Thursday.
The dawn light on the Other Side was not an abrupt awakening, but a gentle transition, as if a painter were blending shades of purple and silver on a celestial canvas. Behind the vast smart-glass windows of Aurora Bianchi's room, this silent spectacle unfolded, but her golden eyes were already open, reflecting the faint light with an immediate lucidity that bordered on the supernatural.
She lay in a king-sized bed that resembled a throne of rest, upholstered in silk so deep black it threatened to suck in the light around it. The room was a study in monochrome and absolute luxury. The walls were of a cold, textured white, contrasting dramatically with the polished ebony furniture and solid silver fixtures. An intricate tapestry, depicting the Bianchi Clan's family tree in silver and black thread, dominated one wall. There was not a single object out of place, not a single dust particle daring to land on the immaculate surfaces. It was a calculated perfection, a reflection of the ordered world Aurora demanded.
With a fluid movement that denoted meticulous bodily control, she rose. Her body, slender and powerful, was a perfectly tuned instrument. Her silver hair, so pale it seemed made of solidified moonlight, fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. Her bath was a ritual, not a necessity. The water, infused with rare oils from the Fae Kingdom, enveloped her in ethereal scents. Dressing was another act of precision: training clothes made of a dark grey, technological, and discreet fabric that molded perfectly to her body without a single crease.
Leaving the room, she entered a world of silent opulence. The hallways of the Bianchi Mansion were not mere corridors; they were vast galleries, with vaulted ceilings so high they were lost in the gloom. Columns of white Carrara marble supported ornate arches, and the floors were complex mosaics telling the family's history from its origins in ancient Rome. Soft lights, embedded in niches, illuminated classical statues and valuable porcelain vases. The air smelled of polished beeswax and a faint scent of exotic flowers. It was a palace that would make any monarch from the Mortal Plane feel like a commoner, a silent, yet crushing, assertion of the power and antiquity of the Nine Great Clans.
Her personal training room was a sanctuary of discipline within that splendor. Unlike the controlled chaos of Reid's room, Aurora's was a perfect, minimalist cube. The walls, floor, and ceiling were lined with a white, matte, sound-absorbent material. There were no visible equipment; everything was retractable or holographically projected when needed.
Her morning training began with high-performance physical exercises. Her movements were a choreography of pure strength and grace. Push-ups, squats, and plyometric exercises were executed with such impeccable form they seemed like an internal martial art. There was not a single tremor, not a single misplaced sigh. Every muscle was engaged with maximum efficiency, every movement calculated to extract the last penny of performance from her mid-level Master's body.
But the real training began when she sat in the center of the room, legs crossed. She closed her eyes, and the outside world dissolved. In her mind, she began silently intoning the verses of her clan's ancestral technique, the Primordial Song of the Inner Void.
She was not a Magic Warrior like the Ledgers; she was a pure Cultivator, from the most prestigious lineage. The Qi she manipulated was not an external tool, but the essence of existence itself. The Song was not a spell, but a principle, a map for understanding the self and the cosmos.
As she recited the internal mantras, her Qi began to circulate in complex patterns through her Magic Veins. It was not a turbulent flow, but a serene and powerful dance. The technique did not "paint" her body; rather, it revealed its true nature. She felt like a blank canvas upon which the fundamental truths of the universe were projected. Each completed energy cycle, each harmonious resonance between her core and the environment, brought a flash of understanding — about the fragility of matter, the fluidity of time, the interconnectedness of all things. It was a refinement of the soul, a constant polishing of the rough diamond of her consciousness towards a state of absolute purity and power.
When she finished, a feeling of serene, full emptiness and potency filled her. She was calm, centered, and terribly aware of her own power.
Going up to the kitchen, she was greeted by a banquet table that rivaled any five-star restaurant. Impeccably dressed maids stood in silence, attentive. The table, long enough to seat twenty people, was laden with delicacies: crystallized fruits from the Garden of the Lost Eden, freshly baked bread made with grains from the Mortal Plane, meats from creatures so rare their hunting was regulated, and juices that glowed with supernatural colors. All perfectly balanced to replenish every joule of energy spent in her training.
After the meal, a final ritual awaited her in her room. Seated in her favorite armchair, a cup of the finest porcelain containing her favorite tea — strawberry tea with honey and milk, a surprisingly mundane indulgence for someone of her status — in one hand, and an ancient, leather-bound book about the mutable ecosystems of the Realm of Phenomena in the other.
It was her moment of peace. Her mind, trained by the Primordial Song, was normally a sea of tranquility, capable of absorbing complex knowledge without a single ripple of distraction.
But in recent days, a shadow had loomed over this tranquility. A name echoed in her thoughts, interrupting the perfect cadence of her reading: Indra Shuemesch.
Where was he?
She frowned slightly, a micro-gesture of irritation no one else would have noticed. Indra was, in theory, insignificant. A human from the Mortal Plane, dragged to the Other Side by chance, like so many before him. The only difference — and what a difference — was his talent. Becoming a Graduate in a week? Aurora had never heard of such a thing. Not even among the prodigies of the Nine Great Clans. It was a staggering growth rate, a seed of raw power that had sprung from nothing.
"What a pity." — she whispered to the silence of the room, her voice a melodious and cold sound.
"What a pity it was the Ledgers who found him first."
The Ledgers, with their noisy Magic Warriors and their direct militaristic approach. They wouldn't understand the subtlety of a Cultivator, the latent potential of that newly formed core. They would turn him into a hammer, when he could be a scalpel.
Her mind, sharp as a blade, returned to the central question. Where was Indra Shuemesch? He had survived the Vallencourt Forest, a notable feat in itself. He had demonstrated courage, adaptability, and a raw power that caught everyone's attention. He had everything to gain by preparing for the Paranormal Exam openly, leveraging the Academy's resources.
Why, then, had he disappeared?
Had he given up? No. Aurora dismissed the idea immediately. She had studied people all her life. The personality Indra had shown in the Practical Class — stubborn, resilient, driven by a quiet determination — was not that of a deserter. It was that of someone who bit the bullet and charged ahead against headwinds.
So, what was he doing? Secret training? Under whose tutelage? Sophie Ledger? Possibly. But why the secrecy?
Doubt and curiosity, emotions she rarely allowed to dominate her, began to weave a subtle web in her mind. An almost imperceptible smile, laden with intellectual anticipation, touched her lips.
Letting him disappear, letting him prepare in the shadows… perhaps it wasn't a bad thing. Indra Shuemesch had proven to be a constant source of surprises. He was an unpredictable variable in an equation she believed she had mastered. And Aurora Bianchi, in secret, loved a good surprise. Waiting a little longer, observing the void his absence created, could be an investment. The anticipation of what he would bring next was a rare spice in her meticulously planned life.
She raised the cup of tea, the sweet aroma of strawberry and milk filling her nostrils.
"What are you planning this time, Indra Shuemesch?" — she murmured, her question lost in the perfumed, still air of her room. The answer, she knew, could very well shake the foundations of her own understanding of the power game unfolding around her. And the prospect was, undeniably, fascinating.
---
Friday.
For Ye Chen, the days of the week were irrelevant concepts, arbitrary milestones on a calendar that did not apply to his existence. What mattered were the training cycles, the pulses of growth, and the valleys of stagnation. And at this moment, he inhabited the deepest of those valleys.
Darkness.
It was the first and only sensation when he "opened" his eyes inside his Mental World. It wasn't the darkness of night, which is merely the absence of light. This was a positive, substantive darkness, a primordial vacuum that seemed to absorb not only light but sound and thought itself. It was the void before creation, the silent stage upon which the drama of his ascent would be staged — or would fail.
Beneath his feet, if "feet" was the correct word in a realm of pure consciousness, stretched an ocean of waters so black they seemed made of living ink. They reflected nothing; rather, they seemed to suck in any trace of light or identity that dared approach. This was the raw state of his soul, the Inner Void that every Cultivator of the Ye Clan sought to master.
Ye Chen "sat" an action that was more an intention than a physical movement. His form, on this plane, was a pale, translucent silhouette, a ghost of his own existence. It was time to meditate. It was time to challenge the very foundations of his power.
He began to intone, without sound, the fundamental principles of his lineage's supreme technique: the Stellar Tremor of the Nine Spirits.
It was not a simple mantra. It was an internalized cosmic symphony, a set of universal laws coded into energy patterns. Each "word" of the tremor was an arcane concept — gravity, nuclearity, vacuity, temporality. He did not ask for power; he understood power and, through understanding, commanded it.
As the technique gained momentum in his mind, something began to change.
From within Ye Chen's pale silhouette, a blinding white Qi erupted. It wasn't the soft whiteness of snow or clouds; it was the brutal, absolute whiteness of a star's core, of the forge where elements are born. This incandescent Qi began to course through his Magic Veins, which became visible as rivers of white light cutting through the darkness of his being. They did not glow softly; they burned, radiating an energy so pure and intense it was at once divine and terrible.
The Mental World, once an endless abyss, began to light up. The darkness receded, not as a defeat, but as a tactical withdrawal, revealing the infinite, empty vastness of Ye Chen's inner space. He was not in a room; he was at the heart of a private universe, and he was its only star.
Then, the tremor began.
The very space around him seemed to contract and expand. The black waters beneath him rippled violently, not like water, but like a fabric of reality being shaken. The air — if there was air — vibrated with a frequency so low and deep it threatened to disintegrate the very coherence of his spiritual form. It was the Stellar Tremor in action — not a metaphor, but a physical manifestation of his will trying to reshape the foundations of his core.
The expression on Ye Chen's translucent form became a mask of pure tension. Every spiritual muscle was corded, every fiber of his will focused on a single point: the compression and reformation of his Inner Core. He was on the threshold, the precipice between mid-level Master and high-level Master. This was not a leap of power, but a transformation of state. It was like trying to fuse coal into diamond under the pressure of his own hands.
He could feel — not with nerves, but with the essence of his being — his soul being shattered. It wasn't pain in the conventional sense; it was the agony of disorder, the forced deconstruction of everything he was. And immediately after came the reconstruction, an opposing impulse of order and consolidation, trying to piece the fragments into a new, denser, more perfect form.
Slowly, agonizingly, he felt his Inner Core pulsate. It expanded, swelling with the stellar Qi he forced into it, pressing against the limits of its current capacity. Then, it contracted, trying to compact that energy into a denser point, a new level of existence. It was a titanic battle fought in the absolute silence of his own mind, a struggle between the current form and the potential form.
Spiritual sweat trickled from his brow. The white light emanating from him flickered, sometimes dazzling, other times wavering. He was approaching the limit. The diamond was about to form, the coal was about to be transcended...
And then, he gave way.
It was not a conscious decision. It was a catastrophic failure of control, a collapse of the dam of his will. The monumental pressure he exerted on himself became unsustainable.
Abruptly, peace — or rather, silence — returned.
The tremor ceased. The black waters calmed, becoming a smooth, impenetrable surface once more. The vibration that threatened to undo the fabric of his inner world evaporated.
And the light... the blinding white light that burned like an inner sun began to wane. It did not snap off, but receded, like a cosmic tide ebbing. The Magic Veins, once rivers of white fire, darkened and disappeared from view. The vastness of his Mental World, which had momentarily been bathed in stellar glory, was reclaimed by the darkness, shadow by shadow, until not a single photon of light remained.
Ye Chen remained seated, his form now as dark and indistinct as the void around him. The only proof of the Herculean effort was the ghostly echoes of agony in his soul and the bitter awareness of failure.
He had failed.
The ascent to the high Master level remained a step beyond his reach. The diamond remained coal. The star had refused to be born.
In the absolute silence that followed, deeper and heavier than before, Ye Chen did not move. He simply existed within his failure, absorbing the lesson in humility that only the Inner Void could teach. The path of the Cultivator was an endless road, and today, he had encountered an impassable stretch. All that remained was to sit in the darkness and ponder the next step.
---
Saturday.
While most inhabitants of the Royal Borough prepared for a rare day of rest, somewhere deep, isolated by layers of secrecy and power, a very different meeting was beginning.
The air was cold and still, heavy with the damp weight of ancient stone and the smell of tallow candles burning with a low, smoky flame. The light was an invitation to blindness — a perpetual twilight where shadows were not mere absences of light, but living entities writhing in the corners. The room was circular, its walls hewn from raw, black basalt, windowless, unadorned, save for the decorations dotting its circumference.
Tapestries and paintings, woven and painted with supernatural mastery, hung from the walls. They did not depict scenes of glorious battles or portraits of ancestors. Instead, they displayed distorted, dreamlike landscapes of the Realm of Phenomena. One tapestry showed a forest where trees bled amber sap under a green sky. A painting captured a desert of crystals singing under the light of three dead suns. They were glimpses of Red and Black Zones, places where reality itself unraveled, records of expeditions few dared to make and even fewer returned from. The environment was not decorated to please, but to remind. To remind of the vastness, the danger, and the insignificance of all organizations before the primordial chaos of the Realms.
At the exact center of the room, a massive stone table, carved from a single slab of obsidian, dominated the space. Around it, seated on high thrones of dark wood and iron, were figures. It was impossible to discern their faces; the gloom was as generous with their secrets as it was stingy with light. They were little more than silhouettes — outlines of cloaks, broad shoulders, the occasional curve of a helm or the faint glint of an eye in the darkness. There was no small talk, no greeting. Silence was an unofficial member of the council, more eloquent than any word.
At the head of the table, the figure who emanated unquestionable authority was leaning over the polished obsidian surface. Their fingers, gloved in black leather, slowly traced the outlines of a map drawn on parchment of pale, textured skin. The calligraphy was angular and ancient, denoting regions and routes.
The map displayed an irregularly shaped island, surrounded by whirlpools of ink and sharp reefs drawn like teeth. At the top, in bloody letters, was written: "Doom Island."
One of those present, a slimmer silhouette, spoke, their voice a hiss that seemed to come from the very walls.
"Confirmation has arrived. The Hall of Justice has chosen the Doom Island for the Paranormal Exam's survival test. A Yellow Zone. Predictable in its caution."
Another figure, broader, made a guttural noise.
"Yellow Zone or not, the Doom Island has its secrets. The sulfur swamps, the ruins of the old elven fort... it is a suitable location."
The figure at the head did not respond immediately. They continued to study the map, as if reading not just the geography, but the fate of those who would tread upon it. Then, slowly and deliberately, a smile spread across their hidden face. It was not a smile of joy or satisfaction, but the curved, predatory expression of a shark scenting blood in the water.
They stood up.
The action was fluid, but laden with immediate weight. All the other silhouettes at the table turned their full attention to them, their invisible gazes burning in the darkness. They were the fulcrum around which their world turned.
They turned, their back to the table, and faced the wall behind their throne. There, occupying the entire height of the curved wall, was a world map like no other. It did not represent Earth, but a terrifying, cosmic view of the Other Side.
The "oceans" were four vast seas, divided in a cruciform pattern by a primordial river of cadaverous purple waters, a pulsating scar on the fabric of reality.
In the upper left quadrant, a sea of boiling blood-red seethed, its currents drawn like contracted veins.
In the upper right, a sea of deep, treacherous blue stretched out, its surface dotted with whirlpools that sucked in light.
In the lower left, a sea of absolute black prevailed, an aquatic void promising oblivion.
In the lower right, a sea of ghostly, milky white shone with its own light, eerily serene.
And in the center, where the four seas and the purple river met, was the landmass. But it was no ordinary continent. It was the terrifying image of a colossal demon skeleton, split in half as if cleaved by a divine blow. Only the right side of the skeleton existed, a cosmic rib torn from the chest of a fallen god. The skull, cleanly and vertically sliced, revealed half of a demonic face. Where the other eye should have been, a third, empty, scarred eye stared into the void. Only the right horn, twisted and imposing, remained.
It was what the boldest scholars called Kenorland, but which in ancient tongues was known as The Devil's Throat.
This was no ordinary topographical map. The markings on the skeleton's "bones" indicated living ecosystems. The spine was a chain of black mountains, painted in shades of gray and brown. The ribs cradled fertile valleys, colored green. The skeleton's pelvis was a vast golden plain. And the solitary horn, jutting into the red sea, was shown in tones of icy white and blue, an eternal polar region. It was an inhabited land, a nation built upon the remains of something inconceivably ancient and powerful.
The gaze of the main figure did not fixate on the Doom Island, a mere grain of sand in one of the seas. Instead, their eyes, burning with a cold intensity, pierced the gloom and fixed upon the neck of the colossal skeleton, the exact location of the throat. There, tiny in scale but shining with the insolence of a jewel, was the marking representing the Esoteric Society.
A deathly silence hung over the room. The air seemed to grow even colder.
Then, with a movement that was both ceremonial and profane, the figure raised a hand. A subtle glow emanated from a dimensional ring on their finger. In their palm materialized not a sword or a magical weapon, but a simple, antiquated sacrificial knife. The blade was short, curved, and made of pale, polished bone, its serrated edge stained a dark, waxy brown.
Without a word, without even a sigh, the figure raised the knife and drove it with decisive force into the map.
The impact echoed in the silent room, a dry, final thud. The bone tip pierced the parchment or the magic sustaining the image, planting itself firmly right at the location of the skeleton's throat, over the symbol of the Esoteric Society.
The Esoteric Society's marking did not explode or catch fire. It simply... went out. As if it had been extinguished, obliterated from cartographic existence. The small blot of light representing the heart of their power was replaced by the pale, threatening blade of the knife.
None of the other silhouettes moved. No gasp of surprise was heard. There was no need. The act was a declaration clearer than any fiery speech. The message was unmistakable, engraved in the icy air and the acquiescent darkness.
The Esoteric Society, with its Legions, its Clans, and its arrogance, had its days numbered. A great hurricane, forged in the shadows and fed by an ancient hatred, was forming. And it was not approaching. It had already arrived. The knife was already planted. The sentence, pronounced. All that remained was the moment of execution.
---
Sunday.
The Other Side's silvery sun hung low on the horizon, a pale, weary disk casting its last oblique rays on a scene of pure devastation. Indra was sitting atop a granite monolith that, by some miracle or whim of fate, remained intact amidst the chaos. It was the only vertical thing for many kilometers.
Everything around him was reduced to ruins. What was once a vibrant, dense forest was now an apocalyptic battlefield. Ancient trees lay uprooted, their trunks broken like matchsticks. The soil was churned up, marked by deep craters and furrows, as if giants had waged a divine war on the site. The air still carried the smell of ozone, burnt earth, and dried sweat. It was a silent, yet eloquent, testament to a week of training that bordered on torture.
But Indra seemed oblivious to the destruction. His senses were turned inward. Seated on the stone, his bare torso bathed in the dying light of day, his body was a testament to the brutal transformation he had undergone. His muscles, already impressive, seemed sculpted from living steel, each fiber defined with an anatomical clarity that was almost inhuman. Bruises and fresh scars dotted his skin, but they were insignificant next to the aura of power he now radiated. His energy was no longer that of a raw, uncontrolled novice; it was mature, dense, contained. It was as if he had reached a state of martial enlightenment, a stillness at the center of the hurricane his own existence had become.
In his hands, he held a book. The cover was simple leather, untitled, but worn by countless journeys and readings. It was the last item on the list of "essential readings" Professor Carl had given him with a solemn expression. And Indra knew this book intimately. More than that, it was the key to one of the greatest mysteries now haunting his life.
"The Administrator's Accounts."
Indra ran his fingers over the rough texture of the cover. A man who claimed to have visited all Nine Realms. A man who, in his own words, not only believed in the existence of Realm Rulers, but claimed to have met them. The Administrator was not a figure from a tale; he was a real person, the leader of the SCP Foundation, and meeting him had become a pressing necessity for Indra. Sophie's revelations, the existence of the being he had freed, the Vallencourt curse — all of it pointed to truths that perhaps only the Administrator could confirm.
But that search would have to wait. The immediate agenda, the immediate obstacle in his path, was the Paranormal Exam. And, for the first time since arriving on the Other Side, Indra felt genuinely confident.
His eyes scanned the last page of the book. The handwriting was firm and clear, but the words were heavy as tombstones.
"There are no happy endings in the world controlled by Fate."
Indra stared at the phrase, his mind a silent whirlwind. Throughout the book, the Administrator always referred to "Fate" not as an abstract concept, but as a living force, an inexorable current flowing through all Realms, shaping lives and histories. It was somewhat strange, disturbing even. In a universe filled with beings capable of destroying mountains, defying death, and manipulating reality, the idea that everyone might be puppets of an invisible force was... humbling.
He chose not to delve into that philosophical abyss at the moment. Some questions were too big for a brain still getting used to channeling cosmic energy. With a decisive movement, he closed the book and made it disappear into his Dimensional Ring.
Then, he jumped from the stone.
The drop of several meters was cushioned with the silent grace of a feline. His feet sank slightly into the churned soil without making a single sound.
"So, are you ready to go back, you ill-mannered masterpiece-in-progress?"
The voice came from behind. Aleksei Ivanov was leaning against the granite monolith, his arms crossed, a gleam of perpetual amusement in his eyes. He looked as immaculate and energetic as on the first day, a stark contrast to the destroyed environment.
Indra completely ignored him. Instead of answering, he began to stretch his muscles, executing a series of fluid, precise movements that testified to his new control over his own body. Each stretch was a demonstration of contained power, of superhuman flexibility.
Aleksei raised an eyebrow, his theatrical patience wearing thin.
"Are you really going to keep this up? Me, who wasted a precious week of my glorious life sculpting you into a semi-decent being, don't even deserve a 'thank you'? Not a nod? Nothing?"
Indra continued his silent ritual. He took a black shirt from his dimensional ring and put it on, still not granting Aleksei a single glance.
"This is unbelievable!"
Aleksei continued, putting his hands on his hips in a dramatic gesture.
"I taught you to channel your brute strength, to predict movements, to become a hurricane of ass-kicking... and you repay me with this mute silence?"
It was then that Indra stopped.
He didn't look at Aleksei. He simply assumed a stance. It wasn't a conventional fighting posture. He leaned forward, planted his hands firmly on the ground, and with an explosive impulse from his abdominal and back muscles, lifted his body, standing on his hands. A handstand.
Aleksei stopped talking, his face showing a spark of genuine curiosity.
And then, Indra moved.
His inverted body became the axis of a human whirlwind. He twisted his hips with brutal force, his legs describing a perfect, devastating arc in the air. It wasn't just a kick; it was a replica, a refined mirror of the movement Aleksei had used to take him down days before. It was the same deadly mix of capoeira and Taekwondo, but executed with the raw strength and anatomical precision Aleksei had taught him.
The backward kick was like a scorpion's tail, shooting toward Aleksei's solar plexus with enough speed to slice the air.
WHUMP.
The impact was dry and deep.
Aleksei was not thrown back. He didn't even sway. His posture was that of a mountain, his spiritual roots planted so deeply in reality that Indra's blow was nothing but a strong breeze.
However, the effect of the blow manifested behind Aleksei.
The massive granite monolith he was leaning against didn't crack — it pulverized, disintegrating into a cloud of fine dust and shards. And the destruction didn't stop there. A wave of concussive force, purely physical, radiated from the point of impact, carving a trail of devastation in the already bruised ground. It was as if an invisible giant had dragged a spear across the earth, digging a deep, wide furrow that stretched for dozens of meters, vaporizing debris and leveling everything in its path.
Aleksei looked back at the nothingness where the monolith had been and at the new valley Indra had just dug. An expression of pure, uncontained satisfaction spread across his face. He whistled, impressed, and then turned his gaze to Indra, who had already returned to an upright position.
"Well, well, well." — Aleksei said, his tone now laden with genuine, almost paternal respect.
"You really are a talented son of a bitch, aren't you? Learn fast and pay back with interest. I like that."
Indra finally looked at him. His black eyes, once full of confusion and fear, now shone with a cold, arrogant spark. He observed the destruction he had caused — a power that, a week ago, he couldn't even have imagined — and a smile of hard-earned satisfaction crossed his lips.
He hadn't used a drop of Qi, Amplification, or any other energy technique. It was just brute force, channeled and focused by Aleksei's brutal teachings.
"Now." — Indra said, his voice firm and clear.
"We're even."
Without another word, he turned, his back to Aleksei and to the field of destruction that had been his training ground, and began walking toward the horizon, where the last vestiges of silvery light were being swallowed by the night.
As the darkness enveloped him, his thoughts turned to the future. To the Paranormal Exam. He had done everything in his power. He had endured the pain, absorbed the knowledge, forged his body into a weapon. He was no longer hiding or running. He was preparing to face it head-on.
A genuine, confident, and slightly dangerous smile took over his face. The Exam was not an end; it was just the first obstacle on the path he had chosen the moment he decided not just to survive, but to live on the Other Side. There were secrets to unravel, debts to pay, a Realm Ruler waiting for him, and a dark truth looming over the Ivory Tower.
And Indra Shuemesch, the boy from the Mortal Plane, now a Graduate forged in fire and pain, could hardly wait to face it all.