The Archway Path stood as the centerpiece, a towering marvel of both engineering and magic. Each arch was distinct, each a gate to a different realm, a different domain of wonder. The group gathered with other students—many of whom had camped out even earlier, now waiting with eager, restless energy. But this arch was unlike the rest. Chains and iron bars wove around its frame, large and imposing, almost daring anyone to try and pass through. Its stone surface was etched with intricate glyphs. Massive locks, an amalgamation of both mechanical ingenuity and arcane spellwork, crisscrossed the arch, barring entry to whatever lay beyond. A faint hum filled the air, a subtle but persistent static that raised the hairs on Jace’s arms the closer he got.

Seeing the gathered students—once a thousand strong, now reduced to this small group—made the reality sink in. The number on the leaderboard was one thing, but seeing how few remained drove the point home with undeniable clarity.

“Less than half made it,” Alice murmured, her sharp gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Brutus wasn’t kidding about thinning the herd.”

Dex let out a mirthless chuckle. “Thinning the herd? More like nearly wiping it out. I only wish I’d come up with that little trick sooner—might’ve spared a few more necks.”

Ell shot him a glare, her eyes narrowing. “Your ‘little trick’ was reckless,” she retorted. “You’d better hope that Brutus has enough of a sense of humor—or enough patience—not to vaporize you on the spot when he realizes it was you. And he will figure it out.”

Jace tuned out their familiar bickering, his thoughts lingering on Thistle, their gnomish tank and friend—the one piece missing from the Scooby-Gang. He had visited Thistle in the infirmary the day before, and the sight had left an unsettling impression: Thistle was pale, gaunt, his movements sluggish, his eyes distant. The spiritual counselor had explained that Thistle’s soul fragments were still knitting back together after the possession—a delicate process that required time, nourishment, and space.

Using his Soul Affinity, Jace had confirmed it himself. Thistle’s essence was fractured, like shards of glass slowly trying to reunite, each fragment struggling to fit back into place. It was painful to witness, like watching a shattered vase attempt to make itself whole, cracks still visible but promising eventual restoration.

“He just needs time,” the counselor had assured him. “And a chance to feel strong again.”

Jace had resolved to help Thistle when the time was right. But for now, his friend needed to heal at his own pace. Shaking off the thought, Jace redirected his focus to the task at hand, the weight of impossible responsibility settled heavy on his shoulders, a familiar burden.

Brutus strode confidently to the base of the arch, his heavy boots thudding with authority. He halted before a series of levers embedded in the pedestal, his hand moving with a deliberate familiarity. The locks on the arch began to disengage, one after another, each release accompanied by a deep, resonant clang—like ancient machinery shaking off centuries of dormancy. With each grunt of exertion, he pulled a lever, the sound of each released lock echoing like a hammer striking an anvil, deep and resonant. The gears groaned in response, mechanisms grinding against years of enchantment as the arch slowly awakened.

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“This isn’t just to keep us out,” Alice murmured to Jace, her voice barely audible. “It’s to keep something in.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” he replied.

The final lock disengaged with a thunderous boom, echoing through the District. The glyphs flared brilliantly before fading into a faint, steady glow. It was unlocked, but not activated.

Brutus turned to face the students, his expression carved from stone. “What lies beyond this gate is not for the faint of heart,” he said, his voice steady, carrying an edge of warning. “Remember what you’ve learned. And damn your pride! If you can’t handle a challenge, step aside rather than gamble away your lives in some misguided bid for glory.”

Uneasy glances flickered between the students, his words settling over them like a heavy fog. Yet beneath the weight of his warning, anticipation simmered, a spark slowly igniting, flickering to life in their eyes.

The chatter of students faded into silence as Professor Dranice Thorne stepped forward, again from apparently nowhere. His crimson cloak billowed dramatically, catching the light like a flickering flame.

“Listen closely,” he began, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Beyond this gate lies the last stronghold of Roandia. It is a refuge, yes, but also a crucible. Representatives from across the world—gods, mortals, schools—all gather there. Your actions will not go unnoticed. Everything you do reflects upon you, your future, and this University.”

His gaze swept over the gathered students, sharp and assessing. “Remember: a single death means disqualification. You will return here immediately, your journey over. The Pre-Trials await you, and this year, there are four. Each one will test your limits. Survive them, and you may move on to the Tower. Fail, and you will not.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but a stern glare from Dranice silenced them instantly. “This is not a game, despite the name. Do not disgrace yourselves—or this institution. You represent Mount Olympus University. Act accordingly.”

With a swift flick of his wrist, the arch flared to life. Runes ignited along its frame, glowing in brilliant gold and silver, swirling like molten fire. The air around them seemed to shimmer, a faint hum building until it vibrated through their very bones.

The portal burst open in a blinding flash, before settling into a shimmering twilight that enveloped the arch. Its surface rippled like liquid starlight, shifting and swirling in an endless, mesmerizing dance, as if the very fabric of the cosmos had been woven into the gateway. The light gathered and refracted, forming an event horizon that seemed to bend reality itself—an ethereal threshold that blurred the line between this world and whatever lay beyond.

Brutus was the first to move, stepping forward without a word and vanishing into the arch.

“Go on, step through,” Dranice commanded, his voice brooking no argument. He stepped aside, gesturing sharply for them to follow, his gaze daring anyone to hesitate.

Jace caught Alice’s gaze, and she gave him a small nod—an unspoken promise of solidarity. Together with the others, they moved forward, stepping into the portal. The world blurred around Jace, swallowed in light and sound, his senses overwhelmed by the rush of magic.

As the brightness faded, Jace blinked, his breath catching in his throat as the sprawling city—the last stronghold of Roandia—unfurled before him, vibrant and alive, stretching endlessly under the vast blue sky.