Chapter 15 – Return to Reality
A deafening silence followed the Grandmaster's command.
The simulation shattered.
The blood-soaked battlefield dissolved into fragments of golden light, the corpses of the slain beasts and the ruined terrain vanishing like dust in the wind. The harsh, suffocating atmosphere of the battlefield was replaced by the cold, sterile air of the examination hall.
Then—bodies hit the ground.
The return to reality was jarring. The once-magnificent combatants, who had defied the odds and faced monstrous foes, now lay in disarray across the chamber. Their forms twitched, their breaths ragged. Some clutched fresh wounds, others gasped in shock, the transition between life and simulation leaving them disoriented.
Gasps erupted from the observing crowd. Nobles, scholars, and instructors stood abruptly, some leaning forward to get a better view of the fallen participants. Their previous amusement had turned to tense scrutiny.
Near the center, Lyrian lay sprawled on the stone floor, his body unnervingly still. Blood trickled from his mouth, his breath coming in slow, uneven rasps. The deep claw wounds on his chest had not healed, and though the simulation had ended, his injuries remained dangerously real.
Elyreina landed a few feet away, her arms barely catching her fall. Despite her own wounds, her golden eyes locked onto Lyrian in an instant. "Lyrian—!" She pushed herself forward, dragging her aching body toward him.
Beside them, Reynard groaned, struggling to sit up. His once-proud expression was gone, replaced by an exhausted, haunted look. His limbs shook from overexertion, and his raven-black hair was damp with sweat.
Seraphina had landed more gracefully, but even she was visibly worn down. Blood stained parts of her uniform, her silver hair clinging to her face. Though she sat upright, her usually icy gaze flickered with uncertainty.
The tension in the room thickened.
The medical team rushed forward, their robes flowing as they prepared healing spells. One of the senior healers pressed his glowing hands over Lyrian's chest, his magic flowing into the boy's wounds—
Then, he stopped.
The glow around his hands flickered, dimming, as though something had forcefully rejected it. The healer frowned, pressing his fingers against Lyrian's pulse.
"…This isn't right," he muttered. He tried again, channeling more mana.
Nothing.
The magic wouldn't take.
Another healer knelt beside Reynard, tending to his injuries. Their magic worked without issue, closing his wounds little by little. But when the first healer attempted the same for Lyrian, his magic was repelled again, like water rolling off oil.
The murmurs in the observation hall grew.
"What's happening?"
"Why isn't the healing working?"
A noblewoman furrowed her brow. "The simulation doesn't normally cause lingering effects like this. Something is different."
Professor Marlowe stepped forward, his normally calm expression dark with concern. He crouched beside Lyrian, fingers pressing lightly against the boy's wrist. The moment his skin touched Lyrian's, a sharp, unnatural chill ran up his arm.
This isn't normal.
His eyes flickered toward the Grandmaster, who was still standing at the edge of the chamber. Their gazes met for a fleeting moment—
We need to talk.
Marlowe heard the words in his mind, clear as day. It was the Grandmaster's voice, projected through a telepathic link.
Without hesitation, Marlowe gave a barely perceptible nod.
The Grandmaster turned and strode toward a private chamber at the far end of the hall. Marlowe stood moments later, following without a word.
No one in the audience noticed their quiet departure. All eyes remained locked on the injured participants, the tension in the room escalating.
Elyreina barely noticed them leaving. Her focus was solely on Lyrian, who remained motionless. Her grip tightened around his hand.
"You're not dying," she whispered. "I won't let you."
Her hands trembled.
The healers exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion mounting.
Seraphina, still seated a short distance away, clenched her fists. She wasn't one to show concern, but something about this felt off. The fight had been too real. Too dangerous. And now, Lyrian was suffering the worst of it.
But he wasn't the only one.
Across the chamber, other competitors were being tended to. Some had only minor injuries—scratches, bruises, exhaustion. Others, however, had fared far worse.
One boy, barely sixteen, had to be carried away on a stretcher, his leg twisted unnaturally.
A girl clutched at her side, her breathing shallow, as a healer tried to stabilize her.
Even the ones who had fought well, like Seraphina and zarek, bore the marks of battle. The test had been brutal. Far more than any of them had expected.
The observers whispered amongst themselves, torn between admiration and unease.
"This trial was unlike the others," an elderly scholar muttered.
"That beast at the end—there's no way that was part of the standard simulation."
"The Grandmaster ended it himself," another noted. "Something was wrong."
The realization spread through the crowd.
Something was wrong.
The test had gone beyond its intended limits.
And now, the consequences were unfolding before their eyes.