The transition from the fluid, weightless silence of Aquaria to the cold, metallic rigidity of Pangaea was like being slammed into a stone wall. As the Indigo Sieve was hoisted onto the dry-docks of the Behemoth's flank by massive steam-cranes, Konja felt the change in the air immediately. It was no longer the vibrant, chaotic hum of a thriving metropolis; it was the suffocating silence of a graveyard.
"Look at the towers," Mina whispered, stepping out onto the wet brass of the dock.
The floating gardens of Aeolus were no longer vibrant green. They had been lowered, tethered to the main plateau by thick, obsidian chains. Hovering above the city were three massive Regency Dreadnoughts, their hulls emblazoned with the Golden Eye of the Hegemony's High Council.
"High Regency lockdown," Renzo muttered, his hand tightening on his blade. "This only happens when the Council thinks the city is under threat—or when they want to ensure no one leaves during the Summit."
The Apex Institute itself was draped in banners of black and gold. The White-Brass gates were closed, guarded not by students, but by Regency Sentinels—armored warriors in full-plate whose faces were hidden behind faceless, mirrored visors.
"Identification!" a Sentinel barked, its voice modulated into a metallic rasp as Konja's team approached the main entrance.
"Konja Munka and the Oakhaven Delegation," Konja said, his voice steady. He held up the crystal case containing the Salt of the Ancients. "Returning from the Diplomatic Mission to Aquaria. We have the Mandate."
The Sentinel's visor scanned the crystal, then Konja's face. After a tense silence, the gates ground open.
"Enter. But be warned: the Academy is no longer a school. It is a sovereign territory of the High Council until the moon sets on the Summit."
The Arrival of the Rivals
As they walked through the Great Hall toward Headmaster Malchor's spire, they saw them—the other Academies.
The Summit of Stars had brought the elite from every corner of the continent. To the left, students from the Obsidian Fang Academy of the South sat in silence, their Crest-Mons—massive, shadow-draped panthers—prowling the perimeter. To the right, the Siren-Song Enclave of the Eastern Isles moved with a haunting grace, their robes woven from bioluminescent silk.
But the most striking presence was at the far end of the hall. A group of students dressed in pristine, surgical white, their eyes shielded by silver bands.
"The Sanctum of Purity," Mina whispered. "They believe that Prana should only be used for 'Perfect Refining.' They don't cook; they synthesize. They see our 'Munka-Style' as primitive filth."
As Konja passed, the leader of the Sanctum—a boy named Lazarus—turned his head. Even through the silver band, Konja felt a gaze that was cold, analytical, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"The boy with the salt," Lazarus said, his voice like dry parchment. "You carry the weight of the past, Munka. But the future is weightless. We look forward to seeing your... 'heritage' fail in the arena."
"The salt doesn't have a weight," Konja replied, stopping to look Lazarus in the eye. "It has a flavor. Something you wouldn't understand with those bands on."
Lazarus let out a small, chilling chuckle. "Flavor is just a chemical reaction. We have mastered the formula. You are merely playing with fire in the dark."
The Headmaster's Warning
They found Headmaster Malchor in the Star-Chamber, the highest point of the Institute. He wasn't alone. Standing beside him was a man in ornate Regency robes—Grand Inquisitor Vane.
Konja's heart skipped a beat. The name Vane was a curse in Oakhaven.
"Ah, the survivors return," the Inquisitor said, his voice smooth and dripping with artificial poison. He was older than Valerius, with silvering hair and a jawline that looked like it was made of marble. "I am Aris Vane. I believe you've met my younger, more... impulsive cousins."
"Your family tried to destroy my village," Konja said, his hand moving toward the Heavens-Seared Blade.
"A misunderstanding of resources," Aris waved his hand dismissively. "The Council has seen fit to oversee this Summit personally. The Salt of the Ancients is to be handed over to the Regency Treasury for 'safekeeping' until the final banquet."
"No," Konja said firmly.
The room went cold. Malchor's shadow flickered, but the Headmaster remained silent.
"The Mandate was given to me by Queen Thalassa," Konja continued. "She gave it to a chef, not a treasury. If you want the salt, you can taste it in the final dish."
Aris Vane leaned forward, his eyes flashing with a predatory light. "You are in Pangaea now, Munka. Not the salt-flats. If you refuse a Regency order, I can have you stripped of your Crest and your companion before the sun sets."
Zale let out a low growl, his indigo fur crackling.
"The boy is right, Aris," Malchor said suddenly, his voice echoing through the chamber. "The laws of the Summit are ancient. A contestant's ingredients are sacrosanct until the moment of presentation. Even the High Council cannot break the Great Seal of the Hearth."
Aris Vane narrowed his eyes, then straightened his robes. "Very well. But know this, Konja Munka: the Regency is not looking for a cook. We are looking for a miracle. If your dish does not 'elevate' the Council to a new state of Prana, you will be found guilty of squandering the Hegemony's resources. The penalty is death."
The Secret Assembly
That night, the Obsidian Dormitory felt like a bunker. The students were huddled together, the air thick with tension.
"They're going to rig it," Tali said, pacing the length of the stone room. "Vane is the Inquisitor? He'll have the judges in his pocket before we even light a stove."
"He doesn't need the judges," Renzo said, cleaning his blade with a piece of silk. "If we can't produce a 'miracle,' we're done anyway."
A soft knock came at the door. It wasn't the heavy gauntlet of a Sentinel.
Konja opened it to find Cassian Valere. The Golden-Tier student looked disheveled, his silver hair messy and his breathing shallow.
"Cassian? What are you doing here?" Konja asked.
"My father... he's part of the Regency Council," Cassian whispered, slipping inside. "I overheard them. The Summit isn't a competition. It's a harvesting ritual."
The group gathered around him.
"The High Council is losing their Prana," Cassian explained. "They've lived too long, refined themselves too much. They're becoming 'hollow.' They're using the Summit to gather the most powerful artifacts—the Salt, the Siren-Silk, the Obsidian-Heart—to perform a Great Refinement."
"They're going to consume the ingredients?" Mina asked, horrified.
"Worse," Cassian said, looking at Konja. "They're going to consume the source. They don't just want the salt, Konja. They want the Fifth Gate. They believe that the 'Ancestral Table' isn't a technique, but a reservoir of raw, eternal energy. They're going to use the final banquet to drain the life from the contestants."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"So, if we win, we die. If we lose, we die," Tali summarized.
"Only if we play by their rules," Konja said. He looked at the Salt of the Ancients, which was glowing with a soft, pulsing blue light in its case.
He thought of the Chronicler in the Behemoth's heart. He thought of the "Void-Salt" that wasn't meant for destruction, but for preservation.
"We aren't just going to cook a meal," Konja said, his silver eyes burning with a new, dangerous resolve. "We're going to cook a revolution."
The First Course: The Shadow-Searing
The next morning, the Summit officially began. The Arena of the Sun-King was a massive amphitheater built into the Behemoth's crown. Thousands of citizens and Regency officials watched from the stands.
"The First Round: The Shadow-Searing!" Instructor Grog announced. "Each Academy must prepare a dish that can sustain a warrior in the Void-Tunnels. You have two hours!"
The Sanctum of Purity moved with terrifying efficiency. Lazarus used a crystalline centrifuge to extract the "essence of light" from moon-lilies, creating a glowing paste that looked more like medicine than food.
Konja looked at his own station. He had the Heavens-Seared Cleaver-Blade and a simple basket of Deep-Marrow Roots he'd gathered in the Marrow-Works.
"Zale, give me the Bitter-Endurance resonance," Konja commanded.
He began to cook. He didn't use the high flames of the Spire. He used the "Slow-Heat" he'd learned from Master Omi. He seared the roots in the indigo lightning of the Fourth Gate, but he folded the energy inward, creating a dense, heavy flavor that tasted of earth and struggle.
As the judges tasted the dishes, the contrast was clear. Lazarus's dish gave a quick, blinding burst of energy that faded within seconds. Konja's dish was slow, steady, and unbreakable.
"It lacks... elegance," Aris Vane remarked, tasting Konja's root-mash.
"It doesn't need elegance to survive a war," Konja replied.
The Obsidian Team passed to the second round, but the victory felt hollow. As they left the arena, Konja saw the Regency Sentinels moving through the crowds, their mirrored visors reflecting the red-tinted moon that was once again rising over Pangaea.
The lockdown was tightening. The High Council was hungry. And the Salt of the Ancients was the only thing standing between the Hegemony and the end of the world.