The Academy walls loomed like a fortress carved from old stone and older intentions. No banners fluttered. No warmth greeted them. The great archway into the First-Year Wing gaped like a mouth waiting to swallow its next meal.
Vael stepped in with Ryne, Joss, and Kainen at his sides—Track B, freshly blooded and freshly ranked.
The hallway stretched long and cold, lit by iron sconces that hissed with ghostlight flame. They passed other students already seated in smaller groups, quiet conversations curling like smoke through the air. The kind that always came before a storm.
Division 1.
Inside, the amphitheatre-style room sloped down into a wide pit of black stone where the instructors would stand. Above, the rows of student seats curved like a predator's jaw.
They walked in. Every eye shifted.
Whispers followed.
"Those are the top five... that's Vash there—look at his eyes."
"Isn't that Kainen Vell? And Ryne Aeril?"
Joss smirked. He always enjoyed the attention, even in places that reeked of blood and fear.
Then came the name that didn't quite belong.
"What about him? The quiet one?"
"Vael? He was deadweight," someone muttered, not softly enough. "He only made it because they carried him. Grandmaster probably pitied him."
Another snickered. "Last place for a reason."
Vael said nothing. He didn't even look.
The others noticed, though. Ryne's mouth tightened. Joss glanced back, jaw twitching. Kainen looked as if he wanted to snap someone's neck.
But Vael kept walking.
They found an empty row near the outer edge—high enough to see, low enough to go unnoticed.
The stone was cold against their backs as they sat.
Time passed. The whispers dulled to a low buzz. The room filled with the scent of ash, ink, and something faintly metallic.
Then the door creaked open, slow and deliberate.
The instructor entered.
She was tall, wrapped in midnight-blue robes etched with a pattern that seemed to shift when no one was looking. Her eyes were mismatched—one gold, one black as pitch. Her hair was bound in a braid of silver cords that shimmered with trapped light.
She walked to the centre of the pit and looked up, her gaze scraping across them like a scalpel.
"Welcome, First Years," she said, voice smooth, cold, and surgical. "I am Instructor Nyara Volen. You may call me Instructor—nothing more, nothing less."
Her eyes lingered on Vael a moment too long.
"You have survived the threshold. That makes you not special—merely alive. And here, that is not the same thing."
The ghost flame sconces dimmed.
"Let us begin."
Nyara Volen paced the circle below like a wolf that owned the den.
"You are now under the jurisdiction of the Inner Order. That means you follow our rules—or you are discarded."
Her voice echoed, clipped and cold.
"Rule One: The Order's word is law. If a superior commands it, you obey. No matter how cruel. No matter how absurd."
"Rule Two: Strength determines value. If you are weak, you will be forgotten."
"Rule Three: Do not tamper with forbidden sigils, domains, or sealed relics. We have buried gods and devils both. Their graves are not yours to plunder."
She paused, letting the silence drag long enough to feel like judgment.
"Break the rules," she said finally, "and you'll wish you died during the exam."
No one spoke.
"Now," she continued, "your first lesson."
She flicked her hand, and black fire erupted mid-air—then coalesced into the image of a twisted, snarling creature, its form shifting between claws, scales, and eyes.
"Monsters are not born equal. Nor are they judged by shape, size, or origin. The Order classifies all hostile entities by Threat Class—a scale based on power, intelligence, corruption influence, and kill potential."
She raised a hand, and black fire erupted mid-air. It coalesced into a monstrous sigil: shifting, clawed, bleeding light.
"This is not a ranking of species. A goblin can be Class-Feral or Class-Lord depending on its evolution. A dragon is a species—its threat class is determined by what it can do, not what it is."
More glyphs spun outward into a vertical, glowing scale.
Class Codex:
Class - Feral
Instinct-driven. Basic predators and scavengers.
Examples: Wild goblins, Wargs, Bone-Crows.
Response: Culling squads. No sigil clearance needed.
Class - Pack
Small-group hunters. Use coordinated tactics. Dangerous in numbers.
Examples: Dire Wolves, Orclings, Duskfiends.
Response: Team operations. Tactical priority: Low-Mid.
Class - Cursed
Mutated or plague-born. Often spawn corruption zones.
Examples: Blightspawn, Cradle Leeches, Hollow Men.
Response: Purge units. Fire clearance mandatory.
Class - Lord
Commands lesser monsters. Displays leadership and strategy.
Examples: Goblin Lords, War Trolls, Swarm Matriarchs.
Response: Squad-level elite engagement. Mid-High priority.
Class - Warden
Territorial titans. Defend ancient sites or ruins. Not always aggressive.
Examples: Stonehearts, Gravebound Sentinels, Forest Wardens.
Response: Engage only under specific clearance. Usually avoided.
Class - King
Ruler-tier beings with regional dominion. Capable of political or spiritual control over monsterkind.
Examples: Bone Kings, Frost Revenants, Ghoul Emperors.
Response: Grandmaster authorization required. Threat: Catastrophic.
Class - Dragon
Not a class, but a species. Each dragon is unique and classed individually, often Lord to Deity level.
Examples: Ashwings, Voidwyrms, Elder Serpents.
Response: Document and observe. Engage only under divine protocol.
Class - Sovereign
Reality-bending monsters. Shape regions. Birth cults. Leave scars on the world.
Examples: Pale Seraphs, Abyssal Cradles, Wyrm-Kings.
Response: War protocol initiated. Evacuation-level threat.
Class - Deity
Entities equal to gods. Capable of rewriting existence. Most are sealed or in hiding.
Examples: Fallen Starborn, Plague Choirs, Broken Sun Titans.
_Response: * Direct Order Command. Zero survival rate expected.
Class - Unknown
No reliable data. Anomalous behaviour or unclassified threat patterns.
Examples: ???
Response: Surveillance only. No engagement until confirmed classed.
Nyara's hand closed into a fist, and the flames snuffed out.
"You fought a Class - Lord. The Goblin Lord. Forty-one candidates died in that forest. Let that number live in your bones."
She stared them all down. No smile. No comfort.
"There are worse things waiting beyond the gates."
The amphitheatre buzzed with restless energy as Nyara Volen's lecture faded into the shadows.
Vael's eyes stared blankly ahead, but inside, a storm raged. The heavy weight of the Order's laws pressed on him, but beneath that, something older and colder whispered in his mind.
"Survive, or become dust," the voice murmured, low and sharp like a blade sliding over stone.
Vael clenched his jaw. "You're always here. Why now?"
"Because the cracks are widening. The Order's gaze grows sharper, and your mask thinner."
He didn't respond immediately. The others talked quietly around him, but Vael felt alone in a crowd.
The voice was both a curse and a shield — a shadow that walked beside him, knowing things no one else could.
"You wonder if you're still the same," it said, almost teasing. "If the boy who lost his mother still breathes inside this shell."
Vael's throat tightened. "I don't have the luxury of doubt."
"No," the voice agreed. "You have only the necessity of survival — and the inevitability of change."
His fingers itched with latent power, the remnant of divine fury simmering beneath his skin. The voice's presence was a reminder — a promise — that what he had unleashed was only the beginning.
"Keep your secret," it whispered, "but don't let it consume you. The Inner Order thrives on control. They fear what they cannot bend."
Vael's mind raced, memories flickering — his mother's last smile, the gods' clash, the crushing silence after the battle.
"You will learn," the voice said softly, "that strength alone is not enough. You must become the storm they cannot predict."
He nodded, unseen by the others, who only saw the quiet, last-ranked survivor. But Vael knew — the voice was right. The real battle was just beginning.
The iron sconces flared once, then dimmed to their normal flicker. Instructor Nyara strode from the pit in silence, robes trailing like smoke. No one spoke until the heavy doors thudded shut behind her.
The class exhaled all at once.
A faint tremor ran through the stone beneath his boots, so slight it could've been imagination. But Vael knew better. The Academy was never still. Power moved beneath it—coiled, ancient, waiting.
"You feel it too," the voice murmured.
He didn't answer aloud. Instead, he let his thoughts drift toward the pit below, where Nyara Volen had conjured monsters from flame and memory.
"Were you there... even before they came?" Vael asked the voice. "Before the gods. Before all of this."
There was a pause. Not of ignorance, but restraint.
"You are not ready for the full weight of that question."
Vael's brow furrowed. "You speak like it's already happened. Like you've seen what I haven't."
"Because I have."
That froze him. For a moment, the world seemed to slow. The low murmur of the other students, the scent of burnt sigils in the air, even the cold of the stone — all dulled.
"What are you?" he asked—not in fear, but something close to awe.
The voice didn't answer at once. Then, with the echo of a smirk:
"A warning. A scar. A possibility. Call me whatever helps you sleep at night."
Vael looked down at his palm, flexed it. No glow. No fire. No mark. But he felt it, hidden deep in marrow and memory—a second heartbeat, silent and watching.
"How far does this go?"
"Farther than you want. Farther than they can imagine. And it starts with blood."
The door slammed open again, jolting everyone. Another instructor entered, a man with a half-mask of black iron and an arm sheathed in runes. Vael barely registered him.
Joss leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the newcomer, his usual grin absent for the first time that day.
The voice hummed, faint and sardonic.
"You're already wondering if he could kill you."
Vael's eyes narrowed.
"No. I'm wondering if he'd survive long enough to try."
Silence followed, then the voice chuckled — dry and grim.
"Good. Keep that fire close. You'll need it soon."
Below, the masked instructor began calling names. Combat trials. One-on-one exhibitions. The Academy's next game: blood against stone, pride against purpose.
Vael's name would come. Eventually.
But when it did, he wouldn't walk into the ring alone.
He never had.