The sun outside the dome rose and fell like the beat of a quiet drum, but within, time remained suspended—an endless storm of sweat, pain, and screaming steel.
One week had passed in the real world.
But inside the Interstell Dome, where time was twisted like the threads of fate—where one second equaled an entire day—it had been over 604,800 days.
More than 1,657 years worth of unrelenting training had been packed into what felt like a heartbeat to the outside world.
The villagers, once simple farmers, bakers, tailors, and blacksmiths, were now shadows of their former selves—flesh carved by discipline, eyes gleaming with purpose. They bled, cried, screamed—but they endured.
The Mountain of Azur, once a peaceful haven adorned with glowing moss and sapphire-like stone, had become a crucible. Every ridge, every cave, every patch of soil had turned into a battlefield.
Nova stood atop a high cliff overlooking the sprawling training grounds, a stoic commander cloaked in silence. Scarlet stood beside him, her once-pure white Druid staff now soaked in deep crimson—the Bloody Tear, a weapon only held by War Druids of ancient times. It pulsed with violent life.
[System: Bloody Tear Staff — Mode Active: War Druid Ascendant]
[Effect: Amplifies root-based magic. Forces targeted plants into rapid growth and decay to pierce enemies. Grants combat enhancements based on caster's rage.]
Scarlet's expression was unreadable. Her eyes followed the hundreds of fighters below, each locked in their own hell.
The Warriors were the first to be tested. They were cast into a sky arena conjured by the Dome, where winged beasts—creatures with thunder in their wings and fire in their throats—swooped in relentless waves. Shields were shattered. Arms broken. Blood sprayed like rain.
But they endured.
They learned to leap higher, to strike with punches that echoed like cannons across the cliff walls. One man, Garris, roared as he launched himself off a collapsing boulder, slamming his bare fist into the beast's chest. A shockwave cracked the air.
"I won't be weak again!" he bellowed, as his knuckles bled but his heart ignited.
The Archers had a trial of their own—ten mountain ranges stood between them and their targets. Wind howled. Arrows splintered mid-air. Their arms trembled from the tension. Fingers bled raw, nerves frayed to breaking.
One archer, Ellyn, finally understood the secret—she closed her eyes and felt the wind, listened to the trees, and her arrows began to sing.
"The string is not just tension—it is memory," she whispered. "I shoot not forward—but where fate will take it."
She pierced boulders. She struck targets through fog. Her arrows curved like whispers on wind.
The Mages were hurled into caverns filled with anti-magic beasts—creatures bred to absorb, nullify, and counter all spells. Spells fizzled, staffs cracked.
Some wept in frustration. Others knelt in despair.
But one mage—young Iriel—stood tall. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady.
"If mana is blocked... then I won't use it. I will cast from the soul."
A flash.
No incantation. No gesture. Just raw will. Lightning danced from her chest, exploding into the beast and reducing it to ash.
[System: No-Incantation Casting Discovered — Soul Tier Magic Registered]
Magic flowed now not from words, but from resolve.
The Healers—perhaps the ones who suffered most. They healed every wound, every gash, every burn. But their magic drained their very essence. Some collapsed. Others wept as their own veins began to rupture from the strain.
Yet they adapted. They unlocked techniques not seen in centuries. Using natural druidic flows and pressure points, they increased regeneration to a state of near immortality inside the Dome.
"I don't just heal anymore," whispered one elderly woman, "I restore... what they could have been."
Scarlet watched with pride as they began using vines to link multiple patients, accelerating healing through a shared mana pool.
Classes formed naturally among the chaos:
Sentinels: Shield-wielders whose defense techniques could now block a wyvern's scream.
Skybreakers: Warriors who had mastered aerial combat, fighting as if gravity had forgotten them.
Soulflame Mages: Spellcasters who burned with internal fire, casting raw magic without utterance.
Verdant Surgeons: Healers who could regrow limbs, close mortal wounds, and even delay death.
Windwatch Archers: Capable of hitting targets over ten kilometers away.
They faced new simulations daily:
Night raids by banshee-like spirits.
Labyrinth trials filled with death traps and illusion magic.
Forced marches through acid rain storms conjured from elemental clouds.
Hunger illusions meant to break the mind.
Some screamed. Some tried to run. One even begged to be let out.
But they were stopped—not by guards, but by fellow trainees.
"We protect each other. We survive together. That's the only way!"
By the seventh day, Nova called them all together at the center.
His voice was tired, his cloak torn by wind and time, but his eyes glowed.
"You've lived centuries in days. You've been crushed, drowned, broken—and reborn."
"You are no longer villagers of Thelara. You are its blades, its bulwark, its storm."
Scarlet stepped forward. The Bloody Tear raised high.
"This is just the beginning. For what comes next... is a war not just of blades—but of hearts."
As the Dome finally flickered and lifted, revealing the calm morning sun outside, the air outside the mountain grew thick with awe.
Kael, Mira, and even little Lio stared as the villagers stepped out.
Their bodies glistened with a sheen of mana. Their posture, regal. Their gazes, unwavering.
They weren't the same anymore.
They were warriors forged in a realm where time itself bent to their will.
The world had no idea what was coming.