Class A01
The next day, the cold morning air bit at Solace's skin as he rose from bed, still heavy with fatigue from the previous day's trials. A thin mist clung to the Academy's stone corridors, curling like the soft exhale of something ancient. His limbs protested as he went through his routine—washing, fastening his twin-curved sword at his side, and meticulously adjusting his uniform with the muscle memory of someone who'd done it countless times. Each small act felt like a preparation for the weight he must bear.
Another day. Another burden.
Stepping into the corridor, Solace immediately noticed her. Lyra was already there, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The corridor's cold light played along her sharp cheekbones, outlining the familiar features he'd come to rely on. At first glance, she appeared unchanged—same steady posture, same characteristic silence. Yet something was different today. Solace couldn't put it into words; her presence exuded a subtle transformation, as if she'd been tempered like a blade freshly honed or a calm lake now hiding deep, swirling storms. She looked more radiant—not fragile, but formidable, like a mountain bathed in moonlight: distant, cold, and yet undeniably striking.
He didn't ask. He never did.
"Morning," he offered, his voice low and steady.
She met his gaze with a slight nod, her eyes unreadable. No words were needed. In the silence of their brief greeting, an unspoken understanding passed between them.
Together, they walked to Class A01.
The interior of the Academy was a fortress of obsidian and steel. Faint sigils pulsed along the walls, resonating beneath their footsteps. As they passed groups of students—faces marked by curiosity, tension, or a quiet hunger—Solace and Lyra moved in their own silent rhythm. Everyone here had come seeking power, survival, or something darker. Their eyes held secrets and ambition in equal measure.
By the time they reached the classroom, it was already filled with students. The room was arranged in tight semi-circles, with giant screens mounted along one wall displaying rotating mission lists, regional maps, and live updates of beast movements near the city perimeter. A low murmur filled the space, punctuated by occasional glances toward the newcomers—some curious, others cautious.
Without a word, Solace chose a seat at the back near a tall window that framed a jagged view of distant mountains. Lyra sat closer to the front, her back perfectly straight, eyes fixed ahead. Neither spoke; since the Rift, silence had become an unspoken part of their shared experience—a quiet shadow that they both accepted.
Then the door slid open.
In strode a man who seemed to command the very air—a tall, imposing figure with silver hair cropped close and eyes like sharpened steel. His uniform was crisp and unadorned, yet he radiated a quiet authority that left little room for doubt.
"I'm Mike Alvin," he declared in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "Your instructor. Don't test my patience."
No pleasantries followed; his voice was as cold and precise as his gaze. He tapped a slim screen that projected a list of names. One by one, he called roll, and assistants moved down the aisle, handing each student a sleek black wristband that instantly lit up with a numerical display.
When Solace's band activated, the number 1000 blinked back at him. A murmur ran through the classroom.
"Wait, isn't the starting amount 500?" one voice whispered.
"Why does he have double?" another asked.
Instructor Alvin continued, his tone slicing through the whispers. "Points are your currency at Awakened Academy. You receive 500 per month for essentials—food, shelter, gear, missions, everything. Run out, and you're finished. Expelled." His words fell like a hammer on the silent crowd.
He then added, "Solace and his squad earned extra points for being the first to complete the Rank 10 City Trial and reach the Academy. A reward well-earned. If you want more points, earn them."
Behind him, the large screen shifted, displaying an array of tasks: missions, training challenges, sparring events, research projects, and beast hunts. "Everything has a cost here—even your weaknesses," he intoned.
After a long pause, he announced, "No lectures today. We're going to the Training Hall."
---
The Training Hall was a vast subterranean coliseum, its smooth obsidian walls etched with glowing runes. A low hum of enchantments filled the space—wards meticulously woven to suppress erratic bursts of elemental essence and contain wild power. As the students followed Alvin down a corridor lined with glass chambers, the enormity of the facility became clear.
Each chamber served a distinct purpose:
Reflex simulators fired unpredictable projectiles at speeds faster than the eye could follow.
Essence spheres helped students correct and amplify their internal energy flow.
Strength rooms defied the laws of gravity with enchanted weights.
Gravity chambers tested their bodies against crushing pressure.
Sparring arenas bore the silent stains of past battles, the stone floor still marked by faded traces of blood.
Alvin turned to face the students one last time. "Pick your poison. Make your pain useful," he instructed, his tone final. And with that, he departed.
---
Solace didn't hesitate. He strode directly toward the gravity chamber, ignoring the whispered glances and sidelong stares from his peers. Inside, the air thickened, as if laden with invisible chains. He activated the chamber, and gravity descended with a force like a falling mountain. Every breath was a struggle, and the pressure made each movement an act of defiance.
Drawing his curved sword, Solace began his routine:
Strike.
Step.
Strike.
Each motion was a lesson in pain and precision. His muscles screamed in protest, his veins pulsed like molten iron, and time itself slowed to a crawl. Sweat poured from him; every exhaled breath burned as though forged in fire.
But he did not stop. He trained until his world blurred, until every strike became instinctual—a seamless dance of flesh and shadow.
Hours later, Solace emerged from the gravity chamber—exhausted, soaked, trembling, yet with a fierce light in his eyes.
Then he saw her.
Lyra stood inside an adjacent essence control chamber, calm and composed. Invisible currents of wind swirled around her, as if obedient to her silent command. Her hands rested lightly on a glowing crystal, and her eyes were closed in deep concentration—her focus absolute.
Solace watched for a moment, a silent admiration in his gaze, before stepping into the neighboring unit.
The moment the device activated, a cold shiver raced through him. In his mind's eye, his core ignited—glowing, pulsing like a living ember. He could feel the pathways of his essence, delicate lines threading through his bones, muscles, and nerves.
He inhaled deeply.
And followed the currents.
The rivers of energy danced at his will. He shifted them—corrected inefficient flows, strengthened weak channels. Each deliberate adjustment increased the pressure within his core, like a storm gathering force behind a fragile dam. Not yet reached perfection, he knew; but he was close.
---
When the sun finally dipped behind the distant mountains, Solace returned to his room. Exhaustion clung to him like a shroud, but beneath it pulsed a deeper power—a pressure building steadily within, like the first rumble of a coming storm.
He was nearing the edge. One more push, one more day, and he would ascend to Rank 2.
Lying on his bed, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, he closed his eyes. The room was quiet; the voices in his mind were hushed, but deep within his chest, his essence roared with promise.
Tomorrow, the real trials would begin.