With the formation of Team 117 complete, the trio stood in silence for a few seconds—an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. Around them, movement resumed as the other trainees scrambled to find their teammates. Ten minutes suddenly felt like a breath.
Across the courtyard, dozens of groups were already forming. Some students shouted across the rows to call on familiar faces. Others huddled together in tight circles, frantically trying to complete their trio. A few stood frozen, abandoned, glancing left and right, waiting to be chosen but realizing no one was looking in their direction.
Among them were candidates from the outer villages like Levan, and others who, like Ena, carried reputations that made them undesirable partners. In those brief minutes, a silent hierarchy was reinforced—not by command, but by exclusion.
The sixteen assistants, positioned behind the deputy supervisors, were now walking between the rows with their boards, noting team names, checking formations, and recording the final pairings. Whenever a group failed to complete its trio, a mark was made. Some assistants simply moved on, but others whispered quietly with the stranded individuals, their words hidden by the low hum of the gathering.
In the midst of it all, Levan looked up at the platform once more.
Nolvar Sin remained motionless, observing the entire process with a blank face. It was impossible to tell whether he approved of what was unfolding or simply expected it. His arms remained crossed behind his back, his gray coat untouched by the dust that now clung to the uniforms of nearly every trainee below him.
Around Levan, the whispers never truly died.
"That team's dead weight."
"They'll be the first to fail."
"Team 117... pathetic."
But Levan didn't react. He stood still, eyes forward, his face unreadable. He had already heard worse. And something inside him—something deep and slow-burning—began to shift.
Ena stood to his left, arms crossed, her gaze cold and unmoved. Romo, to his right, wore the faintest smirk, as if daring anyone to challenge them.
"Let them talk," Romo muttered under his breath, "It won't mean a thing once the real trials start."
Levan didn't answer, but the words echoed in his mind. The real trials. Real danger. Real loss. What they were walking into wasn't a game. It wasn't a lesson in posture or swordplay. The missions that awaited them could take them outside the safety of these walls—into the wild lands beyond, where even seasoned knights had perished.
And Nolvar had said it himself: not everyone would survive.
That thought hung in the air, more oppressive than the sun. For many, this academy was just a step on the path toward glory. For Levan and his team, it might be the only step they were ever allowed to take.
Ten minutes passed.
Nolvar raised his hand again. "Team formations are closed. Assistants, send the full list to my office."
He scanned the crowd. "Those who failed to form teams, step forward now."
A small handful moved reluctantly, faces flushed with embarrassment, some on the verge of protest. One assistant motioned for them to follow toward the side of the courtyard. They wouldn't be allowed to continue—not this season.
The rest, 48 trainees grouped into 16 teams, stood awaiting further instruction. Tension returned. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down brows, staining collars.
Nolvar's next words were simple.
"You have been chosen for the fourth phase. That alone means you've survived what many could not."
He paused.
"But survival here is temporary. Prove you belong. Or be forgotten."
And with that, he stepped down from the platform, his coat sweeping behind him.
The courtyard fell silent once more...
As the platform emptied and the supervisors began retreating toward the main building, the teams remained in place—still unsure if they were allowed to move. The heat pressed down harder now, yet no one dared break formation.
Arval returned, walking quickly along the outer edge of the courtyard. Upon reaching Team 117, he gave a small nod.
"You three—follow me."
Without hesitation, Levan, Romo, and Ena stepped out of the line and began walking behind him. A few snickers followed, especially from Kairon and Sever, who leaned toward each other as if preparing another remark. But none of the trio looked back.
As they walked toward the residential buildings, Arval spoke without turning around.
"From today, you're officially part of the academy's active program. Each of you will be evaluated individually, and as a team. Failures are not tolerated. Disobedience is noted. Everything you do from this point on will be recorded."
They passed between the rows of identical structures until they stopped in front of a narrow building with the number "8" etched faintly above its door.
"This is your assigned team housing," Arval said. "Room twelve, second floor. Basic amenities are inside. You'll receive your mission briefing in the morning."
He handed Romo a small sealed envelope. "Open this only when you're all together and ready. It contains your first internal directive."
Romo took it seriously, nodding without speaking.
Arval looked at Levan and paused for a moment. "You've already been underestimated. Use that. Surprise is a weapon."
Then he turned to Ena. "And you—don't lose that cold stare. It unsettles people more than you think."
Finally, he gave a light slap to Romo's shoulder. "And you, loudmouth… don't get cocky. There's more to surviving than swinging a blade."
Romo grinned. "No promises."
Arval sighed. "Of course. Get inside. You'll need the rest."
He turned and disappeared down the path toward the admin quarters, leaving them at the threshold of their new reality.
Inside, the room was modest. A single table. Three bunks. A shelf with three locked boxes. A window that overlooked the rear courtyard where the dirt combat fields lay quiet. For a moment, none of them said anything.
Then Romo finally broke the silence.
"So... Team 117, huh?"
Ena sat on the bunk closest to the window, unlaced her boots slowly, and replied, "It's just a number."
Levan looked around. The dust, the bare walls, the lingering scent of old sweat and oiled leather—it all felt real. Too real. Like the beginning of something irreversible.
"We'll make it mean something," he said.
Romo laughed. "That's the spirit!"
He held up the sealed envelope. "Should we open it now?"
Levan shook his head.
"Tomorrow. Let's rest first."
And so, with the sun beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the training grounds outside, the three of them lay down in silence—each carrying a different thought.
Romo dreamed of his father's shadow somewhere in the Abyss.
Ena stared at the ceiling, counting how many would fail before the end.
And Levan, eyes open, whispered to no one:
"I'll take them somewhere better. I promise."
Outside, the wind shifted slightly, as if the academy itself was listening.
And the true test… had only just begun.