The walk from the somber mood of Annex 7 to the familiar, oily-smelling air of Workshop Delta felt like crossing a final bridge.
When they entered Workshop Delta, Proctor Vex was already waiting, leaning against her central demonstration table as if she'd been carved there. The usual clutter of orbs and metal blocks was gone. The room was stark, empty, expectant.
"Now that everybody's here," she began, her raspy voice cutting through the murmurs without raising its volume. "Listen closely. All foundational theory has been delivered. The map of the world, the laws of mana, the structure of your affinities, the institutions that own you. If you need more specifics later, you'll get them in the moment you need them. That is all the *theory* you get."
She pushed off the table and began a slow pace in front of the silent cohort. "What begins tomorrow is not for discussion. It is **application**. Training. Drills. Repetition. Strain. You will eat, sleep, and breathe the practical integration of what you've barely begun to understand."
She stopped, letting the weight of the statement settle. "Advanced studies begin in the *third year*. The gap between is not for more books. It is to forge the baseline competence required to not die while reading them. So, mentally prepare yourselves. What is coming will be brutal. You will wish you could go back to sitting quietly and taking notes. That option is gone."
She held up a hand, fingers splayed. "From now on, all five of your core professors—Grath, Kael, Valia, Robert, and myself—will be overseeing your training rotation. We hold 20 marks. Your one hundred total marks for the year are now entirely in our hands, judged on performance, progress, and resilience. Not on how well you can recite a law."
A collective, almost imperceptible shiver ran through the room. Their academic safety net had just been yanked away.
"We meet at 0600 at the Delta training ground. Do not be late. Class dismissed."
She turned her back, effectively ending the session. For a moment, no one moved, stunned by the brevity and finality of it.
"That's it?" Leo whispered as they spilled out into the corridor, his voice a mix of disbelief and anxiety. "We spent weeks on theory, and now it's just… done? I thought there'd be thick books on elemental trait synergies or Guild law case studies."
Ilana adjusted her satchel, her expression analytical. "It's logical. We have the basic operating manual. Knowing the schematic of a magi-engine doesn't teach you to repair it under fire. We must build muscle memory, instinct, and tolerance. Strength, as Proctor Grath said, does not come from pages."
"It comes from pain," Elara muttered, lacking her usual humor. "Lots and lots of pain."
They walked to the cafeteria, the usual speculative chatter replaced by a preoccupied silence. The lavish lunch—a rich, mana-infused stew and fresh, glowing bread—felt like fuel being loaded into a engine that was about to be red-lined.
As they ate, Oliver summoned his wristband interface. He navigated to the Bronze class forum, curious about the collective reaction.
The forum was a storm of panic, grim resolve, and dark humor.
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Oliver closed the interface, the digital anxiety mirroring the tangible tension in the room around him. He looked at his friends. Leo was scowling at his stew, already planning. Elara pushed food around her plate listlessly. Ilana ate with methodical precision, as if each bite were a calculated resource.
The comfort of structure was gone. The safety of theory was over. All that remained was the doing, the straining, the inevitable failing and getting back up under the eyes of five judges who held their futures.
Oliver finished his meal, the food sitting heavily in his stomach. His mind drifted from the forum's fear. Tomorrow, the training would demand. He had no idea what that would look like, but the time for wondering was over.
The forge was hot. The Grinder awaited.
End of Chapter