As dawn's first light filtered through the tall curtains of his hotel suite, Luke's eyes snapped open. No dreams had come to him the night before—only silence. He rose with a practiced motion, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing in a single, fluid movement.
The room was quiet except for the distant hum of city traffic and the faint whir of environmental systems. Moving with swift purpose, Luke crossed to the washbasin and splashed cold water onto his face. The chill bit into his skin, sharpening his focus. He dried off, then turned to the wardrobe, where the uniform waited.
It was not the standard issue of a First Lieutenant, his previous rank. This was something more. Deep charcoal gray with silver piping tracing the seams in tight, angular lines—it was the ceremonial battlewear of a Vice-Captain of Isgard. The jacket fit him like armor, rigid but light, structured to emphasize a disciplined frame. The Isgard cross, now stitched in platinum thread, rested over his heart like a quiet challenge. On the shoulders gleamed two narrow bars—his promotion made official just days ago.
Luke hadn't wanted the rank. He'd argued he hadn't earned it—not truly. He'd simply survived when others didn't. But the commanding officers had disagreed. "You have saved thousands of soldiers from void wounds; without you, the casualties would have been in the thousands," one had said. "If that's not merit, nothing is."
The blade had arrived with the uniform. Forged by the weaponsmiths of Vayren Hold, it was longer than his old saber, its steel bearing a subtle iridescence beneath the light. The crossguard curled like wings mid-flight, and its midnight-blue hilt was wrapped in leather etched with the symbol of an eight-petaled flower. The same mark now rested faintly beneath the skin of his chest, gifted to him—somehow—on that day near the crater.
He buckled the sword to his side and paused before the mirror. The face staring back wasn't a boy's anymore. There was weight behind those eyes. Not exhaustion—no. Resolve.
Downstairs in the reception lounge, Frank was already waiting. The Commander wore his own dress kit: a slate-gray coat with gold epaulettes, long sword clipped to a harness across his back. His arms were folded, eyes closed in thought. But as Luke approached, he opened them and nodded once.
Luke returned the gesture in silence.
They stepped into the hotel's private teleporter. The hexagonal chamber lit up, veins of blue light racing along the floor. A low thrumming grew into a hum, and then—
A flicker. A lurch. The air shifted.
They arrived.
The Ashgrove Academy's outer grounds unfolded before them: a vast circular plaza of polished blackstone ringed by towering marble pillars. The floor beneath their feet gleamed like obsidian, its surface inlaid with sigils that glowed faintly under the rising sun. Above, banners bearing the academy's emblem—a burning feather suspended over an open eye—fluttered in the gentle wind.
Hundreds had gathered. Cadets. Hopefuls. Children and teens aged between thirteen and twenty. They stood in loose formations, whispering and craning their necks to catch a glimpse of everything around them.
Luke scanned the gathering and noticed something immediately: three distinct factions.
The Nobles were the smallest group—perhaps twenty strong. They stood apart, as if the very air around them belonged to a different world. Their outfits were elaborate: robes woven with starlight threads, shimmering with softly glowing runes, silver embroidery that caught the light like frost. Attendants bustled at their edges, adjusting collars, carrying parasols, or handing out warm drinks in delicate porcelain cups.
The Soldiers stood near the middle ranks—more than the nobles, but not by much. They wore the uniforms of their home systems and fleets: hardened fabrics, armored gloves, clipped insignias. Every one of them was under twenty, their expressions a mix of calculation and suppressed anticipation. No one here outranked Luke; Vice-Captain was the ceiling.
And then there were the Civilians—by far the largest group. They wore everything from humble travel coats to vibrant jackets with blinking patterns. A few had gear pouches or weapons at their side, but most looked like they'd come from all corners of the galaxy—farmers' children, orphanage wards, merchant apprentices, and unaffiliated talents.
Frank nudged Luke's shoulder. "From here, you go alone. You won't see me again until after this is over. Make it count."
Luke turned, searching his eyes. There was something deeper there—something paternal that neither of them had ever named. He simply nodded.
Then he stepped forward, breaking into the crowd and finding a space near the center.
A hush spread, like wind through tall grass.
In the sky above, something shifted.
A pale light formed—a circle of silver fire etched into the sky. From its center descended a figure, slow and silent, suspended by invisible threads.
Ashborn.
The Divine Headmaster of Ashgrove descended like a vision from myth. His robes were flowing ash-gray, patterned with layered feather motifs that seemed to ripple as he moved. His skin was the pale tone of dusted stone; his long black hair shimmered faintly in the sunlight. But what caught every eye were his own: glowing white, utterly without pupils. They were not blind eyes, though they looked it. They were searching. Seeing through skin, blood, and bone.
When he touched the ground, the entire crowd dropped to a knee in silence. Even the nobles—begrudgingly—followed suit.
Ashborn's voice did not need to be loud. It was clear, unwavering, and deep enough to resonate in the chest.
"You stand now at the threshold of possibility. In the next few hours, many of you will fall. A few will rise."
He began to walk slowly across the front of the crowd as he spoke.
"For centuries, Ashgrove has stood as a top-level institute among all others—because it does not bend to comfort. It does not yield to tradition. It does not serve bloodlines. It serves worth."
He turned slightly, facing the nobles.
"Some of you wonder why we've opened the gates to the common-born. Let me answer that plainly: because many among the noble houses have grown soft. Arrogant. Complacent. The inheritance of power is not power itself."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few nobles bristled visibly. One girl scoffed outright, but fell silent when Ashborn's gaze passed over her.
"I made my case. And the other Great Academies agreed. From this day forward, the title of 'Elite' will be earned in trial, not in blood. Only those who survive the fire will emerge forged."
He gestured to the entire crowd.
"Your exam will proceed in three phases:
1. Survival will place you in an unfamiliar and hostile environment. You will have one task: live.
2. Team will test how you function within a group under stress. You will not choose your team.
3. Individual will determine your raw ability—whether through strength, skill, willpower, or insight sufficient to match Ashgrove's expectations.
Twenty seeded candidates have been selected from across the systems. Of those, ten are participating with you. Defeating or outperforming a seed may grant you direct elevation into the top tier."
A projection shimmered into the sky: a scoreboard with dozens of names already listed—Aelea Virell, Kael Daruun, Nehvra Oslin—some of those he had been warned to avoid.
"Ahead of you lies one hour to prepare. Speak. Plan. We will not intervene. The system will judge. And the system is blind to excuses."
With that, Ashborn raised his hand. In a blink of light, he was gone—vanished into ash motes on the wind.
And with him, all instructors, guards, and overseers disappeared.
A barrier shimmered into place around the plaza, doming them inside. Luke reached toward the edge and felt it: solid as steel, cool as glass. They were alone now.
The nobles gathered swiftly into their own circle. At least six raised a shielding field to keep out prying eyes and ears. One wore a small crown and gestured with effortless command.
The soldiers were more reserved. A few saluted one another and began informal clusters. One tall girl in a cobalt scarf pointed toward Luke and gave him a short nod before turning away.
The civilians hesitated at first, then began forming their own ragtag alliances. Some talked tactics. Others simply offered water or gear.
Luke remained alone for a moment, watching it all.
Then a voice called from behind. "Hey, Vice-Captain."
He turned. It was a short boy with sandy hair and keen blue eyes. No insignia—civilian.
"You're Luke, right? The one from Isgard?"
Luke raised an eyebrow. "I am."
"Name's Ren. If you're not forming a group… maybe we go in together?"
Luke studied him. The boy's posture was casual, but not careless. He was armed with a shortblade and what looked like a pulse-dagger.
Before Luke could answer, a deep vibration echoed through the plaza.
The platform beneath them lit up.
A countdown began to form in the sky above them:
Phase One: Begin
Teleport in 5… 4… 3…
Luke looked once more toward the dome, catching a final glimpse of the city beyond.
2… 1…
The world blurred.
Then the ground vanished beneath their feet.