The air grew taut as the elder descended onto the stone platform, the faint hum of spiritual energy rippling through the courtyard. He didn't need to speak to command silence; the crowd fell quiet the moment his sandaled feet touched the ground. His simple grey robes swayed in the breeze, but the weight of centuries seemed to rest in the way he carried himself.
Beside him, the examiner stepped forward, taller, sharper, and far less gentle in aura. His eyes swept across the gathered candidates like a blade, pausing on a few figures in particular.
"Welcome to the Trial of Foundation," he said, voice crisp and resonant. "Remember this well, this sect does not cradle the weak."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Among the candidates, a tall elf with silver-green hair adjusted the jade ornament on his ear; a beastkin girl with russet fur folded her arms, hiding the nervous flick of her tail. Further back, a dark-skinned boy with storm-grey eyes leaned against a pillar, his expression unreadable.
They weren't nobodies. Even without introductions, the sharp-eyed could sense the weight of potential around them.
The elder finally opened his eyes, golden, serene, and ancient. "Let the assessment begin."
A pulse of spiritual light spread through the courtyard like a living wave, awakening the sigils carved into the stone beneath their feet.
...
The courtyard of the Obsidian Citadel pulsed with restrained energy. Noon sunlight spilled down in golden shafts, striking the black fangs of obsidian that jutted toward the heavens. At the heart of the courtyard, the massive Dawn Vein Formation came alive, not with ordinary sigils, but with intricate, shifting hieroglyphic lines.
The symbols glowed a deep gold, swirling like molten rivers across the dark stone, forming an immense ankh-shaped pattern beneath the gathered initiates. Above the courtyard, a single falcon carved of jet-black stone hovered in the air, supported by invisible force, its jeweled eyes glimmering. The moment the examiner unfurled the scroll, the falcon's wings slowly spread.
A heavy divine pressure rolled over the courtyard like a sandstorm descending from the desert sky.
Beastkin ears flattened. Elven eyes narrowed. Human youths clenched their jaws. The energy didn't just weigh on their bodies; it pressed into their spirits, testing every fracture, every weakness, every whisper of doubt.
The Shadow Fang Sect did not seek just talent. It sought endurance, will, and the kind of instinct that did not shatter under divine weight.
Elder Hakar stood on the raised obsidian platform, his robes trailing like smoke, his gaze sweeping across the young hopefuls. He was a large man, but it wasn't size that made people stiffen beneath his stare. It was the quiet, predatory patience in his eyes, like a beast waiting to see who would break first.
Beside him stood the examiner, expression cold and sharp. "Do not fight the weight with your bodies," he commanded. "Let your core, your spirit... stand."
A few candidates adjusted their stance immediately. Others faltered, sweat beading their foreheads.
The hieroglyphs brightened, and the falcon's jeweled eyes flashed crimson.
The pressure intensified.
An elven boy with braided hair stumbled to his knees, his aura shattering like brittle glass. A beastkin pair hissed through their teeth, claws scratching against the stone, refusing to yield. A girl in ochre robes clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, blood dripping from her lip as she bit down hard.
And then came the first collapse.
One by one, weaker candidates fell, their cores flickering and sputtering like dying embers. Silent disciples stationed at the edges moved in with practiced precision, dragging the unconscious away.
The field thinned rapidly.
In the far right column, Bahamut stood barefoot, fox-skin clothes slightly rumpled, a small white bunny curled lazily on his shoulder. Where others strained and trembled, his expression was unreadable, almost detached, especially with the black blindfold over his eyes. The spiritual weight pressed down on everyone like the breath of an ancient god, yet he stood as if it were nothing more than a breeze.
A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention.
A storm-eyed youth forced himself upright, spiritual veins bulging at his temples. His raw willpower turned his body rigid, jaw clenched to keep from groaning. On Bahamut's other side, a russet-furred beastkin girl let out a low, guttural growl, her animal instincts sharpening her focus. Her tail lashed like a whip as she anchored herself to the stone.
And slightly ahead, a silver-haired elf stood serene, posture straight, breathing slow and deep. He seemed untouched, but unlike Bahamut, whose indifference came effortlessly, the elf's calm came from controlled precision.
The tension grew heavier with each breath. The examiner did not speak; he simply raised the scroll, and the golden falcon screeched soundlessly, its wings beating against the air.
Another wave of pressure crashed over the candidates.
Several more youths crumpled immediately. Gasps echoed across the courtyard. One foxkin boy vomited blood before collapsing. A pair of twins, wolfkin, leaned against each other, trembling but upright.
The courtyard was shrinking, not in size, but in presence.
Only a few remained standing. And of those few, only a handful remained truly steady.
Elder Hakar's sharp gaze lingered briefly on Bahamut. Still standing. Still… relaxed. Not straining. Not resisting. It was not arrogance in his stance, but something far stranger. He wasn't ignoring the weight. He was absorbing it, letting it flow through him like water around a stone.
The silver-haired elf noticed too. His eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of quiet calculation behind his calm expression. The beastkin girl's growl deepened. The storm-eyed youth shot Bahamut a burning glare, a silent declaration of rivalry.
The examiner's knuckles tightened on the scroll. His instincts whispered something dangerous about the barefoot boy.
A final surge came. The pressure was suffocating now, like the sun god Ra's judgment pressing down upon the guilty. Cracks spidered through the formation beneath the weaker ones as they dropped, one after another. Dust rose, and the courtyard echoed with strained breaths.
When the golden light finally stabilized, only eleven candidates remained upright out of the hundreds who had gathered.
The falcon statue slowly folded its wings. The hieroglyphs dimmed. The oppressive weight dissolved.
A collective breath filled the courtyard.
"Eleven," Elder Hakar said, his voice carrying over the silence. "Out of two hundred and seventy-three."
The examiner stepped forward, cold and efficient. "You have withstood the Dawn Vein Formation, the Trial of Spirit. Remember this day. Those who crumbled will not return. Those who stand will face the next test."
Murmurs rose among the survivors.
The storm-eyed youth clenched his fists with a grin that was equal parts pride and defiance. The beastkin girl flicked her ears, rolling her shoulders as though itching for combat. The elf exhaled softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Bahamut shifted slightly, one hand in his wrap, as the bunny on his shoulder stretched and fell right back asleep.
Even that tiny motion drew eyes.
Some curious.Some annoyed.Some… cautious.
Elder Hakar's stare lingered again, sharp, like a blade testing the edge of a mystery.
The examiner raised his hand, and new runes began to spread at the edge of the courtyard, forming a ringed dueling ground. The next trial was already taking shape.
"The weak have been cast aside," the examiner said. "Now, the Trial of Strength begins."
The air itself seemed to tighten. Rivalries sharpened like drawn blades.
And in the center of it all, Bahamut stood in his quiet, disarming way, the calm before a storm no one could yet see.