The arena shattered.
Eryndor dragged himself upright as the void howled like a living beast, consuming broken pillars and fractured stone into swirling nothingness. His faction scrambled behind him—bleeding, half-conscious, barely able to stand.
A single crimson doorway materialized out of thin air.
[Emergency Exit Generated.]
[Phase I Complete. Initiating Phase II.]
[Survival Mode: The Siege.]
Eryndor didn't hesitate.
"Move."
The Lost Ones stumbled through, and the void snapped shut behind them with a deafening roar.
They emerged into nightmare.
The Academy had changed.
The once-beautiful spires of Vaelith twisted upward into grotesque, spiraling silhouettes against a crimson-black sky. Eldritch fog blanketed the ground like coiling serpents. Distant shrieks echoed across the ruins of once-familiar courtyards.
The System voice boomed, cold and absolute.
[Phase II: Siege Protocol Activated.]
[All remaining factions: survive for one cycle.]
[Opponents: System-generated anomalies, cursed beasts, hostile factions.]
[Reward: Permanent Seat Control.]
[Failure: Termination.]
Eryndor's cold gaze swept the landscape.
The Academy had become a killing ground.
The Unborn stood silently beside him, chains dragging softly across cracked stone. The Mana-Cursed Girl leaned heavily on a broken pillar, barely able to keep herself upright. The Flickering Aura Boy stared hollow-eyed at the shifting fog ahead.
Eryndor's mind raced.
This was not war. This was calculated erasure. The System wanted them wiped out before the narrative fractured further.
Not yet.
Eryndor raised his voice, sharp and controlled.
"Secure the perimeter. Collapse weak pathways. Prepare chokepoints. Do not engage directly. Force them into our ground."
The Lost Ones moved without question. Exhausted, yes. But trained now by survival.
Eryndor knelt beside the crude map he spread on a broken slab. His crimson eyes narrowed as he marked the projected assault paths.
The others would come. Greedy, arrogant, thinking The Lost Ones were dying prey.
They would learn.
Eryndor's voice was soft, cold.
"We're not done."
The cursed fog thickened as dusk fell.
Eryndor stood alone atop the broken outer wall of their ruin, watching as distant flickers of flame and spellfire erupted across the warped Academy grounds. The other factions had begun tearing into each other like starving wolves.
Good.
The Lost Ones had no intention of joining them.
Below, his faction moved like shadows, following his exact orders. Traps laid. Weak points reinforced. Crumbled corridors funneled to single narrow kill-zones. The enemy would come, and they would bleed for every step.
The wind carried the familiar chime of the System.
[Warning: Anomaly Faction detected. Proximity: Close.]
[Engagement probability: 93%.]
Eryndor's crimson gaze never wavered.
They came as expected.
A mid-tier faction—House Caldris. Twenty strong. Polished armor. Coordinated movements. Led by a boy with sun-gold hair and a gilded spear. They thought The Lost Ones were broken prey.
They had no idea what waited for them.
The first Caldris advance squad hit the ground mines. Explosive runes detonated, flinging three students screaming into the ruins. As the survivors staggered, the Unborn charged from the shadows, chains snapping outward like living vipers.
The first kill came fast.
A Caldris shield bearer crumpled under a single devastating blow that shattered both armor and spine.
The remaining enemies regrouped, forming defensive lines.
Eryndor watched from above.
"Collapse corridor two."
The Flickering Aura Boy activated the trigger stone. The upper archway detonated, raining jagged debris onto the clustered Caldris formation, scattering them.
Then came the Mana-Cursed Girl.
She emerged from the fog, unstable energy tearing the ground as she flung a wave of crackling destruction through their fractured lines. Her expression twisted between agony and grim determination. The blast consumed two more of them before she collapsed, barely conscious.
Eryndor moved instantly.
He caught her before she hit the ground, dragged her behind cover, then turned cold eyes back to the slaughter.
The Caldris survivors hesitated. Their leader snarled in frustration, barking orders.
Too late.
The Lost Ones fell on them with surgical brutality.
When it ended, only six Caldris remained. They dropped weapons and fled into the cursed fog.
Eryndor stood motionless among the carnage.
One Lost One didn't rise.
A minor boy—newly recruited, nameless even to most. Crushed under the rubble collapse. His blood soaked into the cracked stones.
The others waited for Eryndor's reaction.
There was none.
His gaze remained steady, voice cold and final.
"Bury him. Reset the traps."
No speeches. No grief. Only survival.
Eryndor stared out into the shifting fog where more lights flared in the distance. More factions hunting. More enemies drawn by the scent of weakness.
They would find only death.
The Oracle of Shattered Threads stood at the edge of the ruins as the bells tolled midnight. Her voice drifted like wind-torn silk.
"Something older than the System stirs beneath the Academy."
Eryndor didn't turn. His tone was calm, razor-sharp.
"Then let it come."