The sky split open.
Thunder rolled like an unending drum as the storm descended upon the battlefield. The poison mist, thick and alive, began to disperse, its virulent glow dimming under the first light of dawn.
The fight had burned through the night.
Now, silence reigned—heavy, choking, sacred.
Aeron stood in the center of the field, his scythe buried in the earth. The bodies of fallen beasts and corrupted soldiers surrounded him like a graveyard sculpted in decay. The green light in his eyes flickered as his breathing steadied.
He could barely move.
He could barely feel.
The Plague Genesis still whispered in his veins, hungry and alive. Every pulse of his heart carried the rhythm of that otherworldly power—the dance between death and life, rot and rebirth. He could taste iron on his tongue, smell ash in his lungs.
And yet, amidst the ruin, something was… shifting.
---
A soft hum rippled through the field. From above, a sigil—vast and golden—spread across the sky like a radiant halo. The air grew still. A thousand runes flared to life along its circumference, descending like meteors before embedding themselves in the earth.
The ground trembled.
Then, a voice spoke.
"Enough."
It was neither loud nor gentle—merely absolute.
The voice of an authority that transcended fear.
From the sigil emerged figures in long white robes, their faces obscured, their presence bending the very fabric of mana. These were the Grand Instructors—the true overseers of the Academy's Trial Division.
Kael staggered to his feet, bloodied but alive. "They finally decided to show up…"
Seris slumped beside him, too exhausted to speak. The others—Lira, Elias, Darian—stood in wary silence, their auras dimmed to embers.
The lead instructor surveyed the field. "The trial is over," she declared. Her tone was serene, but the weight of it rolled through the survivors like a shockwave. "You have endured enough. The records will be updated, the results determined. The rest… is no longer necessary."
Her gaze fell upon Aeron.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The mist shifted around him like something sentient, the remnants of plague energy reacting to her divine pressure.
He met her gaze, calm and cold. "Was this your goal?" His voice was rough, quiet. "To turn us into weapons?"
The instructor tilted her head slightly. "To see who could survive the truth," she answered. "The world beyond this academy is not kind, Aeron. You will understand in time."
Her eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. "But you did well. Too well, perhaps."
---
A second sigil bloomed behind her—vast, luminous—and swallowed the entire field in white light.
When the brilliance faded, they stood once again within the academy walls.
The contrast was jarring.
Polished marble floors. Serene gardens. The faint hum of arcane barriers.
It felt like waking from a nightmare into a dream that no longer fit.
All around him, healers rushed to tend to the wounded. The surviving few—no, fewer now—were gathered in silence, the reality of their survival slowly dawning.
Aeron glanced down at his hands. His skin was whole again, but faint green veins glimmered beneath the surface, like cracks in glass that refused to heal.
The book materialized at his side, its cover darker than before.
"You've crossed the threshold," it murmured. "The plague is now a part of you—tethered to your soul. You can no longer separate from it."
He said nothing.
His gaze wandered across the courtyard, landing on Darian, who stood a few meters away, bandaged and pale but alive. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged—but a silent promise passed between them.
Not peace. Not forgiveness.
Understanding.
They had seen each other's truths. That was enough.
---
The announcement came the next morning.
"All participants of the Grand Trial have been evaluated. The survivors are hereby elevated to official disciples of the Inner Academy. Your results will determine your rank, access, and privileges within the Great Houses. Report to the Central Hall at dawn."
The entire academy stirred with excitement.
For most, it was triumph.
He sat by his window, watching the rain fall against the stone arches. The world outside the barrier seemed calm again, almost absurdly peaceful after the nightmare he'd endured.
He exhaled slowly.
The fight was over.
The war within wasn't.
The book broke the silence once more.
"Your next lesson begins soon," it said, almost teasingly. "You've tasted the Laws of Death and Poison… but their harmony is far from perfect."
Aeron turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "You mean the fusion?"
"Yes," the book purred. "What you wield now is but an echo. But if you wish to walk further—into true synthesis—you will need a catalyst. Something living. Something willing."
He frowned. "You mean a person."
The book did not answer. But its pages turned by themselves, revealing an unfamiliar sigil—etched in ink that seemed to breathe.
Aeron closed the book quietly.
He'd seen enough death for one lifetime.
---
The bell rang across the academy, calling them to the ceremonial induction. Students gathered in the grand plaza, whispering names and speculating rankings. The instructors stood on a high dais, robes fluttering in the wind.
The trials had ended.
But the academy… was just beginning.
Aeron adjusted his collar, straightened his coat, and stepped into the crowd of survivors. Around him, rivalries, alliances, and ambitions were already taking shape.