The glow of the extraction faded, giving way to the clean-cut edges and polished stone of the academy's simulation terminal halls. Mana vents hissed softly overhead, cycling away the residual energy from the operation. The atmosphere outside the dungeon was no less tense—if anything, it had grown heavier.
Dozens of figures stood along the observation corridors now—guild scouts, independent sponsors, private envoy officers. They watched with keen, calculating eyes as teams stepped out of the terminals, reviewing performance logs on floating glyph displays, jotting down notes, murmuring in low voices behind enchanted privacy veils.
Lucas and his team stepped out, their boots clicking against the floor as they headed down the central lane. Tarin stretched with an exaggerated groan while Ryn quietly reviewed their team data, and Eliane scrolled through tactical footage already archived in her tablet. Carl said nothing, as usual—just walked beside them like a slab of moving granite.
