The next day, at noon, the next test began.
As Harlen stood before every squad leader, each flanked by their respective team, he took a moment to observe them. A hush settled over the courtyard, sunlight pouring through the high windows in warm, lazy shafts. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and steel. He cleared his throat and began to explain the next drill. It would be another formation exercise, much like the last, focusing on defense and counter-attacks. The instructions were simple, but the execution would be anything but.
The weeks that followed moved in a steady rhythm, like the turning of a quiet wheel. Formation drills in the morning, team duels in the afternoon, and one-on-one combat under the golden wash of evening sun. The academy grounds grew familiar under the students' boots, their rough edges softened by routine. Nothing particularly dramatic happened, and aside from Reed's team losing a match or two, there were no major upsets. But change was happening, steady and quiet.
Every team grew stronger, not just in skill but in spirit. Where once there had been tension, there was now mutual respect. Arguments had given way to laughter shared over simple meals and the quiet solidarity of shared hardship. Even the most stubborn team leaders began to show a sense of camaraderie. The drills often paired squads together, and over time, each team learned to move not just in sync with themselves, but with one another. The bonds forged in sweat and bruises were not easily broken.
And today, all of that preparation had led them here.
This was the day they would enter the gateway.
The reports had been clear: the students lost beyond the gate had food and water to last no more than two months. That window was now at its end. The expedition could not be delayed any longer. No more drills, no more preparation. Only what had been learned would remain.
That morning, every team leader woke in silence, their minds heavy with what lay ahead. Reed dressed slowly, hands steady but cold. He walked beside Marek, their boots echoing through the quiet stone halls, until they joined Lannis at the grand underground chamber beneath the academy. The gateway loomed before them, ancient and humming softly with quiet power.
The room itself was solemn and still, a sacred kind of quiet pressing down on everyone within. Carved wooden beams stretched overhead, etched with old, curling designs. The stone tiles beneath their feet were cool and worn with time, speaking of decades, maybe centuries, of purpose. Reed took a breath and tried to steady his nerves.
He glanced at Marek, who was already suited up. Their squad's uniform had been designed just for them—a flowing black robe reinforced with light armor beneath, outlined with neat silver trim, and marked by a simple blue circle on the back. Black, silver, and blue. Their colors. Their symbol. The uniform was more than fabric and stitching; it was a statement of unity and identity.
Around them, the other squads readied themselves. Each uniform was different, built for function but also for pride, each stitched with magic-infused leather designed to protect against lesser beasts. Small packs hung at their belts or over shoulders, stocked with carefully measured supplies. Food, water, survival gear. Just enough to endure the unknown. Yanis's group carried extra, their mission clear—they would be the ones to help the survivors if any were found.
As the last of the straps were fastened and the last weapons checked, Harlen stepped forward. His voice filled the chamber, calm and firm.
"Students, today you honor your nation with a deed born of courage and compassion. You go not only to test your mettle, but to protect the lives of your fellow students. Should you return, you will do so as heroes. And the empire will not forget your names. May the golden throne remain always in your hearts."
He bowed his head.
The other professors did the same, then stepped aside, allowing the path to the gate to open.
Reed looked around one last time. Faces bright with determination, some smiling, some solemn. They were young, all of them, but ready in their own way. There was a certain warmth in seeing them like this—friends and rivals, now bound by a single purpose. His own heart beat faster, but he did not show it. This was his moment. He had trained for this. He had fought and bled and risen for this.
One by one, the squads stepped forward. All six. Boots echoed in the chamber as they crossed the threshold, disappearing into the soft light of the gate. When the last figure passed through, the gate closed with a deep hum, the light vanishing in an instant.
Silence returned to the chamber.
Only the professors remained, their faces strained and still. They did not speak. There was no pride in their eyes. No celebration. Instead, there was something far heavier—a shared guilt that clung to them like a shadow.
They had sent the students into the unknown. And though none of the students knew it, the professors did. This was no rescue. It was no research expedition. It was the sacred trials.
And they knew what that meant. They had once endured it themselves. Long ago. Back then, it had no official title. No ceremony. No noble speeches. It was whispered of quietly, fearfully, in the cold hours of the night.
They had called it one thing, and one thing only.
Hell.
--------End of act 2--------