportunity—or a silent judge.
Irina, walking a step ahead, barely even glanced at the mass of scouts and officials. Her expression was cool, almost indifferent. The sharp glances, the notetaking, the subtle murmurs of judgment—it was all something she was intimately familiar with.
Growing up under the Emberheart name, she had spent her entire life under a spotlight. Interviews. Appearances. Expectations.
This?
This was nothing.
She carried herself with a casual, almost dismissive air, her fiery red hair catching the light like a burning banner as she strode forward. Let them look. Let them judge. It didn't matter. She would show them her strength soon enough.
Astron, as expected, showed even less reaction. His expression remained composed, distant. He simply continued walking, his sharp purple eyes flickering briefly over the assembled scouts before disregarding them entirely. In his mind, they were as much a part of the scenery as the stones under his feet. Irrelevant until proven otherwise.
Their team pushed through the final checkpoint, where a faculty member in dark academy robes waited with a tablet in hand.
It was Instructor Lowell—one of the field supervisors assigned to manage the practical examinations.
He looked up as they approached, his sharp gray eyes assessing them quickly before nodding once.
"Team Irina Emberheart," he said, reading from the glowing tablet. "You're next in queue."
He tapped a few buttons and projected a floating hologram above the tablet—a rough outline of a dungeon zone.
"This is your briefing," he continued, his voice clipped and efficient. "You'll be deployed into a collapsed urban zone—abandoned ruins, scattered vertical structures, minimal intact walls. Visibility will be low due to mana fog drifting through the area. Expect vertical combat scenarios—broken floors, unstable platforms, high ground contesting."
The group leaned in slightly, their faces sharpening as they absorbed the information.
"No prior intel will be given beyond this," Lowell continued. "You're expected to scout, secure objectives, and adapt. Remember: environmental hazards are active. Falling from unstable areas will trigger automatic extraction and count as a critical failure for your team."
Sylvie frowned slightly at that.
Falling hazards meant pressure not only from enemies but from the terrain itself.
They would need to move carefully—and quickly.
Layla tapped her shield lightly against the ground, her blue eyes steady. "Got it."
Jasmine grinned, rolling her shoulders. "Sounds fun."
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air shifted.
The comforting warmth of the academy grounds vanished, replaced by a clinging chill that seemed to seep into the bones. Mana fog rolled in thick tendrils across the shattered ruins, swirling around broken walls, half-collapsed buildings, and jagged remnants of once-proud towers. The sky above was a swirling mess of muted grays, casting everything in a dim, eerie twilight.
No sunlight. No clarity.
Only ruins and mist.
Their team moved without needing to say a word, instinct pulling them into a tight formation. Even Jasmine's usual easy grin faded into a focused expression. Layla's steps were heavier, more deliberate. Sylvie's hands hovered near her belt where mana threads pulsed faintly between her fingers, ready to weave at a moment's notice.
Irina adjusted the cuffs of her jacket, fire flickering faintly at the edges of her hands before disappearing—contained, but not forgotten.
Astron didn't say anything at first. He simply broke formation, moving toward a half-collapsed building with the kind of fluid, practiced efficiency that spoke of hundreds of similar runs.
No one questioned him.
They spread into a temporary holding pattern, keeping eyes on possible approach angles while Astron moved.
He scaled the structure with quiet precision, boots scraping lightly against cracked stone, fingers finding handholds almost as if by instinct. He climbed higher, until he reached the remains of a second-floor ledge—just high enough to see across the drifting mana fog.
He crouched low, his sharp purple eyes scanning the terrain.
Long seconds passed.
Below, the others waited.
Finally, Astron's voice crackled quietly through the team comms channel, steady and calm.
"Two primary groups. First wave is mana-ravaged beasts—looks like mutated canids. Fast, erratic movement. High vertical mobility. They're using the debris fields for cover."
Sylvie's brow furrowed slightly, absorbing the details.
"Second group is heavier," Astron continued. "Mid-sized constructs. Broken-down armor frames reanimated by mana flow. Slower, but armored and dense. They cluster around collapsed towers—defensive posture."
Layla gripped her shield tighter. "Two threat types, different speeds. We need layered defense."
"Yes," Astron confirmed. "And the fog's denser near the ground. Visibility's almost zero past ten meters at foot level. They'll be using that to flank if we're not careful."
Irina's voice crackled through next, firm. "Formation?"
Astron's answer came without hesitation. "Tri-layer adaptation, rotating diamond. Layla leads front center—focus shield reinforcement. Irina and Jasmine stagger second line, left and right split. Sylvie anchors rear, high focus on mobility support. I'll pivot between lines based on engagement."
Layla nodded firmly. "Understood."
Jasmine twirled her dagger once before readying it properly, followed by her sword. "Finally. I hate waiting."
Sylvie breathed out slowly, the tension in her shoulders fading into calm readiness. "On your mark."
Astron stood from the ledge, sharp eyes still tracking faint movements in the mist.
"Mark."
The team moved.
No hesitation. No second guessing.
Layla advanced first, shield up, her stance wide and unyielding as she cut a path through the denser fog. Irina and Jasmine slipped into mirrored flanking positions, one step behind and to either side—ready to collapse inward or fan out depending on pressure.
Sylvie's steps were quieter but no less firm, mana swirling faintly around her gloves as she calibrated defensive and acceleration glyphs on the fly.
And Astron descended like a whisper behind them, dropping into shadowed cover before vanishing into the half-ruined terrain.
Chapter 1008 - Gate Examination (3)
The first clash came fast.
From the swirling fog ahead, the mutated canids burst forth—deformed, sinewy creatures with jagged bone protrusions where fur should have been. Their forms twisted unnaturally, bending mid-leap to avoid direct lines of sight. But Layla was ready.
Clang!
The lead beast slammed against her shield, the force rattling up her arms. She absorbed the hit with a grunt, digging her boots into the cracked stone floor.
"Engaging first wave!" she called sharply.
Irina moved first. A burst of fire cracked outward from her palm, controlled but vicious, igniting the ground just beyond Layla's shield. The flames forced the canids back, their twisted forms screeching at the sudden blaze.
Jasmine flanked left, blade cutting through the mist in clean arcs. Her strikes weren't wild; they were measured, designed to harry rather than outright kill—giving Sylvie time to layer speed glyphs along their advance.
Astron, true to his word, pivoted silently between their lines. Whenever a canid slipped past Layla's block or Irina's flames wavered for half a second, he was there—dagger flashing, severing tendons, piercing vital points.
Their layered formation shifted dynamically, flowing around the terrain rather than through it.
Wave one ended quickly. The ground littered with twitching, dissipating corpses.
No breathing room.
The heavy constructs emerged next—hulking silhouettes dragging rusted weapons, reanimated armor cracked and glowing from within with unstable mana.
"Constructs incoming!" Astron called, already moving to a higher elevation.
Layla stepped back half a pace, adjusting her stance to brace for the heavier impacts. Sylvie flicked her hands rapidly, layering a series of reinforcement spells over her—shield mana tightening, barrier matrices weaving into the gaps of her armor.
The constructs hit like a landslide—slow, yes, but relentless. Each strike sent shockwaves through the broken streets, crumbling loose debris.
Irina's flames didn't vaporize these enemies like before. The constructs endured, forcing her to adjust.
"Tch... durable bastards," she muttered, snapping her wrist in a sharp motion. Her next flame burst wasn't raw destruction—it was corrosive, eating into mana circuits at weak points Astron quickly highlighted.
Jasmine danced along the flanks, chipping at exposed joints, while Astron moved in ghost-like bursts—striking vulnerable plates then slipping away before the slow-moving hulks could retaliate.
Sylvie coordinated the pressure, boosting speed at key moments and laying down suppression glyphs that slowed the constructs just enough to tip momentum back to their favor.
It was hard, heavy fighting.
But it was controlled.
Disciplined.
The constructs fell one by one, until the last collapsed in a heap of mana-soaked armor fragments.
Silence.
The mist drifted again.
Sylvie exhaled quietly, her gloves flickering down to a low hum.
"We're clear... for now."
"No celebration," Astron said immediately, stepping up beside Layla. His coat flickered slightly in the shifting light. "This isn't over."
He pointed into the dense ruins beyond. "Standard procedure. Clear and sweep. We need to locate the boss gate manually."
Irina was already nodding. "No shortcuts. No splitting the team."
She turned a sharp glance at Jasmine, who threw up her hands innocently.
"What? I'm not stupid."
Irina snorted but said no more.
Their seriousness wasn't dramatics. It was professionalism.
Everyone here understood—the scouts watching them wouldn't just grade flashy spellwork or kills.
They would grade fundamentals.
How methodical they were.
How disciplined.
How complete.
And so they moved.
Astron led scouting detachments to collapsed buildings, searching for possible boss gate markers—mana concentrations, shifting structures, energy streams. Layla cleared rubble and maintained front presence. Irina burned through barriers and fortified wreckage when needed. Jasmine managed quick rotations to check blind spots, while Sylvie wove utility spells constantly—vision enhancements, silent movement boosts, structural stabilization glyphs.
They didn't rush.
They didn't get greedy.
They advanced like a proper team.
And the dungeon pushed back.
Hidden traps snapped open near broken towers—mana grenades disguised as fallen stones. Astron's sharp eyes and Sylvie's detection spells neutralized them before they triggered.
Cracks opened under unstable floors—one almost sent Jasmine plummeting into a mist-filled chasm, but Layla grabbed her arm at the last second, anchoring her back.
Monsters regrouped sporadically—stragglers of mutated beasts or lone constructs—but none broke their momentum.
Finally, after nearly an hour of slow, methodical advancement, Astron signaled them from atop a crumbled stone archway.
"There."
Following his gesture, the team gazed ahead.
In the deepest pit of the ruins—half-sunken into the mist—lay a collapsed cathedral structure. Black mana streamed faintly from within, swirling up into the sky like a signal flare.
The boss' lair.
Irina stepped forward beside him, her fiery gaze narrowing. "Found it."
"I will sc-"
Astron started, voice low, but he stopped mid-sentence, his sharp purple eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
For a moment, the group tensed—used to following his instructions without hesitation—but the silence stretched just a second too long.
"No," Astron said calmly, but with a rare sharpness threading through his tone. "It has already sensed us."
Irina's head snapped toward him, her fiery yellow eyes narrowing. "What?"
Astron stepped down from the broken archway, landing lightly beside them, his hand resting casually against the hilt of his dagger.
"Occasionally," he began, voice crisp and precise, "monsters with strong senses—especially those powerful enough to anchor a dungeon—can detect hunter parties in advance."
Layla gripped her shield tighter, her body instinctively shifting into a defensive posture. "But… it hasn't moved yet?"
Astron nodded. "Exactly. It's a trap."
Sylvie's breath caught quietly. "Waiting for scouts to come too close?"
"Yes," Astron confirmed. "The most dangerous bosses don't rush their prey. They stay still—pretending to be dormant—to lure the scouting element forward." His gaze sharpened, sweeping the ruins. "Isolate them. Cut them off from the team. Then strike when the formation is already compromised."
A cold breeze swept through the ruins, stirring the mist in lazy spirals.
Jasmine frowned, glancing toward the dark cathedral. "How can you tell it's already awake? It looks dead silent over there."
Astron didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he pointed.
"There. On the outer walls—those gouges aren't natural collapse marks. They're claw traces. Fresh." He shifted his hand slightly. "And there. The soot patterns near the eastern stairway—new. Within the last half-hour."
The team followed his gestures, eyes scanning carefully—and sure enough, subtle traces became apparent. Claw marks, not quite covered by dust. Scorching, almost hidden within the cracks of the stones.
Small details—but deadly ones.
"And the mist there," Astron added, voice even, "is behaving differently. Pushed outward in faint waves, as if disturbed by residual mana pressure. A living presence."
Irina's expression tightened slightly, her sharp mind already racing ahead.
"And," Astron continued quietly, "there's another reason. Your flames."
Irina blinked, confused for a half-second.
"The monster," Astron explained calmly, "is a fire-pison type. We can infer that from the lair. Same elemental nature. Monsters like that are hyper-sensitive to rival mana signatures. Your mana—your flames—would have brushed its senses the moment you cleared the last barrier."
"Meaning?" Jasmine pressed.
"Meaning," Astron said, drawing his dagger fully now, "that it knows we're here."
He turned fully toward the team, his voice leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"So it is pointless to scout, or in fact it is more dangerous to do so. So, we will just go with the standard breach pattern. Full team assault, tight formation. Disrupt its first strike before it isolates any one of us."
Irina's smirk returned—a fierce, hungry edge flashing across her features. "Finally," she muttered, flexing her fingers as a thin coil of flame slithered between them.
Sylvie drew a slow, steady breath, her gloves glowing faintly as she readied layered enchantments.
Layla slammed her shield into the ground once—clang—steadying her stance.
Jasmine twirled her dagger in a tight spiral, the faint hum of mana weaving into her next movement.
And Astron simply adjusted his grip on his weapon, his sharp purple eyes fixed on the looming cathedral gate.
"Advance on my signal," he said quietly.
The mist thickened again—reacting to the dungeon's master preparing to strike.
But Team Fourteen was ready.
Chapter 1009 - Gate Examination (3)
The specially constructed observation chamber overlooked the linked arenas through a network of one-way mana screens — transparent to the scouts but invisible to the cadets below.
The room itself was wide, with tiered seating arranged in subtle concentric arcs, each scout group separated by flowing partitions of light to discourage interference. Long, sleek tables lined with projection devices and crystal recorders filled the space, humming quietly with mana resonance.
Muted discussions drifted through the chamber. Low. Professional.
There were no cheers here. No applause.
Only calculation.
The first day of dungeon practicals was critical. Everyone knew it.
Not because it would reveal the cadets' peak performances — that would come later.
But because today would expose something far more fundamental.
Their Floor.
The baseline they could maintain under real, live pressure.
Raw instincts. Natural coordination. Minimum resilience.
Ceiling could be built. Floor could not.
And so, the chamber was full.
Representatives from major guilds — Silverhammer, Dawn's Cross, Phoenix Halo — sat alongside mid-tier syndicates and rising freelance collectives. A few quiet agents from the military and state defense units lingered near the upper tiers, their presence understated but unmistakable.
Even private venture groups had dispatched observers — hungry for new investments.
No one spoke louder than a murmur.
No one moved more than necessary.
Because every wasted moment could mean missing the next prodigy.
At the head of the chamber, a long projection screen floated — currently divided into a grid of six views, each one tracking a different dungeon team's early deployment phase.
Mana data flickered quietly beneath each feed: movement speeds, mana output ratios, spell consistency readings, environmental adaptation scores. Real-time metrics.
Cadet Team Fourteen — the focus of one quadrant — had just entered the misted ruins.
A tall man in a dark silver coat leaned forward slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. His guild insignia — Solstice Dawn — was pinned discreetly to his chest.
"That team," he murmured to the woman seated beside him, voice low but certain. "Watch them."
The woman — her hair braided back into a sharp tail, her coat marked with the Phoenix Halo sigil — followed his gaze, adjusting her projection view.
At first glance, Team Fourteen wasn't flashy.
No grand spells. No overwhelming aura flares.
But their formation was tight.
Their approach was methodical.
And — most importantly — they moved with a quiet familiarity that even some field squads struggled to emulate.
Not far from the Phoenix Halo scouts, another group sat in measured silence — their section marked by the understated insignia of a mountain split by a blade: Blackstone Verge.
Their representatives — a pair of gray-uniformed men and a woman with sharp, calculating eyes — said little as the feeds rolled, but none of them missed the shift when Team Fourteen engaged.
"Emberheart's team," the woman finally noted, her voice barely louder than the whisper of turning pages.
A simple statement.
But one that carried weight.
Everyone knew Irina Emberheart.
A prodigy born of fire, ambition, and the kind of raw mana saturation that crushed most peers before a duel even began.
The daughter of the Crimson Blaze.
But to see her now—
Contained.
Measured.
The Blackstone scouts leaned slightly closer without realizing it.
On the screens, Team Fourteen advanced through the mana-fog ruins like a proper squad — not a scattering of egos straining for attention, but a cohesive unit, each movement complementing the others.
Layla Vance took point, shield up, pace steady but assertive — clearing paths through unstable ground with a professional's eye.
No wasted glances over her shoulder.
No nervous shifts in weight.
She anchored without needing to dominate the space, her shieldwork folding seamlessly into the team's rhythm.
There was strength there, yes — but more importantly, awareness.
Subtle recalibrations of position.
Micro-adjustments when the mist curled strangely or when footing shifted under ruined stone.
Not the instincts of a solo fighter.
The instincts of a trained vanguard.
Jasmine Reed moved alongside — not crowding the flanks, but sliding into gaps with that same uncanny fluidity.
Where Layla built walls, Jasmine cut through seams.
Her strikes were light at first — probes, distractions — but always at the right pressure points, always at the edges of engagement, never reckless.
It was the kind of predatory discipline that mid-ranked scouting teams spent years trying to instill into rookies.
One of the Blackstone scouts tapped a few notes quietly into a mana-slate:
'High group-awareness. Frictionless lateral coverage.'
And Irina herself—
The source of so much attention—
Unleashed her flames not in furious, reckless gouts, but with an almost surgical precision.
Controlled ignitions.
Zone-denial patterns rather than sheer offense.
Her fire coated floors where mobility mattered most, cutting off approach vectors without wasting mana in wide bursts.
Her hands never overextended.
Her casting patterns left no dangerous gaps.
The Irina Emberheart known to the wider guild networks — the one from tournament arcs and wild sparring legends — would have fought like a hammer smashing every obstacle flat.
But currently, she was rather….
She moved like a blade.
Sharp. Intentional. Patient.
And that, more than anything else, caught the Blackstone observers' attention.
"She's tempered it," one of them murmured, almost to himself.
The woman beside him nodded once, her gaze not leaving the projection. "Someone taught her to stop wasting power."
"It must be her," one of the Blackstone scouts muttered, his tone low, almost respectful despite himself.
The others understood without needing clarification.
Matriarch Emberheart.
A name that needed no explanation in these circles.
The iron spine behind the Emberheart legacy.
A woman whose standards were so exacting that even the so-called prodigies who survived her training emerged less like wildfires and more like forged weapons.
Hard. Controlled. Unyielding.
"She's known for burning the hesitation out of her students," the woman beside him murmured dryly. "Sometimes literally."
A few of the older scouts chuckled quietly at the old rumors — rumors of training duels so intense the academy's insurance circles had once filed private complaints.
But that was enough Emberheart speculation.
Because someone else had begun drawing their attention.
On the feed, a slim figure moved — not at the front like Layla, not on the flanks like Jasmine — but weaving between them, filling the gaps before they could form, adjusting like a living pulse in the formation.
Astron Natusalune.
He wasn't flashy.
He wasn't even the fastest or strongest among the group.
But he was everywhere he needed to be.
When Layla's shield strain shifted slightly under a heavier construct blow, Astron slipped behind her just long enough to intercept a flanking beast.
When Jasmine pressed an opening, he was already moving to mirror her angle — preventing overcommitment without needing a word spoken.
It wasn't showy.
It was hard.
Because to do that job — the unglamorous flex role — he had to maintain:
Environmental awareness,
Threat assessment,
Movement prediction,
Enemy control,
Ally support prioritization,
And personal survivability.
All at once.
No mistakes. No glory.
"Not bad," one of the Blackstone scouts murmured, tapping his mana-slate thoughtfully. "It's hard to find a talent like this."
The woman flicked her fingers across the screen, pulling up the cadet's public profile.
Astron Natusalune —
Rank: 1071
A low, considering hum passed between the group.
"Low for a true ace," the gray-uniformed man noted.
"But not bad for a foundational support specialist," the woman corrected easily, already noting something else. "Ranks fluctuate faster in the mid-range tiers anyway. What matters is how they handle pressure. And he's doing it."
There was no need to say it aloud — that with training, with the right pressure applied, someone like that could easily surge up the rankings once given a role that matched their true capacity.
And then—
Another shift.
One that drew even more interest.
The Blackstone scouts sharpened their attention as another figure anchored at the rear of Team Fourteen's formation, a faint shimmer of mana weaving through her gloves.
Sylvie Gracewind.
Chapter 1010 - Gate Examination (5)
Sylvie Gracewind.
She wasn't blasting spells across the battlefield.
She wasn't darting in with blades or walls of flame.
Instead — she was rather….
Layering glyphs onto terrain.
Weaving speed buffs between team members.
Setting up silent suppression fields without announcing it, subtly choking enemy movement before it could even threaten the front line.
One of the scouts frowned slightly, pulling up her earlier profile.
Starting classification: Healing Specialist.
Current deployment: Combat Support / Utility Enhancement.
A quiet exhale. Not disappointment — interest.
"Started as a healer," the woman muttered, tapping her notes, "yet now she's operating as a dynamic field support."
"And she's doing it without breaking formation," the older man added. "Most healers transitioning into combat scatter under pressure — they try to cover too much at once."
But Sylvie didn't.
She wasn't rushing from point to point like a panicked medic.
She was moving with the team's rhythm, anchoring when needed, surging when the gaps widened — not forcing herself to be everywhere, but being where she mattered most.
"Smart mana usage too," another scout noted, checking the stream metrics. "Her surge patterns are layered. Defensive frames under acceleration frames. Efficiency above projection."
The more the scouts watched, the clearer it became.
She wasn't just supporting from a distance.
She wasn't just layering spells for others to shine.
She engaged.
When a straggling canid broke from the fog, slipping past Jasmine's forward sweep, Sylvie didn't flinch.
She adjusted her stance with practiced ease, palm flaring briefly as a compression glyph locked into place — a hard, focused burst that spiked the creature's footing, staggering it just long enough for her follow-up.
No wasted movements.
No excess mana flare.
The beast collapsed under a second layered strike — a precision burst of kinetic reinforcement along her palm guard — before it could even bare its fangs.
One of the Blackstone Verge scouts leaned forward slightly, tapping the crystal screen to rewatch the frame at half speed.
Not sheer power.
Not desperation.
Technique.
Calculated, deliberate — the kind of reflexes only possible through long, consistent practice.
Another scout — older, with the look of someone who had seen far too many raw cadets flame out — shook his head once, slow.
"Most healers," he said, voice quiet but certain, "don't do that."
And it was true.
Healing wasn't a role chosen by the unfocused.
It demanded precision, mana endurance, and nerves tighter than steel wire.
Training to become a combatant on top of that?
It was more than difficult.
It was counterintuitive.
An unnecessary burden.
Healers focused because they had to.
Because even surviving their own specialization was exhausting.
But Sylvie Gracewind had gone beyond that.
While still maintaining smooth, efficient heal spells — the small, nearly invisible pulses of restoration that flickered across Layla's battered shield arm, across Jasmine's ribs after a mistborn strike — she moved and fought without breaking rhythm.
Maintaining two fields of battle at once.
External. Internal.
Healing and engaging — synchronously.
The woman scout from Blackstone Verge drummed her fingers lightly against her slate, a small, approving rhythm.
A rare rhythm.
"She's special," she said at last.
Not loudly.
Not like a dramatic declaration.
Just a simple, professional judgment.
A talent like that — one who could not only defend herself, but expand the tactical envelope of a squad — was rare.
Dangerously rare.
Most teams lived or died by the fragility of their healers.
By the need to shield and protect the core from disruption.
But with Sylvie—
Team Fourteen didn't shield her.
She shielded herself.
And more.
She reinforced the team's aggression.
Pushed their forward momentum by removing the burden of hesitation — the fear that if they overreached, the core would fall apart.
Because they could trust her to stand.
Even when the lines blurred.
Even when monsters closed in.
In her quiet way, Sylvie Gracewind shone nearly as brightly as Irina Emberheart.
Not in flame.
Not in spectacle.
But in the invisible architecture of victory.
*****
The moment Astron gave the signal, the team surged forward into the mist-wreathed ruin.
The cracked ground trembled beneath their boots as they advanced—closing the final distance to the collapsed cathedral in measured, ready steps.
And then—
The air shattered.
From within the gaping maw of the broken cathedral, the boss monster emerged with a thunderous roar that split the mist apart.
Its name appeared briefly on their synchronized visors:
[Boss Identified: Vulkran, the Ashen Howl]
Classification: Fire-Pison Aberrant – Peak Rank-6, Early Rank-7 Potential
Vulkran was massive—easily towering three meters tall even hunched.
Its body was a patchwork of sinew and molten plates, veins of ember-red light crisscrossing through its charred black muscles. Sharp jagged spikes of obsidian jutted from its back and forearms, and its head resembled a monstrous wolf's skull fused with volcanic rock, mouth constantly leaking trails of searing vapor.
Two molten wings—cracked, skeletal, more for intimidation than flight—arched from its back, dripping magma that hissed against the broken stone below.
The instant Vulkran laid eyes on them, the temperature spiked. Mana surged violently in the air.
BOOM!
Without warning, a wave of explosive fire erupted outward from Vulkran's body, cracking the ground in a radial shockwave. Entire stone pillars near the entrance vaporized under the blast.
"Scatter and reform!" Astron barked immediately, already moving.
The team split as the explosion hit, minimizing damage.
Chunks of debris rained from above—collapsing half-formed bridges and opening new chasms in the terrain.
"It's attacking the terrain itself!" Astron called sharply, dodging a boulder mid-flight. "Keep moving! Never anchor in one spot for too long!"
Layla gritted her teeth, raising her shield just in time to block a splintering shard. Her arms shook from the impact, but she held firm.
Vulkran surged forward, its molten claws raking the ground as it targeted Layla first—the frontline anchor.
BOOM.
A direct clash.
Layla braced, but the sheer force of the monster's charge threw her back several meters, scraping across the broken ground.
"Layla!" Jasmine shouted, lunging forward, dagger flashing to intercept—but Vulkran's molten tail whipped outward, catching Jasmine mid-dash and sending her tumbling with a pained grunt.
Sylvie immediately reacted.
She moved gracefully across the shattered field, her gloves glowing brightly as she unleashed twin spells—one a pulse of Restorative Sigil that enveloped Layla's battered form, knitting bone-deep bruises in seconds. The other a focused Tendon Mending Thread that stabilized Jasmine's shoulder mid-motion, letting her regain stance almost instantly.
"Move!" Sylvie cried, reinforcing them both with mana-boosted acceleration glyphs.
Meanwhile, Irina skidded back, fiery mana roaring around her—but this time, she didn't recklessly charge.
She stood still—lowering her center of gravity slightly, one hand rising skyward.
Her flames twisted unnaturally, spiraling inward instead of expanding outward.
Sylvie pivoted, her hands weaving swiftly—layering Mana Resonance Threads around Irina's gathering flames, compressing the fiery energy even tighter.
Astron noticed immediately.
He moved into position without hesitation—crossing into Vulkran's approach vector, intercepting it.
His daggers flashed—not trying to harm, but to control.
He parried molten claw strikes, redirected explosive blasts with careful mana slashes, always staying just outside of fatal range—stalling Vulkran.
"Buy her time!" Astron shouted, slashing upward as Vulkran's talon narrowly missed cleaving the ground.
Jasmine and Layla rallied—Layla advancing with a reinforced charge, slamming her shield into Vulkran's lower limbs to stagger its forward momentum.
Jasmine weaved around the edge of the battlefield, targeting exposed joints with rapid strikes—each hit minor, but collectively slowing the boss's motions.
Irina inhaled deeply.
The air around her folded—heat compressing into a pinpoint so dense the mist nearby evaporated in an instant.
Her eyes flared gold, her voice cutting through the chaos.
"School of Emberheart: Solar Rend."
A compressed laser—pure, searing destruction.
The gathered flames in her palm bent once, twisted—then fired.
KA-CHAAAM!
The beam wasn't wide.
It wasn't chaotic.
It was thin—surgical—and impossibly fast.
The Solar Rend struck Vulkran dead center, piercing through its molten chest. The boss's fire resistance crumpled under the sheer density and purity of Irina's compressed magic.
Vulkran let out a strangled, molten howl, thrashing violently—but the beam didn't waver.
It drilled through.
Flames erupted outward from the monster's ruptured core as the internal mana structure destabilized.
Astron, reading the shift instantly, barked one final order. "All units, disengage! Collapse imminent!"
The team scattered back just as Vulkran's body convulsed, its molten veins exploding outward in a brilliant eruption of light and ash.
BOOOOOM.
The ruins shook violently, debris raining from the sky—but by the time the dust began to settle, the five figures of Team Fourteen were already regrouped at a safe distance, breathing hard but standing tall.
At the center of the destruction, only the smoldering remains of Vulkran's shattered form remained—slowly crumbling into ash and broken stone.
Silence reigned.
Sylvie's hands trembled slightly from the mana exertion but steadied as she lowered them. Layla leaned heavily on her shield, grinning despite the burn along her arm. Jasmine laughed once, sharp and exhilarated.
And Irina—
Irina simply stood there, breathing in the residual heat, golden flames flickering around her shoulders like a mantle of victory.
Astron met her gaze briefly across the battlefield, giving her a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Solid fundamentals.
Flawless execution.
Another dungeon conquered.