The train hissed like a dying serpent, doors sliding open automatically in a soothe motion.
Siege stepped off the carriage into a bitter wind that smelled faintly of copper and ozone.
Looming ahead was the Academy itself—a monolithic construct of blackened stone and pale gold, half-machine and half-cathedral, with towers that rose like spears into the overcast sky. Revealing a silhouette that seemed to shift when not directly observed.
He walked alongside Albion and the others, who chattered idly, unbothered by the suffocating aura that hung over the campus like a funeral shroud.
Their ease only deepened Siege's unease. This was a school, one built for gods, not children.
The massive arched doors opened as they approached, groaning like an ancient creature stirred from sleep.
A flood of students poured in from other arrivals—hundreds of them, all around Siege's age, and none even remotely alike.
Some wore military garb, medals clinking with each step. Others glowed faintly, their skin etched with divine runes.
One boy walked barefoot, trailed by dead leaves that blew against the wind. Another floated above the floor, humming to herself in a voice that seemed layered in multiple tongues.
The noise inside the auditorium was a deafening tide of chatter, laughter, and anxious whispers. Siege stood still, overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of it all.
Then the air changed.
A crushing pressure descended without warning—like the atmosphere itself had doubled.
Chests tightened. Knees buckled. Even the loudest voices faltered and fell silent.
Siege felt the sudden weight of something old pressing down on his bones. Not fear. Not awe. Something older than those words.
Something wild.
A single figure stepped onto the stage at the head of the auditorium, barefoot and grinning.
He wore a weathered cloak of fur and thorn, his chest bare beneath it, skin marked by curling sigils.
His eyes—wild, green, and inhuman—swept the crowd like a beast assessing prey.
Curved horns jutted from his temples, and laughter seemed to echo from nowhere when he smiled.
"Welcome," said the Vice Principal, voice rough and melodic like a flute carved from bark
"My name is Pan. Yes, that Pan."
*I knew the Academy was secretive, but not to the point where no one knew they'd have an old god as Vice Principal!*
A murmur of disbelief flickered through the crowd.
"The principal, Mrs. Maxwell, is currently… preoccupied with the extinction-level nonsense that you lot may one day be dealing with," he said, waving a dismissive hand.
"So, I'll be handling orientation."
His grin widened, stretching farther than it should have.
"Let me be perfectly clear: You are no longer children. You are weapons in training. You are not here to 'find yourselves.' You are here to either become gods—or die trying."
The silence was absolute.
Pan paced the stage like a wolf, tail flicking behind him now.
"You'll be divided into classes based on your Aspect Rank. Each group will receive specialized training, tailored to your current... usefulness."
He raised a hand, and three holographic banners unfurled above the stage:
Class Gorgon: For the Initiates, the unshaped clay. Break you, mold you, make you see the world anew.
Class Chimera: Beasts of mixed promise, tested and tortured, bound for greatness or madness.
Class Leviathan: For the prodigies, those who already rival the gods in potential, and are taught how to survive their own power.
No doubt, the descriptions were all made by Pan.
"Don't be flattered or insulted by your placement," Pan chuckled.
"The monsters you will face out there don't care what you're called. They just want to eat you."
With an exaggerated bow, he concluded, "Congratulations, children. You are the new defenders of what little remains of the world."
No applause followed. Only breathless silence and a collective chill.
---
Outside the auditorium, students shuffled into a grand marble hall shaped like a triangle, the walls lined with dormant statues of forgotten warriors, their names long chiseled off.
At the center, three long stone tables buzzed with holograms and hologramsmiths.
Overworked administrators handed out packets with schedule data and room keys, occasionally giving instructions like "Don't antagonize your roommate," or "Avoid binding yourself to any cursed artifacts before Wednesday."
Siege approached the Class Leviathan table and received his information from a orange-haired woman who did not blink once during the entire interaction.
"Room A3-77, West Tower," she muttered.
"Thanks," Siege said, but she had already turned to the next student.
Armed with a flickering digital map and a key that flickered slightly in his palm, Siege stepped into the massive west wing of Anatheon.
The corridors were lined with glowing runes, and paintings that whispered softly as he passed.
It should've taken him hours to navigate the labyrinthine halls, but the {Journeyman} attribute showed its worth, guiding his steps with a subtle pull.
Left at the third fork. Up the staircase shaped like vertebrae. Down a corridor where the portraits shut their eyes as he passed.
He found his room within minutes.
A key twist, a soft mechanical chime, and the door swung open.
Siege stepped into a space that made his entire life in the slag look like a sewer.
Polished blackwood floors. A massive bed that looked like it could cradle a god. Shelves already filled with relics he didn't recognize.
A window view overlooking the canyon-riddled ruins of a fallen district. There were three different light settings—including "Sunrise over lost Halgrith."
He stood there, dumbfounded.
"Am I supposed to live here?" he muttered. "This place has carpeted closets."
He tossed his duffel bag onto the couch and flopped down on the bed.
The moment he sank into the mattress, his entire body exhaled at once.
*It's like sleeping in the arms of an angel… stuffed with marshmallows.*
He stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing and refusing to form a single complete idea.
He was really here. At Anatheon.
He was now part of the last true line between humanity and the abyss. Surrounded by prodigies, freaks of magic and blood.
He'd already seen enough to know he was way out of his depth. No more training in rusty gyms. No more punching bags filled with gravel.
This was where future legends would be made.
Or buried.
He turned onto his side and muttered, "No pressure."
Sleep crept over him slowly. Not peaceful, but necessary. The kind of sleep before battle. Where the body rests, but the soul paces behind closed eyelids.
Tomorrow, the real nightmare began.