Sgt. Nix cleared his throat like he'd just swallowed a bad joke. "That'll be all for today." No inspiring speeches. Just dismissal. The mirrors vanished behind them. Chalk circles were wiped clean by unseen glyphs. Twelve initiates stumbled out—some pale, some sweating. All of them quiet. "You're free to explore the lower tower or the training yard," Nix added. "No restrictions. Get some rest. You'll need it." No one asked what he meant. They just walked. Past the black arch. Past the mural. This time, Asher didn't look up at the snake. Didn't flinch. Let it watch. He didn't need to see the serpent looking back at him.
The halls buzzed with soft murmurs. "Asher, right? The kid with the restraints…" "I heard he cracked all four mirrors." "Nah. I think one of 'em cracked him." "He didn't even react. I saw his face." "Creepy." "I heard he was a survivor from the recent Hive campaign down south." He heard them all. Didn't respond. In the dorm, Ryvak flopped back onto his bed, hands behind his head. "So, wanna see if the training field's real or just another sadistic illusion?" Asher kicked off his boots and nodded. "Could use the distraction." They left ten minutes later.
The training yard was behind the eastern tower. No guards. No glyph-runes glowing in the stone. Just raw dirt underfoot, hard-packed from years of boot strikes. Weather-beaten dummies lined the edge—wooden torsos wrapped in old cloth, some split open from heavy blows. Targets painted with red chalk. Training weapons stacked in iron racks—blunted swords, splintered spears, round shields with the Academy seal burned in. The field reminded Asher of something ancient. A gladiatorial arena from one of his favorite TV shows. The yard was earthy. Unforgiving. Honest sweat and tears.
Older students paced the grounds in pairs, some shirtless, some armored in Void-forged training gear. They moved with slow violence—fluid drills interrupted by occasional grunts, bone-thuds, and barked instructions. Asher stepped to the rack. His hand hovered over a short sword, then shifted. He chose a two-handed greatsword. Heavy. Unevenly weighted. The kind of weapon meant for cleaving—not dueling. Ryvak cocked a brow. "Trying to compensate?" Asher grinned faintly. "Trying to win." Ryvak favored a pair of gauntlets.
They found an older student running solo drills—medium build, thin scar down his cheek, gauntlets scuffed from use. Volunteer tag stitched to his shoulder. "You two new?" "Yeah," Ryvak said. "We're not looking to get wrecked. Just learn." The student nodded. "Spear, sword and shield? Or longblade?" Asher raised the greatsword. The volunteer frowned. "Empire style, then. Good choice. Shield's dead weight against beasts. A two-hander's about weight, movement, and momentum. Shields might work on men. But monsters? They don't stop." He demonstrated: slash, pivot, block with the flat edge. A smooth triangle of movement. Meant for dismembering. "Try it."
Asher mimicked the motion. Too stiff. Again. Still wrong. The third time, he almost got it. Almost. A voice rang out behind them. "Pathetic," Cain called. "Look at that stance! Is he holding a sword or hugging it?" Several students turned. Caesar, a sharp-eyed noble from one of the upper bloodlines and a close friend of Cain, stood with arms folded. Rainley, another noble from the more secretive medical lineage, leaned against the railing watching with interest. Cain smirked. "Tell you what. First person who makes that worm bleed—I'll give 'em a Minor Void Shard." Silence.
The volunteer hesitated. Looked at Asher. Then looked away. "You are on your own," he muttered, stepping away. Cain spread his arms. "What? No takers?" Asher stepped forward. "Let me guess. This how you motivate everyone in House Vetrax?" Everyone knew the nobles either went to House Vetrax or House Solvaris. Cain had made sure no one forgot it—just that morning, he'd been bragging to anyone within earshot. Said he was already accepted into Vetrax, courtesy of some well-placed favors from his father. Pulled strings like it was his birthright. Cain's smile sharpened. "Oh, I'm not trying to motivate. I'm just bored."
One of the older initiates walked onto the field. A thick-armed boy with a training axe. "Fine. I'll do it," he muttered. "Sorry, kid." Asher turned toward him. Blade raised. Void threads shimmered behind his eyes, faint and shifting. Not visible to anyone else—but they moved. From the axe-boy's elbow to the dirt. From Cain's foot to the metal railing. From the volunteer's shoulder—vanishing into the shadows, where they pulsed faintly. Like something older was watching from the dark.
The axe-boy charged. Asher moved. He wasn't fast enough. The blade slammed into his shoulder—dull edge or not, it knocked him off balance. Pain flared white. The boy didn't stop. Another swing. Another. Asher ducked, rolled, gasping. His greatsword was heavy. His arms ached. His legs—shaking. The axe came again. He raised the blade just in time to deflect it—but it sent him skidding backward across the dirt. Laughter from the sidelines. Cain's voice rang out again. "C'mon, worm. Dance for us." Blood dripped from Asher's nose. His vision blurred.
Then—he saw it. A thread. Faint. Almost not there. Leading from the boy's wrist… down into his own shadow. Asher gritted his teeth. Asher watched the boy's shadow—not the boy. The void thread danced along the dark silhouette. He waited. The axe came again. Asher ducked hard to the right—the blade grazed his left arm, tearing skin. Pain flashed. But he was inside now. Too close. He slammed his heel behind the boy's ankle and twisted—a dirty trip move he'd learned while homeless, scrapping with older kids over scraps. The boy crashed to the dirt.
Asher didn't hesitate. He raised the sword. Stopped an inch from his ribs. Asher turned to Cain, "You wanna be next?" Cain narrowed his eyes, but Asher didn't break character. Cain was a bully and bullies always hunted weakness. If Asher cracked even a little, Cain would pounce. Inside, he was screaming. "Please say no. Please walk away." But none of it touched his face. Cain smirked. "Next time… I'll take you myself." Asher didn't lower his blade.
Behind him, Ryvak coughed blood onto the dirt. He'd taken a full blow to the gut during his match—never yielded, but paid the price. His knuckles were cracked raw. His shirt, torn. They walked off the field half-dead, weapons dragging behind them. The volunteer from earlier muttered, just loud enough. "Uhhh put the weapons back in the racks."
That night, the barracks held a kind of silence that pressed into the ribs. Asher's uniform was stiff with dried blood. His arm throbbed from a deep cut, his shoulder ached, jaw hung loose, ribs pulsing like war drums. Ryvak muttered curses into his pillow—one eye purple, lips split, knuckles swollen. The hall lights buzzed like flies above a corpse. Asher sat up, tugging at his ruined shirt. A chill crawled up his spine—like eyes pressed against the back of his skull. He was being watched. He looked up. Outside the window—perched on the railing—was a raven. Still. Watching. It didn't caw. Didn't move. It was the same raven from the desert. He didn't know how. He just felt it. Then the raven flew away. "What?"
TRIAL THREE: THE ROACH ARENA
The next morning came without warning. No reveille. No orders. Just the door swinging open and Sgt. Nix barking, "Line up. Follow me. Now." They moved like ghosts—limping, bandaged, half-awake. Down a narrow staircase carved into the central spine of the Academy. Each step colder than the last.
Eventually, the hallway shifted—metal plates, humming walls, old Empire tech. This was deeper than they'd ever been. A sealed bunker beneath the processing tower. A domed room awaited them. Strange lights. A dozen old-style simulation pods—rounded like capsules, each linked to a crystalline console. This wasn't military gear. It looked like an arcade. Color-coded helmets hung from coiled wires above each pod, each one carved with Void glyphs that shimmered when touched.
Warden Brann Korr stood at the center. The Drifter's Warden. No shoes. No coat. Just lean muscle, tattooed arms, and the kind of smile that usually came before something awful. He leaned on a bent cane. "Welcome to Trial Three." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Let's see what your instincts look like when no one's watching. Tactical memory, reflex under pressure, choice under fear. This is where your brains either surface—" he tapped his head, "—or boil." He motioned to the helmets. "Strap in. Die in the sim, you just fail. For now."
Asher sat. The helmet lowered. Cold metal touched his temples. He heard a chime. And everything blinked out.
When his vision returned—he was kneeling in dirt. Black sky above. Three moons. One red, one blue, one broken. Alien wind hissed between jagged rocks. His armor felt too tight. Breath ragged. There was a katana in his grip. Crimson edge. No scabbard. No HUD. No markers. Just instinct. A faint clicking echoed behind him. Not like footsteps. Like legs. Too many.
He turned. A cockroach—no, a monster. A tower of chitin and glistening black shell. At least twenty feet tall. Its antennae swung wide, one slicing the air—THWIP! It slammed into his chest. He flew backward, crashed into a dead tree. Gasped. The air here tasted like rust.
The roach clicked again, antennae vibrating with impossible speed. The left one locked onto him. Followed him. No matter where he moved—it tracked. He ducked again—barely missed getting flung into a jagged boulder. The antenna nicked his shoulder. It wasn't just a feeler—it had weight. And accuracy.
His katana dragged behind him. He didn't know how to fight this. Didn't know how to fight at all. SLASH. He didn't aim. Didn't calculate. He just swung. The katana tore through air and cartilage. One antenna sliced clean off, hit the dirt twitching like a severed tail. The monster screamed—a real scream, not a sound something that size should make.
Asher stumbled backward into a cluster of metal crates. A shipping depot. Military issue. Rusted Empire logos. Crates piled high like a maze. A transport dock long abandoned. The roach shuddered. Plates on its back peeled open. WINGS. Translucent. Webbed. Buzzing.
WHUMP—Wind exploded outward. Asher was thrown into the crates. He barely rose in time before the antenna slashed down—CRACK—missing his head by inches. He stabbed upward. SNAP. A mandible cracked and hissed. The roach screamed. Launched into the sky. Gone.
Asher stumbled. Breathing ragged. Saw a ship on cracked landing gear. Ramp lowered. He ran. He was five feet from the ramp when the air trembled. He dove. Rolled under a steel support beam. BOOM. The roach slammed back down. Still alive. Still hunting.
But now—A figure stood atop the crates. Watching. A person. Unmoving. Their eyes met. Just for a second.