The streets of Arkphis buzzed with anticipation, alive with the vibrant energy of the forthcoming entrance exams for the prestigious Arkphis Institute. A colorful procession, a tapestry of hopeful spirits, wove its way along the city's main thoroughfare, converging on the school's grand stadium. Aspiring students from every corner of the nation—Humans, Drapabarns, Especias, Fallens—diverse races united by a singular dream, had come to test their mettle. Each possessed unique Gifts, the keys to unlocking their future at the esteemed institute. Spectators, drawn by the promise of witnessing the dawn of new talents, lined the streets, their numbers swelling with every step closer to the arena.
The air thrummed with the cacophony of the marketplace that had sprung up around the event. Stalls, crammed into every available space, offered an eclectic array of goods, from the exotic to the mundane. The mingling scents of spices danced on the air, a heady mix that tantalized the senses. Vendors' calls rang out, a symphony of commerce, as deals were struck with a fervor fueled by the day's excitement. Among the offerings, fried chicken feet and sizzling hotdogs vied for attention, drawing lines of eager patrons.
Amidst the festive chaos, children wove their games of tag, their laughter a bright thread in the fabric of the bustling streets. Their carefree joy contrasted with the focused determination of the exam hopefuls, adding layers to the day's tapestry.
Caught in the pulse of the city, a young man with striking dark hair, tipped white, weaved through the crowd. His lavender eyes flickered with urgency, darting between obstacles as he muttered curses under his breath, "Crap, I'm gonna be late!" His progress, a desperate dance to avoid collision, drew sidelong glances from the throng. The emblem of his journey, a scarf, trailed him like a banner, marking his path through the sea of people.
Finally breaching the perimeter of the massive coliseum, he made for the "Examinees' Entrance," where a bored-looking young man with glasses manned the stall. His pale complexion and disinterested gaze offered a stark contrast to the vibrant scene around them. As the boy skidded to a halt, stirring a cloud of dust, the attendant's eyebrow arched in mild surprise, a silent question hanging in the air.
"Your name?" the clerk inquired, his voice devoid of interest.
"Ajal Ruoc," the boy responded promptly. The clerk nodded, barely glancing up as he handed over a ticket. Ajal examined the slip, puzzled by its simplicity. "Uh, what's this? It just says '52'."
"Just go inside," the clerk instructed with a dismissive gesture towards the grand entrance of the coliseum.
As Ajal crossed the threshold, he stepped into an inner courtyard that defied the ordinary, its flora and fauna a vivid testament to the world's boundless creativity. Yet, it was the massive structure floating in the sky that truly captured his awe. The institute itself, a colossal platform suspended above the city, its silhouette shrouded by clouds, symbolized the pinnacle of academic aspiration. This was the gateway to Arkphis Institute, and the exam was the key.
The preparation area was abuzz with activity, the air thick with the aspirations of about 500 examinees. Conversations ebbed and flowed around him—whispers of competitors, exchanges of strategies—a cacophony of ambition. Ajal's gaze wandered, taking in the eclectic showcase of Gifts. From the girl with the chainsaw reflecting her bold fashion to the individual with six tattooed arms, each contestant was a world unto themselves. In the shadows, a timid girl clutched a sinister-looking stuffed rabbit, its purple hue and button eyes belying its malevolent smile.
Yet, amidst this diversity, two figures seated on separate pillars commanded Ajal's attention. One, with hair defying gravity, crackled with electric energy. The other, a formidable Drapabarn woman, exuded strength and mystery, her gaze piercing through the skull that crowned her head.
A smile crept onto Ajal's face, a mixture of excitement and admiration for the spectacle before him. The hall, a riot of voices and vibrant personalities, was a microcosm of the wider world's wonders and dangers.
Suddenly, the room's lively buzz was sliced by the shrill cry of an alarm, silencing the crowd. Then, a feminine voice resonated, not through the air, but directly within their minds, an intimate announcement that heralded the beginning of the trials.
"All participants please proceed to the next room and find the door that is marked on your ticket."
Upon the announcement's conclusion, a colossal misty door materialized at the room's center, drawing everyone's gaze. With tickets in hand, the crowd stirred, figures like the Drapabarn and the girl with the stuffed rabbit among the first to advance. Ajal, confirming the "52" emblazoned on his ticket, merged with the flow of participants moving towards the enigmatic portal.
Discontent soon filled the air as exclamations of confusion and frustration rose. "Hey, what the hell is this?! My ticket's blank!" a boy cried out in dismay. "Mine too!" echoed another, the room swiftly becoming a cauldron of discontent.
Yet, amid the turmoil, a new voice, distinctly male and marked by a languid tone, intervened, "Calm yourselves." His explanation, though delivered with a casual detachment, cut through the chaos. The initial room, far from a mere gathering space, had served as the crucible for a covert evaluation, winnowing the hopefuls based on unseen criteria.
As Ajal, alongside those deemed worthy, crossed the threshold, the sounds of protest and despair lingered behind him. Empathy tugged at him, yet the path forward demanded his focus. The hallway that unfolded was a seemingly infinite stretch, doors numbered 1 to 104 lining its expanse. Finally arriving at door 52, Ajal entered without hesitation, immediately engulfed by an intense chill. The room, a frozen chamber adorned with elaborate ice patterns, captivated his attention until a familiar voice halted him.
"Stop."
Ajal spun around, his heart skipping a beat as he realized he wasn't alone. Looming behind him was a middle-aged man, exuding an aura of weary resilience. His short, scruffy beard framed a face marked by life's trials, and his brown hair was a tousled mess, with two rebellious curls dangling over his forehead like wayward sentinels. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were weary and slightly irritated, yet they sparkled with an indomitable spirit that refused to be extinguished.
The man's attire was a study in contrasts. He wore a black suit that was impeccably tailored, lending him a regal air that seemed at odds with his disheveled appearance. The suit was a silent proclamation of dignity, a bastion of order amidst the chaos of his persona. Tucked away in his chest pocket was a pen, its point directed downward, a symbol of his readiness to wield words as deftly as any weapon.
But it was his right hand that drew Ajal's attention. Encasing it was a metallic gauntlet, its surface etched with intricate engravings that whispered of ancient lore and long-forgotten secrets. The gauntlet was a stark reminder of the power that lay within the man's grasp, a tangible manifestation of his strength and resolve.
The man’s eyes swept over Ajal, a look of thinly veiled contempt settling across his features. He adjusted his glasses, his expression sharp and calculating, as though every glance he directed at Ajal chipped away at any shred of expectation he might have held.
“So,” he began, his voice like ice, “the so-called Inheritor has arrived.” He said the word as if it left a sour taste in his mouth, his gaze narrowing. “You’re nothing special.”
Ajal met his eyes, unblinking. “Nice to meet you too.”
The man’s lip curled, only a fraction, as though he found Ajal’s casual response even more distasteful. “If I’m being honest, I expected more,” he continued, voice dripping with disdain. “Of all the candidates we’ve assessed this year, I would rank you among the most… disappointing.”
Ajal tilted his head, the faintest of smirks playing on his lips. “Guess I’ll have to try harder to win you over.”
The man’s expression hardened, his fingers tapping against the metallic surface of his gauntlet in slow, deliberate movements. He regarded Ajal with a look that was almost clinical, as though assessing an experiment that had failed to yield promising results. “You can try as hard as you like, Mr. Ruoc, but let me assure you—your status as an Inheritor doesn’t impress me. Far from it.”
He paused, allowing his words to sink in, watching Ajal for any flicker of emotion. But Ajal’s expression remained unfazed, a faint glimmer of defiance sparking in his lavender eyes.
The man’s irritation was subtle but palpable, an undercurrent beneath his otherwise calm demeanor. “Arkphis Institute isn’t some haven for those who waltz in with Gifts they did nothing to earn,” he continued, his tone cool and unyielding. “Your status as an Inheritor marks you—not as a prodigy, but as a target. Every student here, every teacher, every aspiring candidate will look at you and see an opportunity to prove their worth by tearing you down. Do you understand that, Mr. Ruoc?”
Ajal’s smirk widened just a bit. “Sounds like I’ll be making lots of friends,” he replied. “Lucky me.”
A flicker of anger flashed in the man’s eyes, though his tone remained steady. “You’ll find that your luck only extends as far as you’re willing to earn it,” he said, his voice chillingly calm. He adjusted his glasses, as if to reset his composure. “And I doubt you’ll earn much here.”
The tension hung heavy in the air, but Ajal showed no sign of backing down, his gaze steady as he held the man’s eyes. A trace of frustration shadowed the man’s face, though he was careful to keep his expression under control.
“This,” he said, gesturing around the frozen room, “is just a waiting area—a holding cell, if you like. I am nothing more than a projection cast to each candidate for initial assessment.” He gave Ajal a thin smile, the kind that lacked all warmth. “You’re fortunate to be interacting with me here. Had we met under different circumstances, I’d have far less patience.”
Ajal opened his mouth to respond, perhaps to ask what came next, but the man cut him off sharply, his voice taking on a note of authority. “Five minutes,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “That’s how long you have left before the real exam begins. Use that time to prepare—mentally, if you’re capable.”
Ajal tilted his head slightly, meeting the man’s unyielding stare. “Good to know. Anything else?”
The man’s jaw tightened for an instant, but he quickly masked it, his expression settling back into cool indifference. Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, his form gradually fading into the mist with each step. Just before he disappeared entirely, his voice cut through the silence, crisp and deliberate:
“Become Limitless.”
And then he was gone, leaving Ajal alone in the frozen chamber, his breath misting in the air as the silence pressed in around him.
Ajal took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of those parting words linger in the cold. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the scarf around his neck as he took one last look at the frosty patterns swirling across the walls. Whatever this place had in store for him, he was ready to face it head-on.
Limitless, he thought, letting the word echo in his mind.
As Ajal waited in the frozen chamber, silence settled around him, thick and isolating. The room felt like a void, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched—evaluated. His fingers brushed over the faint green letter "Z" glowing on his arm, trying to make sense of what it might mean.
Then, a calm female voice once again filled his mind, breaking the silence: "Welcome, examinees, to the first trial. Before we proceed, we extend our gratitude to The Sovereign Faith for their generous support, which has enabled the creation of this testing environment."
The voice’s tone was almost soothing, but Ajal could feel the tension building as she continued. "You have each been assigned to a team of four, designated by the letter now marked on your arm. This mark is unique to your team and will remain visible throughout the trial. Your objective is to retrieve your team’s token from within the testing grounds."
A slight shimmer began to ripple through the air, and Ajal felt the ground beneath him shift. The icy walls of the room faded, replaced by the sight of towering trees and dense foliage. He now stood in a vast forest, sunlight filtering through the canopy above, casting a warm, green glow over the landscape. The space was alive with the scents of earth and greenery, and the rustling of unseen creatures scuttling through the undergrowth. Each tree seemed ancient and massive, their roots forming natural pathways and obstacles, while their upper branches created a web of shadow and light.
"Each team has been scattered throughout the testing grounds," the voice continued, unperturbed by the sudden change in setting. "You will not begin together. Instead, you must locate each other and work to retrieve your token. The tokens are enchanted to move periodically within the testing grounds, following specific paths. They are protected by various obstacles and… creatures. Be warned: claiming your token will not be a simple task."
Ajal’s gaze narrowed as he took in his surroundings, his mind racing with strategies. The idea of a moving target changed everything. This isn’t just a hunt—it’s a game of tracking and timing.
"The first 12 teams to retrieve their token and reach the exit gate within the time limit will pass to the next round," the voice continued, calm and unyielding. "Only one token is permitted per team, and you will need it in your possession to advance. However…" The voice paused, and Ajal could have sworn he felt a hint of amusement. "If you cannot locate your team’s token in time, there is one other way to secure passage: you may also obtain the token of another team and as long as all members of that team are eliminated, then you may use their token to pass.”
Ajal’s eyes widened, a thrill sparking through him. So, it’s not just about getting your own token. It’s survival by any means.
"And one final rule," the voice added. "Any team members without the token holder at the end of the trial will not move on. Do note, this does not eliminate those members. As long as the isolated members fulfill the passing requirements on their own, they will join the team for the next trial."
The voice faded, leaving Ajal alone with the forest’s hum and his own quickening heartbeat. He crouched down, eyeing the trees around him, and then sprang upward, catching hold of a thick branch. He swung himself higher, moving from branch to branch, his instincts kicking in as he climbed above the tree line.
At the top, he crouched on a sturdy limb, eyes scanning the vast landscape that stretched out before him. Beyond the forest, a chain of fiery mountains clawed at the sky, a thin trail of smoke rising from one of the peaks. Below, the forest sprawled endlessly, thick with shadows and mystery. Somewhere in that dense landscape, his teammates and their token were waiting.
A soft, excited laugh escaped him, carried away by the wind as he crouched on the branch, exhilarated by the challenge ahead. He had no idea who his teammates were or where they might be, but he could already hear the distant echoes of competition in the air—the buzzing of a chainsaw, fierce roaring, lightning crackling, and the sharp crack of gunfire.
This was no ordinary test. It was a hunt, a trial by fire, and he was ready to dive in headfirst.
Ajal leapt gracefully down from the treetop, landing on the forest floor with barely a sound. He took a moment to breathe in the rich, earthy scents around him, the thick aroma of moss and damp wood settling in his lungs. The towering trees, dappled sunlight, and the whispering breeze all felt familiar, almost comforting, stirring memories of home—his family’s farm, the quiet mornings, the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind. Eight months felt like a lifetime ago, yet the forest brought him back to those early mornings, if only for a moment.
A sudden scream snapped him out of his thoughts. He tensed, glancing in the direction of the noise, his body already moving instinctively. With a swift, practiced motion, he launched himself back up to the lower branches, blending into the shadows as he peered down at the scene unfolding below.
A group of examinees came stumbling through the undergrowth, their faces twisted in terror. Some were sprinting, tripping over roots and branches in their frantic escape. Others crawled across the ground, their bodies bloody, their clothing shredded. One girl’s face was frozen in an expression of pure horror as she clutched her side, her strength failing as she collapsed to the forest floor, motionless. A young boy, barely clinging to life, reached forward with trembling hands, only for his eyes to lose focus and his body to go limp.
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Ajal’s gaze shifted toward the source of their terror. Emerging from the mouth of a dark cave was a figure cloaked entirely in white, its clothes soaked with fresh blood, trailing droplets onto the forest floor. It held a crimson, jagged sword that glistened with gore, the weapon’s irregular, serrated edges catching the light in a way that seemed almost… hungry. The figure moved slowly, each step deliberate, its hood casting a shadow over its face, obscuring any features.
“Great,” Ajal muttered under his breath, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve barely been here ten minutes, and I’ve already got a horror movie reject stalking around.” He sighed theatrically, his voice a touch louder. “Let me guess—Salarkista, right?”
The figure’s head turned toward him, and in an instant, it sprang forward, the bloody sword slashing through the air with a deadly precision. Ajal sidestepped easily, the blade slicing mere inches from his torso. In one swift motion, he pivoted and brought his leg up, delivering a solid kick to the Salarkista’s side. The creature flew backward, crashing against a tree with a loud crack.
Ajal flexed his ankle and shrugged, glancing at the stunned Salarkista. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that, but you’re not Kaito-quick. Gonna have to try a bit harder.”
Just then, a low, desperate groan sounded from the cave entrance. Ajal turned to see another examinee, barely conscious, dragging himself across the ground, his hand outstretched toward Ajal.
“P-please… help me…” the examinee gasped, his face twisted in agony, eyes wide with fear as he crawled closer, fingers clawing at the dirt.
Ajal knelt down, extending a hand, his expression unreadable. “Here,” he said, reaching toward the trembling boy. But a flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow looming up behind him.
Without even turning, Ajal shifted his weight ever so slightly, leaning just out of range as the Salarkista’s blade swept down, barely missing him. The blade buried itself in the dirt where Ajal’s head had been just moments before.
Ajal chuckled, still crouched low. “Nice try. But illusions don’t work on me.” He straightened up, pressing his foot down on the crawling examinee’s outstretched hand. The boy’s image flickered, then faded like a wisp of smoke.
He turned back to the Salarkista, smirking. “What do they call you again? Psycho type? Psycho-something…” He paused, snapping his fingers as if trying to jog his memory. “Psychic? Psychopath? No, that’s not it…”
The Salarkista, unfazed by Ajal’s taunting, lifted its bloody blade, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. Its hooded face remained hidden, but a low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within, echoing through the trees like the grating of metal against stone.
Ajal sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter what you’re called. Just means I’m gonna have to put you down.”
He took a step back, rolling his shoulders, and closed his eyes for a moment. The scarf around his neck shifted, darkening and stretching, its edges flickering with hints of white flame. As Ajal opened his eyes, the scarf morphed into his scythe, the long, curved blade gleaming in the dappled sunlight, each of the three engraved eyes along the fuller closed but brimming with a quiet, deadly energy.
He grinned, gripping the scythe’s handle as he took a low, ready stance. “Alright, you creepy little ghost wannabe… let’s dance.”
Ajal narrowed his eyes, gripping the scythe tightly as he charged forward, his steps silent on the forest floor. The Salarkista tilted its head, watching his approach with a cold, eerie stillness. As Ajal closed the distance, he swung his scythe in a wide arc, the blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.
The Salarkista reacted instantly, bringing up its jagged sword to block. Metal clashed against metal, a harsh, grating sound echoing through the trees. The Salarkista pushed back, trying to counter with a sweeping slash, but Ajal ducked low, moving just out of reach as the creature’s sword connected with a thick tree trunk instead.
The blade dug in, sinking deep into the wood—and then, to Ajal’s surprise, the sword began to glow, a violent crimson light pulsing along its jagged edges.
“Oh, hell—” Ajal barely had time to react as the sword erupted in a sudden explosion, a blast of crimson energy ripping the tree apart and sending a storm of splinters and debris flying in every direction. The force of the explosion launched both Ajal and the Salarkista backward.
Ajal twisted midair, using the momentum to flip back onto his feet with practiced ease. He skidded to a halt, steadying himself just as the dust cloud settled. Across the clearing, he could make out the Salarkista’s figure, embedded in the side of a large boulder, cracks spiderwebbing across the rock from the impact.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a distorted, gurgling sound filled the air, something between a laugh and a growl. The Salarkista stepped forward out of the smoke, its form shifting and warping as it moved. Its body twisted, lengthening and growing bulkier, pale white wings erupting from its back with sickening wet sounds, each featherless wing a mass of raw flesh, dripping blood from the roots.
The sword was gone, replaced by long, razor-sharp claws that extended from the creature’s fingers, each one glistening with a dark, metallic sheen.
Ajal sighed, tightening his grip on his scythe. “Of course you’d have a second form,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Why make it easy?”
The Salarkista crouched low, its wings twitching as it let out another guttural noise, its blood-red eyes locked on him. And then, with blinding speed, it lunged forward, claws outstretched. Ajal barely had time to raise his scythe, stepping to the side to avoid the initial attack. One of its claws grazed his shoulder, leaving a shallow scratch that stung, but he kept moving, adapting to its new speed.
Ajal swung the scythe upward, aiming for the creature’s torso, and drove the blade into its side, forcing it downward with all his strength. The Salarkista crashed to the ground, writhing under the weight of the scythe pinning it down. But before he could press his advantage, it let out a savage roar and twisted its body, breaking free and scrambling back to its feet in a blur of motion.
It slashed at him with renewed fury, each claw swipe quicker than the last. Ajal leaned back, dodging the attacks with measured precision, and when he saw an opening, he drove his elbow into the creature’s side, throwing it off balance. Without missing a beat, he pivoted, bringing the scythe around in a smooth arc that sliced cleanly across its neck.
There was a spray of dark blood as the blade connected, splattering across Ajal’s arm and chest. The Salarkista let out a final, wet gurgle before collapsing to the ground, its grotesque form twitching once before lying still.
Ajal exhaled, brushing a hand across the scratch on his shoulder, only to realize it was already healing, the sting fading faster than it should have. He glanced down at the faint scar left behind and smirked. “Huh. I’ve been noticing that since becoming an Inheritor,” he muttered to himself. “Guess there’s a perk to this whole reaper thing after all.”
Shrugging it off, he watched as the scythe began to shift in his hand, the solid metal of the blade dissolving into dark fabric that wound itself around his neck like it had a mind of its own. Within moments, the weapon was gone, replaced by the familiar weight of his scarf, its ends trailing down his back like shadowy tendrils.
Ajal adjusted the scarf around his shoulders, his gaze shifting back to the forest ahead. The trial was far from over, and his team was still out there somewhere.
With a final glance back at the fallen Salarkista, Ajal bowed in respect to his former opponent then he continued forward, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
⁂
The Arkphis Institute’s administrative building floated high above the exam arena, suspended by some arcane force that kept it motionless among the drifting clouds. The structure was both ancient and refined, an architectural masterpiece that combined dark stone and glass in intricate patterns. Its walls were carved with spiraling glyphs that glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the energy radiating from the grounds below. The building’s pointed towers and elegant arches gave it an almost cathedral-like quality, a place that seemed less an office and more a sanctuary dedicated to the mysteries of Gifts and power. Broad glass windows overlooked the forest landscape beneath, each window enchanted to provide real-time, panoramic views of the trial unfolding below.
Inside, the space exuded an air of solemnity, every inch meticulously arranged and decorated. At the heart of the room was a large, circular platform surrounded by shimmering projections, each displaying a live, three-dimensional image of different participants in the exam. The images hovered in midair, glowing faintly, giving the effect of tiny worlds suspended in glass. Around these projections, the Arkphis staff moved with quiet efficiency, whispering observations and taking notes as they watched the examinees struggle, strategize, and fight their way through the challenges.
Seated at an exquisite desk of polished mahogany and gold inlay, Principal Spry Culpa observed the projections with a discerning eye. She was an elderly woman with silvery-grey hair, braided and coiled neatly down her back. Her attire—a dark kimono with deep blues and blacks, embroidered with subtle patterns of clouds and waves—added to her regal presence, blending elegance with a quiet power. Leaning against the side of her desk was her cane, a slender rod of dark wood inlaid with silver designs that spiraled around it like vines.
Her presence was one of quiet authority, a stillness that seemed to anchor the entire room. Despite her frail appearance, there was an undeniable strength in her posture and a warmth in her small smile as she watched the contestants. Occasionally, that smile widened, her eyes softening with a trace of pride as some of the examinees displayed unexpected flashes of potential. Her gaze lingered on one projection in particular, her smile deepening with quiet satisfaction.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a low, smooth voice from the far side of the room. “It seems, Principal Culpa, that your school has been blessed by yet another Inheritor.”
Without moving a muscle, her gaze shifted to meet the speaker’s—a man of inhuman stature seated in a chair far too small to accommodate him. His frame seemed to fill the room, despite his refined posture. He wore a pristine white business suit with gold cufflinks that glinted in the light, and a matching top hat perched neatly atop his head. His golden hair was slicked back, and a short, well-kept goatee framed his mouth. Despite the elegance of his attire, there was a raw, intimidating presence about him, an aura of authority that pressed against the space around him like a tangible weight.
Mr. Goldman’s eyes, a brilliant shade of amber with a predatory gleam, regarded Culpa with an intense curiosity that would unnerve most people. But Culpa remained as unmoved as stone, her gaze steady and unaffected by his imposing presence.
“Yes, Mr. Goldman,” she replied, her voice soft but firm, carrying the weight of her own authority. “But as always, we make no allowances for Inheritors. Their Gifts are simply part of who they are—not a privilege to be abused.” She held his gaze, her smile faint but unwavering. “Besides, I understand you have an Inheritor of your own in this year’s entrance exams, don’t you?”
Goldman’s lips curved into a slight smile, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. “Oh, I’m well aware of your school’s… policies.” He adjusted his position in the chair, which groaned slightly under his weight, the frame misshapen from his stature. “I simply find it interesting that you’ve accumulated so many unique candidates this year.”
Culpa’s eyes didn’t leave his, but there was a spark of curiosity in her gaze. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the entrance exams at your own school, Mr. Goldman?”
Goldman let out a quiet, amused chuckle. “Oh, don’t worry. My school is well taken care of. Besides,” he gestured to one of the projections with a gloved hand, “I wouldn’t want to miss… this.” His voice held a note of intrigue, his gaze sharpening as he watched the image of an intense battle unfolding in the trial below.
A slight movement caught Culpa’s eye. To the side, standing with his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the projections, was the man Ajal had encountered in the waiting room earlier. He was clicking his pen in a slow, steady rhythm, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he studied the contestants. His face was impassive, though a shadow of irritation crossed his features as he observed one of the examinees on the screen.
Goldman’s attention turned back to Culpa, his amber eyes narrowing with interest. “Speaking of unique candidates… where is your elusive cat?” he asked, his tone light but laced with intent. “I have a few matters I was hoping to discuss. I believe he has answers I need.”
Principal Culpa tilted her head slightly, her small smile unfazed. "He’s not with us at the moment," she replied to Goldman, her tone light, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "He tends to come and go as he pleases."
Goldman chuckled, a sound both smooth and unsettling, as he accepted her answer with a slight nod. Turning his attention to another figure in the room, he addressed her formally, with the same veneer of politeness masking a curious edge. “Ms. Miki,” he began, his deep voice carrying a touch of intrigue, “how are our incoming students performing?”
Miki, known widely as the Future’s Visionary, inclined her head slightly in response. She wore a flowing kimono much like Culpa’s, though hers was a vibrant shade of orange decorated with intricate floral patterns that seemed almost alive under the light. Her hair was pure white, tied into a neat bun with two black chopsticks crossing through it, giving her an air of quiet elegance. Her most striking feature, however, was the Kitsuné mask she wore over her face, black with accents of red and yellow, its painted eyes fixed forward with an unblinking gaze.
Without hesitation, Miki answered in a calm, almost ethereal tone. “They show remarkable promise. This cohort has the potential to become the strongest class we have ever assembled.”
Goldman raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “High praise, coming from you, Ms. Miki.” He tapped a finger against his chin, his golden eyes gleaming with interest. “To earn such an assessment from the Future’s Visionary… that’s no small feat.”
A derisive scoff cut through the quiet hum of projections and murmured observations. The man with the pen, standing off to the side, clicked his pen sharply as he turned his gaze to one of the projections—a clearing in the forest, scorched and blackened as if a firestorm had passed through. In the center of the devastation stood a boy in a red cloak, the fabric shimmering with a warm, fiery glow. His hood appeared to be woven from flames themselves, crackling softly as if alive. His eyes glowed a fierce amber, and a self-satisfied grin played across his face as he surveyed the four unconscious bodies scattered at his feet, his opponents left defeated and broken in the charred earth.
The man with the pen sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “The strongest class… hmph. How many times have we heard that before?” He looked away from the projection, his eyes narrowing in frustration as he clicked his pen in a steady, almost aggressive rhythm. “Every year we get candidates with so-called ‘high potential.’ Every year they display their power and their arrogance… and then they die. It’s nothing but empty promise. All the ‘potential’ in the world means nothing when they die before they can realize it.”
His bitterness filled the room, a dark cloud that seemed to press against the polished air of elegance. His words were sharp, laden with a frustration that ran deeper than mere disappointment. He had seen too many failures, too many bright sparks that had flickered out before they could truly shine.
Principal Culpa watched him with calm, steady eyes. She folded her hands in front of her, her expression one of gentle understanding. “That bitterness of yours,” she murmured, “is exactly why you were hired, Fil.”
Fil scoffed again, though there was a hint of weary humor in it. “Hired, Principal? Forced would be more accurate,” he said, his tone sardonic. “Dragged here because I happen to know a thing or two about the Nine-Step System. Don’t mistake this for my dream job.”
Culpa’s smile didn’t waver. She turned her gaze back to the projections, her voice soft but resolute as she replied, “You may not want this position, Fil, but Arkphis needs you. Not just for your mastery of the Nine Steps, but for your perspective.” Her tone shifted, the gentle warmth in her voice giving way to a quiet strength. “We are not only educators here. We are protectors. Guardians of those who walk this dangerous path.”
Her gaze moved over the projections, lingering on each image of struggle, determination, and ambition. “These aren’t children we’re watching, Fil. Every applicant here is a new adult who has chosen this path for themselves. They have chosen to face the trials and the risks, knowing the cost. And while some will not make it, while some may die before they see their potential fulfilled, it doesn’t make their journey meaningless.”
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over the room. “Every step they take, every battle they fight—win or lose—shapes who they are and who they might have been. To die with purpose, striving for something greater… that is never a waste.”
Fil fell silent, his hand pausing mid-click. He looked away, his expression tight, as though Culpa’s words had struck a nerve.
Fil fell silent, his hand frozen mid-click. He looked away from Culpa, his jaw tight, her words clearly striking something raw. The room was heavy with unspoken thoughts, and for a moment, even the faint hum of the projections seemed to dim.
Principal Culpa’s gaze shifted to another teacher who had been quietly observing from the far corner. “Garth,” she said, her tone light but curious, “you’ve been unusually quiet.”
Garth gave a faint, weary smile. He was a young man with a casual air, dressed in a black jacket with a fur-lined hood over a simple grey shirt and black pants. Curly light brown hair framed his tired-looking face, and a silver watch gleamed on his wrist. He raised a hand, flexing his fingers slightly as he let out a quiet sigh. “It’s this Gift of mine, Principal. Keeping all these projections up while letting everyone tap into the students’ minds—well, let’s just say it drains me faster than I’d like.”
Culpa gave a small nod of understanding, her eyes softening. “It’s a burden, I know. But you’ve done well, Garth. The insights you’ve provided have been invaluable.”
Garth shrugged, brushing it off with a modest chuckle. “Actually, I caught something interesting just a little while ago.” He leaned forward, his gaze briefly flicking to one of the projections. “There’s a student out there who reminded me of you, Principal. I saw him giving his team a pep talk before they charged into their trial—had that same fire, that same… compassion.” He smiled, an almost nostalgic look crossing his face. “It was refreshing to see.”
Before Culpa could respond, Goldman’s smooth voice interrupted, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. “Ah, students and teachers—they’re not so different after all.” He adjusted his white gloves, then glanced toward Culpa, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Isn’t that right, Spry?”
A stunned silence filled the room. The staff members’ heads whipped around to look at Goldman, shock etched onto each face. Principal Culpa remained perfectly calm, though the faintest flicker of something inscrutable passed through her small, faded eyes. If the use of her first name had affected her, she showed no outward sign of it.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, her voice even, almost conversational. She returned her attention to the floating projections, her gaze sweeping over the images of the examinees. “Miki,” she began, addressing the masked woman without looking in her direction, “keep compiling the list of students you deem worthy of advancement. Garth,” her gaze flickered briefly to him, “begin organizing our clients’ requests—several of them have expressed particular interest in this year’s candidates. And Fil…” She turned her head slightly toward the man with the pen. “See if you can locate Lucius. I believe he’s… overdue.”
Fil nodded, his face settling into a look of reluctant acceptance as he uncrossed his arms and left the room.
Goldman chuckled as he watched Fil exit, then turned back to Culpa, his tone light but with an underlying edge. “Well, Principal, I believe it’s time for me to take my leave as well.” He adjusted his top hat with a delicate touch, a faint smirk on his lips. “But I trust you’ll remember the conversation we had at the meeting.”
Culpa’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile remained intact. “I do remember,” she replied, her voice soft yet laced with iron. “And while I value our friendship, Goldman, I value my students’ lives far more. So let me make this very clear: if you or your agents go anywhere near my students—” Her voice dropped to a low, lethal tone. “Not even the gods will save you from my wrath.”
For a moment, something dark flashed in Goldman’s eyes. His pride flared, and a shadow of anger twisted his features. The entire building shuddered, a low tremor rippling through the floor, causing the projections to flicker. Miki and Garth stumbled, barely managing to steady themselves as the tremors grew stronger.
The glass on Garth’s watch face cracked, and the ornate trinkets on Culpa’s desk rattled, but Culpa herself remained perfectly still, seemingly unfazed. Her gaze remained locked on the projections, her focus unbroken even as the entire room seemed to vibrate under the force of Goldman’s rising anger.
Goldman’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it held a chilling edge. “Threats mean nothing to me, Spry. You’re past your prime.”
As the tremors finally subsided, Goldman stepped closer, his towering form casting a long shadow over Culpa. He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers, and whispered into her ear, his tone dripping with menace. “I don’t wish for war between our schools. But if Ajal Ruoc isn’t handed over to me willingly… I’ll take him by force.”
With a final, ominous look, Goldman straightened, adjusting his hat with a gloved hand. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the tense silence that filled the room.