High above the treeline, veiled by clouds and arcane concealments, a dozen professors hovered in formation, silent as statues. The wind swept past them, cool and sharp, stirring the hems of their robes and the faint hum of their protective enchantments. Below them stretched a scene none of them had expected.
The forest, once a fractured, chaotic maze of scattered students, was now humming with activity. Zeke's group—if it could even be called that anymore—was spreading like a tide through the trees. Coordinated. Unified. Alive.
One of the instructors, a tall woman with ink-black eyes and streaks of silver in her braids, whispered, "Headmaster, aren't you going to stop them? They've already tripled in size. That's over three hundred gathered, and they're still growing."
The Headmaster didn't respond at first. His gaze was steady, fixed on the ever-expanding formation below. A flare of golden energy erupted as another group signaled their position, responding to Zeke's earlier orders. He looked like a man observing a battlefield, not a test.
Finally, he spoke, voice as calm as stone worn smooth by time.
"They were told to survive using their skills. That brat... he seems to be quite the skilled leader."
A murmur rippled through the professors. Some narrowed their eyes in obvious discontent but none spoke in protest.
Below, the students moved like a living system—setting up temporary markers, using signal flares, mana pulses, and borrowed familiars to communicate across distances. Zeke had broken them into teams of twenty, but each team was now weaving back toward the center.
It was nearing midday.
A great bonfire roared at the center of the clearing, its flames licking toward the sky, casting long shadows over the forest floor. Around it, dozens of smaller campfires crackled. The scent of roasted meat, baked roots, and sweet fruit filled the air. Some students cooked beasts they had hunted in the forest—giant wolves, scaled birds, mana-eels from underground streams. Others unpacked food stored in rings or enchanted packs.
There was laughter. Actual, unfiltered laughter. Boys and girls trading jokes, sharing food, patching wounds with whatever they had. Some argued over who roasted better meat. Others passed out makeshift skewers. For the first time in the trial, warmth existed that didn't come from a spell.
Little did they know, beyond the trees, hidden within the shifting shadows, Executioners watched.
Their red-trimmed cloaks barely moved in the wind as they crouched in trees, atop stone outcroppings, and beneath ancient roots.
"What the hell is this?" one whispered. "Didn't the guy say there were only six hundred students left? This looks like three hundred here alone."
"Unless he was lying."
"Why would he do that?"
A pause.
"Who knows? He might be a little crazy."
"That's true. They say once you go past a hundred years you start going senile."
Above, many of the professors watching from the sky wore dark expressions. Until—
A younger man, barely looking past his twenties, burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! Did you guys—"
POOF! POOF! POOF!
More than ten professors launched spells in unison. The young man vanished beneath a flurry of magical haze. When it cleared, he was wrapped tightly in enchanted rope, duct tape sealing his mouth, hanging upside-down above a fire.
Someone muttered, "Little Jonah, you better stop talking or your role as First-Year Director will be revoked."
Despite the gag, Jonah's wide eyes sparkled with humor. Flamelight danced across his bright orange hair, a noticeable white streak running through the front like a lightning bolt. His fingers made lazy gestures, pretending to conduct the surrounding flames.
Back on the ground, Zeke finished dividing the last team. He glanced at the sky once, eyes narrowing. He couldn't see them, but he felt them—eyes watching.
Lunch came and went, and the fires were slowly extinguished. Only the massive center flame remained, still burning high. Groups of students were laughing, chatting, or laying down to rest. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of beasts clashing echoed faintly—but this time, it wasn't just roars.
Students were roaring back.
The sky shimmered with bursts of light—spells fired from distant pockets of battle. Blue, gold, crimson. The forest became a living, shifting dance of combat and resistance.
And still, the executioners watched.
Then, the screams started.
Zeke's head snapped to the east. Screams—urgent, sharp. He ran forward, and when he scaled a small rise, he saw it.
Two shadows, their movements frantic, surrounded. More than fifty students encircled them. At the front, Darius clutched his neck, blood seeping between his fingers. Zeke's stomach dropped.
"Darius!"
The large boy looked up and gave a pained grin.
"Don't worry, boss. I've got a thick head."
Zeke exhaled sharply, muttering, "Yes... you definitely do."
He shouted out.
"Capture those two. Bring them to me."
The shadows were wrestled to the ground. Students flared with mana, restraining them with chains of water, stone, and wind.
Zeke knelt before them.
"Take the tape off their mouths."
The two figures stared at him, eyes gleaming with resentment and something deeper—fear. But they still tried to laugh.
"Who the hell are you? What is this, some little student army? Are you their leader?"
Zeke held up a hand.
"Shhh."
He turned the blade in his palm, still bleeding, then licked the blood from his finger.
"Tell me," he said.
His aura surged. A wave of power—crushing, deep—rolled outward like a crashing tide.
"Why did you kill all those students?"
Confusion rippled outward, but one voice answered.
Rian stepped forward, face grim.
"Zeke... you're not saying they—"
"Yes," Zeke said quietly. His eyes never left the two shadows. "They are responsible for the massacre we saw."
The two shadows went pale.
Silence fell. And then...
Rage.
The students who had been part of the group that stumbled upon the slaughtered camp stepped forward. Their eyes narrowed, mana beginning to burn around them.
All eyes locked onto the two.
And something shifted.
Hatred.
Grief.
Rage.
The wind picked up. Cold. Fierce. The combined killing intent thickened the air.
Clouds rolled in, dark and heavy.
...
Above, the professors stirred again.
"Ahh... how impressive," one said.
"This must be a first," another replied. "To see this level of synchronized killing intent."
"Normally these trials split students up too much. But this brat…"
"He's giving us a good show."
...
On the ground, Zeke stared into the eyes of the two shadows, blood still trailing from his hand.
"Speak."
The shadows whimpered.
But there was no escape. Not from this.
Zeke stood slowly. The bonfire behind him blazed higher, casting his silhouette into something fierce, almost otherworldly.
Around him, the forest breathed with fury. Magic sparked in the air.
Operation: Build an Army wasn't just about numbers.
It was about purpose.
And right now, that purpose was vengeance.