As the sun rose at exactly seven in the morning, a light knock echoed through the quiet room, waking Levan from his short but deep sleep.
"Levaaaan! Time for the assembly!" came Arval's familiar voice from behind the wooden door, carrying the same firm-yet-relaxed tone he'd used the night before.
Levan sat up, blinked a few times, then rose to his feet. The chill of early morning had already begun to fade beneath the strengthening heat outside. He dressed quickly, pulling on his official uniform—simple, durable fabric marked with the academy's insignia—then stepped outside with Arval, who gave him a quick nod and led him through the corridors.
The academy's central courtyard was already buzzing with movement and quiet tension. Rows of trainees had formed in sharp lines under the wide-open sky. There were no trees, no canopy, no shelter. Just the heat, the dust, and the rising sun. Shoulders brushed against each other. Eyes darted. Sweat began to bead on foreheads as the golden morning light turned harsh.
The courtyard itself was broad and segmented: a rear area of tightly packed dirt, and a front zone of rough gray tiles. At the front, a wooden platform had been erected, slightly elevated, offering a clear view of everyone gathered.
In front of the trainees stood ten deputy supervisors—each one representing one of the ten Orders. Their postures were strict, their eyes scanning the rows like hawks measuring potential. Directly behind them, sixteen assistants stood, some holding registration boards, others with hands behind their backs, watching, noting. These were the ones responsible for the practical arrangements: organizing the teams, observing the dynamics, and relaying information up the chain of command.
Whispers rippled through the ranks—sharp, quiet, but unmistakably judgmental.
In the third row from the left stood Kairon Valma, he belonged to the Valma family, which was tied directly to the First Order—one of the most prestigious bloodlines in the realm. Next to him stood Sever Nyle, he came from the Nyle family, respected within the Third Order.
Kairon Valma toward Sever, eyes fixed on Levan. "Isn't that the same village failure from the Inclination test?" he muttered, his tone mocking.
Sever chuckled. "We'll send him back to his muddy little village soon enough. He won't last a day in the field."
Another boy, Serain Tomel, also from the Third Order, scoffed, "I doubt he even knows how to hold a sword properly."
Kairon smirked, "No matter. I'll break him in the first mission. Better yet, I'll make sure his first assignment leads him straight beyond the Wall… one way only."
These weren't idle jabs. They were declarations—an unspoken campaign of intimidation, reinforcing a hierarchy that had already begun to form before a single task had been assigned. The air was thick with hostility, judgment, and barely restrained superiority.
Some trainees stepped slightly away from Levan, just enough to make it clear: he didn't belong.
And then the silence struck like a blade.
Nolvar Sin, the Chief Supervisor, ascended the wooden platform. He was the last to arrive. His presence alone was enough to command stillness. His boots struck the platform in even, measured steps. His face betrayed nothing—same unreadable calm since the Inclination test.
He raised a hand high above his head.
"Attention!" he barked, and in a blink, the courtyard obeyed.
Every head turned. Every back straightened.
"Today," Nolvar declared, voice ringing across the space, "you will form teams. Each team will consist of three members. You have ten minutes to decide among yourselves. Choose your teammates wisely. Select a leader. Any team that remains incomplete… will be disqualified immediately. And understand this—"
He let the moment hang, his eyes locking with several individuals across the courtyard.
"These teams are not for mock battles or training drills. Starting tomorrow, real assignments will begin. Field tasks. Patrols. Live scenarios. In some cases, missions outside the Wall. If one of you falters… others may die."
The words dropped like heavy stones. Even the boldest among them tensed.
Before anyone could move, a familiar voice rose from the left.
"Levan?"
Levan turned, stunned. His eyes widened as he saw a figure rushing toward him. Brown hair catching the light, limbs moving with both urgency and joy.
"Romo…" Levan whispered, barely believing his eyes.
Romo reached him and pulled him into a firm embrace. "You're back… by the stars, you actually came back!"
Levan smiled faintly, answering with calm certainty, "Yes. I'm here."
Nearby, a red-haired girl stood quietly. It was Ena, watching with unreadable eyes. She stepped forward slowly, the whispers beginning again.
"Isn't that Ena from the Fourth Order?"
"No one wants her in their team either…"
Romo turned, raising his voice. "You're with me, Levan. I'm not taking anyone else."
Before Levan could respond, Ena spoke, her voice clear and unwavering.
"And I'm joining you both."
They both looked at her, surprised.
She continued, softer now, "No one wants me in their team. But… I feel like I belong here."
Levan looked at Romo, who gave a small nod. Then back at Ena.
And so, without ceremony, without strategy, but with something stronger—trust—they formed Team 117.
In the heat. In the judgment. In the chaos.
This was the birth of a team.
A forgotten name... soon to echo in places even the elite feared.
And this… was the beginning of the beginning.