The victory made them celebrities. The rewards were substantial: personal mentorship from a 5th Order Master (Arlan was assigned to Archivist Torvin, much to his satisfaction), a massive influx of merit points, and the promised access to the Grade-3 Spirit Spring.
The Spring was a natural wonder—a grotto where liquid mana condensed into a bubbling pool. A single hour of immersion equaled a week of normal cultivation. Each team member got four hours.
Sitting in the effervescent, blue-white energy, Arlan felt his drained cores refill at an astonishing rate. His mana pool expanded to 450/600. His spatial instability, soothed by the pure mana, dropped to 30%. His physique, tempered by the dense energy, solidified at a strong B+. He was now a solid 2nd Order, Rank 3.
The rest of the first academic year passed in a blur of accelerated classes, specialized Arcanum projects, and secret dungeon runs with Selene. His skill with the broken Focus Blade grew; he learned to channel his energy through the crack, making his spatial slashes slightly wilder but more unpredictable.
He also began his first true foray into rune-smithing. Using the principles of the broken Kael's Asymmetrical Bind fragment and Jax's Runic Compiler, he started designing a personal project: a Spatial Stabilization Bracer. It was slow work, but it gave him purpose.
He saw Lyra Solara often in passing. They never spoke, but a silent acknowledgment passed between them—a nod across a crowded hall, a momentary meeting of eyes in the library. The rivalry was there, cold and respectful.
As the final month of the year approached, the atmosphere changed. A grim focus replaced routine. The First-Year Promotion Test was announced.
All first-year Adepts (2nd Orders) would be transported to the frontier city of Haven's Fall, a settlement constantly battling minor rift incursions from the nearby Scarred Wastes. The area is a simulation but treat everything like it's real. Their mission: work with the city's guards to evacuate civilians, contain the monster horde, and secure a "valuable asset" in the hot zone.
"It's not a simulation where the monsters vanish," Proctor Gale told them in a packed briefing hall. "They are real, low-level rift-spawn, herded and controlled by barrier fields. They will try to kill you. The city guards are real, and they will be relying on you. This test separates students from future protectors. Fail, and you repeat the year. Excel, and you begin your second year as a recognized Apprentice of the Academy."
The stakes were clear.
Teams were dissolved for the test. They would be assigned to mixed squads with students from all cohorts.
The night before deployment, Selene found Arlan in the Foundry, where he was doing final maintenance on his gear. His broken Focus Blade was sheathed on his back. He now also carried a standard-issue mana-pistol on his hip—a short-range, low-yield weapon useful for distracting minor foes.
"You ready for the chaos tomorrow?" she asked, leaning against a workbench.
"It's a controlled scenario. A test."
"With real monsters and real panic.Perfect hunting ground for... other things." Her voice dropped. "My sources say the Silent Accord has interests in Haven's Fall. They use the constant chaos as cover for... acquisitions. Be careful. Don't wander off alone."
He nodded. The Silent Accord had been quiet since the tournament, but their presence was a constant, low hum in the back of his mind.
The next morning, five hundred first-year Adepts boarded a fleet of large, armored transport skiffs. The flight to the frontier took hours, leaving behind the gleaming spires of the core city for increasingly rugged, barren landscapes dotted with fortified towns.
Haven's Fall came into view—a grim, practical city of grey permacrete and high walls, built in the shadow of a massive, inactive rift scar that dominated the horizon like a frozen lightning bolt. Smoke rose from industrial stacks. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and fear.
They landed in a fortified courtyard. City guards in scarred armor looked them over with a mix of hope and skepticism. Arlan was assigned to Squad 7, led by a grizzled 3rd Order guard sergeant named Holt. His squad included Mira (from his team), two Ascendant Blade fire adepts, a beast-kin scout, and a nervous-looking healing adept.
"Listen up, pups," Sergeant Holt barked. "The break is simulated in the old refinery sector. Your job is to sweep the designated evacuation zone—Grids Charlie through Foxtrot. Get any civilians you find to the safe-point. Engage hostiles only if necessary. The 'asset' is a sealed containment unit in the central refinery control room. Squad 1 is tasked with retrieving it. We are support. Stick to the plan, watch your buddies, and don't do anything stupid. Move out!"
Sirens began to wail across the city. The "dungeon break" had begun.
Squad 7 plunged into the streets. The simulation was terrifyingly realistic. Holographic projectors created walls of smoke and fire. Actual, low-level rift-spawn—Scuttle-rats, Ash Spitters, and the occasional Rust-Hound—were released into the streets, driven into their path by invisible barrier fields. The creatures were real, and they were aggressive.
Chaos reigned. Civilians (actors, but convincing) screamed and ran. Buildings smoldered. The two fire adepts in his squad blasted Scuttle-rats with jets of flame. Mira created ice barriers to funnel threats. The beast-kin scout sniffed out hidden creatures.
Arlan fought with cold efficiency. He used his broken blade to deliver precise, mana-conserving dimensional slashes to cut Rust-Hounds in half. He used small spatial folds to deflect Ash Spitter gobs. He worked within the squad, a cog in the machine.
For two hours, they cleared buildings, guided civilians, and fought their way deeper into the refinery sector. They were effective. Sergeant Holt even gave a grudging nod of approval.
Then, everything went wrong.
A massive explosion rocked the district, far larger than any simulation effect. A real building, several blocks away from their assigned sector, collapsed in a plume of green-tinged fire. The communication channel in Arlan's ear dissolved into frantic, overlapping shouts.
"BREACH! BREACH IN SECTOR ALPHA! REAL INCURSION! NOT SIMULATION! ALL UNITS, REALIGN TO—"
The transmission cut into static.
Sector Alpha. The opposite side of the test zone. Where Squad 1, the asset-retrieval team, had been deployed.
Sergeant Holt's face went pale. "By the gods... that's a real Phasing Slime core detonation. That's a sabotage! All squads, consolidate and evacuate the test zone! This mission is aborted!"
Another explosion, closer this time. The simulated monsters, agitated by the real blasts and the failing control fields, went berserk. A tide of Scuttle-rats and two enraged Rust-Hounds overwhelmed their position.
In the confusion, a collapsing wall of debris separated the squad. Arlan saw Mira get pulled to safety by the beast-kin. He was backing away from a Rust-Hound when the ground beneath him, weakened by the real explosion, gave way.
He fell into darkness, down into a maintenance tunnel, the sounds of battle and panic fading above him.
He landed hard on metal grating, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He was in a subterranean utility conduit, lit by flickering emergency strips. The air was thick with dust and the acrid, green smell of the explosion.
He fainted. When he woke up, he noticed he was alone. Cut off. And a terrorist organization was active in the city.
He checked his gear. Blade intact. Mana-pistol charged. Mana reserves at half. Umbral pool nearly full.
The cold focus settled over him. This was no longer a test. This was survival.
And somewhere in this ruined city, the terrorist organization was conducting an operation. An operation he now had a front-row seat to.
He stood up, drew his cracked Focus Blade, and started moving down the dark conduit, his Umbral Sight piercing the gloom. The path to the academy was closed. His only way out was through.