Chapter 98
ACADEMY TRIALS (4)
As the young man kept running, his legs burned with exhaustion, and each breath he took felt like it was being ripped from his chest. His body was slick with sweat, every inch of his clothing soaked and clinging tightly to his skin. His chest throbbed, his heartbeat thundered in his ears and his vision began to blur from the overwhelming panic.
He had no direction—only the desperate, primal urge to survive. His feet crashed through fallen leaves and snapped twigs, his shoes catching on roots and uneven dirt as he weaved and stumbled through the dark woods. Every now and then, he'd spin around wildly, changing direction at random, as if trying to throw off something hunting him. The fear had carved itself into his bones.
He tried—gods, he tried—to calm down. To force his thoughts into some kind of order. His lips trembled as he whispered to himself: "Think… just think…"
This was a trial. A trial. That meant there had to be a solution. Some method. A way out. Right?
It had to be that way. That's how all the previous academy trials worked. The format changed each year to prevent people from preparing too specifically, sure—but they always had a logical structure. An end goal. A way to pass.
But this was a trial where they let loose actual deadline creatures—things most people never encountered in their lives. And now they were hunting applicants like him as if this were some sick game.
This wasn't just difficult. This wasn't even hellish. It felt downright cruel.
He couldn't stop the horrible images flashing in his mind—he had seen people torn apart, their screams cut short in wet gurgles, their bodies mangled and lifeless within seconds. And the creatures… those nightmare things that didn't belong in this world. Just remembering them made his stomach turn and his legs go weak.
He gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered under his breath, sweat flying off his brow. "It doesn't make any fucking sense."
They couldn't actually expect them to fight off deadline creatures. Right? That wasn't a trial—that was slaughter. A culling. Something designed not to test strength, but to break the soul.
And if this was really the standard now, where were the protests? Where were the rumors? Surely people would have spoken out if every year hundreds of applicants were just murdered. No… No. It didn't add up. This had to be different.
But the question that gnawed at him, even more than them, was this: How long?
Was this something they were expected to endure for a few hours? A full day? Days? Weeks?
How long would they be forced to run like animals before it ended?
And it was this—not the fear, not even the creatures—that was breaking him down. The uncertainty. The complete lack of control.
The pressure of not knowing how long he had to hold on… it was tearing at his sanity.
"But why?" he asked aloud, voice ragged.
Maybe this year was special. Maybe something had changed in the academy's leadership. Maybe this was some hidden political decision. Or maybe—
He paused.
No.
No, wait.
His eyes widened as he slowly came to a stop, heart hammering with a different kind of urgency. He looked around, eyes darting through the dense trees and shadows, trying to piece things together.
There had been no warning.
No instructions.
Not even a clear objective.
Just thrown into the woods… and left to fend for themselves against creatures that shouldn't even here.
And then it clicked.
His breathing hitched. Could it be…?
He turned slowly, a new, terrible hope forming in his chest. He clenched his fists and steeled his nerves.
Was it possible?
Had he figured it out?
It still didn't change his current situation—not really—but it meant he wasn't completely blind anymore.
"I need to go back," he whispered.
If he was right—then running deeper into the forest was the wrong move. He needed to get back to the beginning. Back to where they started.
But just as he turned—
He came face to face with death.
The maws of a deadline creature loomed before him, mouth stretched unnaturally wide.
How?!
How did it get that close without him hearing it?! How did it sneak up again?!
A rasping breath.
Wet.
Hungry.
He froze.
Its shadow fell over him before the details did—those same too-long limbs, the twisted neck, the maw without a face, and those blinking, bloodshot eyes that lined its sinewy throat. Somehow, impossibly, it had snuck up on him, like it did before.
It made no noise. No warning.
"How…?" he managed to say, barely a whisper.
He didn't even get the chance to scream.
Its mouth opened, wide and wet and filled with human teeth, and then it clamped down. The crunch was quick. The sound was sickening. His head separated cleanly from his shoulders,the stump spraying a fine red mist into the air. And the world went dark.
Silence.
And then…
His eyes snapped open.
He was lying flat on his back, breathing fast, chest heaving like he had just surfaced from drowning. Grass tickled his skin. The world looked… normal again. Too normal. The sky was too clear. The trees weren't dense. The birds chirped.
And beneath him—glowing faintly—was a massive path formation, like a circular web of soft light drawn into the soil. Intricate lines traced symbols in a soft,flickering blue-white light that pulsed gently under his body.
He sat up quickly, heart pounding, still in shock. His mind struggled to make sense of what had happened.
He sat up in shock.
A voice called out nearby, almost bored:
"This one is eliminated."
Another followed, monotone and dry:
"Come this way."
His gaze snapped toward the sound. Two older men stood. One of them waved him forward.
He blinked rapidly, trying to process what had happened.
At some point, when they had split from the people without aviens, they had unknowingly stepped onto a massive path formation.
That's when it happened.
The illusion began.
They were not even in the forest!
The forest actually existed—it was real, just ahead of where they'd been standing. But the moment their feet had touched the formation, everything that came after… the terror, the running, the creatures—it had all been fake. Fabricated.
"Hahaha, don't worry," one of the instructors chuckled coldly, arms crossed. "The forest is… harmless. We don't keep deadline creatures in there."
He was right.
He was right!
It had been an illusion.
They were never in danger. Not really.
Somewhere along the line—pthey had unknowingly stepped on this formation. And from that point on, the forest, the creatures, the carnage—it was all in their minds.
The test had never been physical survival.
It had been psychological endurance.
"Ha…ha…" he gave a short, breathless laugh, rising shakily to his feet.
But before he could steady himself fully, two figures grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him away.
"Wait—hold on!" he shouted. "I figured it out! I knew it was an illusion! I just got unlucky, that's all! Please—this isn't fair!"
He struggled in their grip, but they didn't stop.
"You didn't tell us anything!" he cried. "We didn't know how long the trial would be! How were we supposed to plan anything?! You gave us nothing—no guidance, no rules!"
His voice cracked.
"Please…"
One of the instructors shrugged.
"Life ain't fair, kid."
His shouts were ignored. No one looked back.
The instructor dragging him didn't flinch, didn't say a word, didn't even acknowledge him. The young man's pleas—desperate and cracking—were swept away by the wind, drowned out by the rising noise of dozens of other applicants being pulled from the field.
One by one, they emerged from the illusion.
Some came out swinging, eyes wild, faces twisted in disbelief and anger.
Others just collapsed to their knees, unable to process what they'd just endured.
A few stared blankly ahead, lips trembling, breathing unsteady—still caught somewhere between the illusion and reality.
Frustration and emptiness.
It painted the air like smoke after a battle.
They had screamed. They had cried. Some had even prayed.
But none of it mattered.
By the end of the day, as the last shift of applicants was pulled from the path formation, the tally had been finalized.
846 applicants without aviens had passed through their own version of the trial.
And 194 applicants with aviens had survived theirs.
The rest were disqualified.
Scenes like this would play out again and again with each trial group—each new wave of hopefuls stepping unknowingly into the same nightmare.
This pattern would repeat, mercilessly, until the end of the week.
Only those who endured would be given rest—two full days of recovery, to prepare themselves for what came next:
The second, and final, trial.