The darkness suffocated.
Eryndor's lungs burned. Stone dust clogged his throat. Nails clawed against cold, unyielding rock as his mind screamed to wake up, to reset, to escape.
No system. No save point. No exit.
This wasn't a dream.
The message had been waiting in his skull since the moment his heart began beating again.
[You have been chosen for Vaelith Academy's Induction Trial.]
[Objective: Survive. Time remaining: 7 hours, 00 minutes.]
[Failure = Erasure.]
He froze, chest rising with sharp, controlled breaths. A familiar, bitter chill settled over his spine.
Eryndor Vaelith.
The name felt like a brand seared into his flesh. The name of the Disgraced Heir. The cursed bloodline failure. The boy destined to die in the opening act, forgotten by the narrative.
Except the narrative had made a fatal error.
They had put him inside the body.
Crawling forward, his fingers found a jagged crack in the stone. With measured effort, he pulled himself through the rubble. Light slashed across his pale, dirt-smeared face as the collapsed tunnel gave way to the vast expanse of the Labyrinth of the Lost.
A sprawling nightmare unfolded before him.
Towering walls of twisted black stone curved impossibly into the distance. Faint violet light pulsed from arcane glyphs that slithered along the walls like serpents. The air stank of decay and ozone. And somewhere in the distance, the deep, guttural roar of something ancient and hungry echoed.
Welcome to Vaelith Academy.
Eryndor remained crouched, eyes scanning. The memories of the novel slotted into place like cold steel pieces of a trap. The Labyrinth was designed for spectacle and slaughter. The System would thin the first-year herd early. The weak would die. The reckless would die. The naive would die.
He would not.
From the far corridor, shrill screams punctured the silence. The sound of tearing flesh, then nothing. Closer now.
Eryndor's gaze flicked to the shimmering outline of a Mana Blight Beast slithering into view. A grotesque, skinless monstrosity, thrumming with unstable mana, limbs contorting unnaturally as it stalked its prey. Its single eye burned like a furnace.
His fingers brushed the sharp edge of a shattered relic blade half-buried in the dirt. A useless weapon against the Blight. He discarded it without hesitation.
Fighting it was suicide. Let others waste their lives.
Eryndor backed into the shadows and moved silently, weaving through the labyrinthine alleys of broken stone and forgotten sigils. His heart beat calm and steady.
Control the board. Avoid unnecessary conflicts. Watch. Learn. Exploit.
Ahead, light flickered unnaturally.
He stopped.
Silhouetted in the distance, framed by the pale glow of floating mana wisps, stood a figure.
Golden hair. Regal bearing. The soft, arrogant radiance of the System's puppet.
Eldric Dawnspire.
The False Hero.
The boy chosen to claim the Thrones, to lead the Academy, to save Eldrath in the final act. The beloved protagonist.
Eryndor's lip curled.
That child had no idea what the System truly was. Or how merciless it could be when someone like Eryndor Vaelith chose to defy the script.
A weak cry snapped his focus.
To his left, barely concealed under a pile of crumbling debris, a student writhed in agony. Blood seeped from a mangled leg twisted at an unnatural angle. The boy's wide, terror-stricken eyes locked onto Eryndor's cold expression.
"Please… help me… I don't want to die…"
Footsteps.
The guttural snarl of the Blight Beast closed in behind him.
Eryndor stood motionless as the message burned behind his vision again.
[System Reminder: Interference will alter Correction protocols.]
[Estimated Survival Risk: +37%]
The decision calcified in his veins.
Help the boy and risk exposure? Or walk away and survive?
The beast's shadow slid over the stone.
Eryndor's eyes narrowed.
The choice was never a choice.
Eryndor turned away.
The faint crunch of his boots on loose gravel was the only answer the broken boy received. No words. No mercy.
Survival had no room for sentiment.
Behind him, the Mana Blight Beast surged forward with a wet snarl. Flesh tore. Screams shattered the unnatural quiet. The system did not record compassion. Only results.
[System Notification: Candidate Eryndor Vaelith - Survival Probability increased: +12%]
[System Observation Active.]
Eryndor's steps quickened as the labyrinth twisted violently. The corridors moved, realigned by the Academy's eldritch will. Walls rippled like breathing lungs. The exit wasn't fixed. It was alive. It hunted those within.
He counted silently.
Seventh corridor. Take the left path. Three steps past the rune cluster. Avoid the third arch—an illusion designed to trap desperate fools.
The knowledge burned cold and sharp inside him. He had read this scene. Dozens of versions. Hundreds of player theories. None of them had survived past this Trial in the novel.
He would.
A low metallic hum shivered through the air.
Eryndor froze.
Ahead, black mist coiled from the cracked tiles. A relic. Worse. A cursed remnant.
The Sigil of Reversion.
A forbidden glyph left by ancient Vaelith scholars, meant to reset the progress of any who crossed its threshold. A cruel joke by the System to reset rebellious players back to their starting point.
He smiled thinly. Not today.
Eryndor reached into his coat and withdrew a single coin-sized stone: a Null Shard, looted from a forgotten corpse two paths earlier. It absorbed the mist with a faint crackle, shattering violently in his hand.
The glyph died.
Path cleared.
The Academy had underestimated him once. It wouldn't happen again.
Suddenly, voices echoed close.
Desperate shouts. Panic. Three figures burst into view, fleeing from something unseen. One of them, a tall girl with raven-black hair, skidded to a halt as her wild eyes locked onto Eryndor.
"You there! Please! Help us, it's coming!"
The others stumbled behind her—a boy clutching a bleeding arm and another student barely conscious. Their uniforms bore the faint markings of House Dawnspire.
The girl stepped forward, trembling but defiant.
"I… I'm Seris Dawnspire. If you help us, my House will reward you."
The words hung heavy. A test.
The beast shrieked from the darkness, impossibly close.
Eryndor tilted his head. Cold calculation blazed behind his gaze.
Seris Dawnspire. Eldric's cousin. Not important to the main plot, but an influential side character. Useful. Dangerous.
The pieces shifted on the board.
Without breaking stride, Eryndor reached out and grabbed the least injured boy by the collar.
"Follow. Or die."
He moved.
No explanations. No heroics. They obeyed, falling into desperate step behind him.
The labyrinth roared in frustration as its prey slipped through another crack.
Only when the looming silhouette of Vaelith Academy's obsidian spires came into view did Eryndor allow himself a breath.
They had reached the edge of the Trial.
For now.
Seris collapsed, panting and confused.
"Who… who are you?"
Eryndor's crimson eyes flicked to the looming Thrones atop the far tower. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the bitter wind.
"Remember the name. Eryndor Vaelith."
The bell tolled. Once. Twice. A third time.
The System whispered softly.
[Phase One Complete. Correction imminent.]
[Prepare for Survival Event: 'The Reaping of the First Night.']
The cliffhanger waited like a coiled serpent.