[Inside The Faculty Building]
A building nestled deep within the academy grounds, its existence a secret to all but a select few. To most eyes, it simply didn't exist.
The verdant campus had swallowed it whole, with vines and trees weaving into its walls as if nature itself had conspired to erase it. It was a place deliberately built to remain unseen, not through magic, but through a masterful stroke of architectural genius.
One could walk past it a hundred times and never realize it was there.
Inside, at the center of a long table, a dozen crystal orbs rested on clawed iron stands. Each one shimmered with a faint light, projecting live images of every first-year group inside the dungeon.
The room was silent, save for the low hum of mana within the spheres, a constant, almost imperceptible thrum. The air was thick with anticipation.
One orb, in particular, showed chaos. A group of students was cornered by a beast clearly beyond their caliber. Their faces, projected in stark detail, were etched with fear, their carefully constructed cohesion crumbling as they scattered in blind panic.
Instructor Garrick Blackthorne, a man with a calm demeanor and a thoughtful expression, leaned forward. "What do you make of this, Instructor Brandt?"
Brandt's sharp gaze didn't leave the orbs.
His face, usually impassive, was a storm of conflicting emotions. "They're panicking. Scattering. Running in uncoordinated ways. The moment the situation slipped beyond their expectations, their so-called strategies collapsed into dust."
Garrick nodded faintly. "Yes… I see that as well. But tell me—what exactly is your goal in all this? This exam, this… unexpected turn."
Brandt's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile, "I wanted to see how this generation handles the unpredictable. Whether they will stand and face it… or break and flee. This exam was never just about points. It was a test of character. It was about teamwork, not just within a single squad, but between groups. It was about whether they could set aside rivalry, combine their strength, and rise against something greater than themselves."
"Hm." Garrick's brows furrowed, his voice steady but edged with a quiet disappointment. "And yet… not once have I seen them try. Not a single group has thought beyond themselves. Not a single one has extended a hand to another."
Brandt exhaled slowly, "Yes. That's what disappoints me the most. They've been coddled, praised for the smallest victories, and now… they are faced with a true challenge, and they crumble. They are like pampered pets, not budding heroes."
Brandt's gaze shifted to another orb, a different group, a different scene of panic. "In my vision, two groups of five would face a beast—one so far beyond them that no first-year could hope to win alone. Even a second or third-year would find it difficult. At first, the students would panic, scattered and broken. But once they grasp the situation, once they accept the fear and stop clinging to themselves… they unite. They fight as one. And through that, they succeed. That is the lesson I wanted to teach."
Garrick tilted his head, his brow still furrowed with concern. "Hn. But didn't you choose something too devastating? You risk breaking their will before they even attempt to fight. Perhaps a less gruesome beast would have been more effective. Something they could conquer, even if just barely."
Brandt shook his head firmly. "No. They must learn fear first. That is the foundation. To be brave does not mean to be fearless. It means to know fear—to feel your legs tremble, your arms shake, and still take a step forward. To face what logic tells you is unwinnable, and fight regardless of the odds."
Garrick gave him a side glance, a dry chuckle slipping out. "Quite the philosopher, aren't you, Brandt? I'm surprised you haven't written a book."
"Yes," Brandt admitted, his voice a low, unwavering hum. "But I believe this is the only way. And remember—the beasts they face aren't true. They hold only a fraction of the original's strength. They may look the same, their aura may crush the heart, but in truth, they are within reach. If the students fight with all they have, with true coordination, they can prevail. That is what it means to be a hero—someone who thinks, adapts, and leads others through despair."
Garrick exhaled through his nose, arms folded. "And yet, I see none of what you claim, Brandt. All I see are children—running, crying, screaming. Panic has stripped them bare. Far from the ideal heroes you hope for." He leaned closer to one of the orbs, his gaze narrowing.
"Well… perhaps not all. There are exceptions. Look here—Group Twenty-Three. Catherine Winterbourne, Phoenix Nest class. Hm. She leads with confidence. Keeps her teammates steady while facing the Gaint Black Lily Spider. That is closer to the vision you paint, don't you think? A hero in the making."
Brandt allowed himself the faintest nod. "Yes. She shows promise."
But Garrick's expression hardened as he shifted his hand, pointing to another orb. "Now… compare that to Group Nine." His finger tapped the image, isolating a single student sprinting away from the chaos. "Especially him. He abandons his team while they face the troll. Runs for his life without a second glance."
His lips curved into something between disapproval and amusement. "On one hand, it's survival instinct. Practical, even clever—when faced with overwhelming odds. But on the other hand? If we speak of comradeship, of trust in battle… then he is the worst among them. A deserter. Two groups, two opposite mentalities—don't you think?"
Brandt's eyes narrowed as his gaze settled on the crystal orb showing Evan Ravenshade's fleeing figure.
A look of profound disappointment shadowed his face, a deep crease forming between his brows. He had watched Evan's every move, every cynical smirk, and had hoped for something more. Something different.
Garrick broke the silence, his voice gentle. "So, what are you going to do, Brandt? Keep watching these poor first-years struggle until they're crushed under their own pitiful dissatisfaction? Or step in and pull them out? Surely you won't let them be defeated."
Brandt's voice was steady, almost cold, a chilling contrast to the glowing orbs. "No. Let them be. We've spoiled this generation enough, and look where it's led us—disappointment upon disappointment. Let them face this as punishment. One true defeat, one taste of despair, can teach a lesson that a hundred victories and hollow praises never will."
Garrick frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. "But don't you think it's cruel? Some of them might carry scars—or worse, trauma."
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Brandt's lips. "And if that alone is enough to shatter them, then they were never fit for this world to begin with. Forget the academy—life itself will devour them. Nobles, commoners, it matters not. The ones who endure, even trembling, even hopeless, are the ones fit to lead… and to rule. The rest? They'll fade away, as they should." He paused, then added quietly, a finality in his tone, "So let them be. Let them bleed, let them break a little. When I've seen enough, I'll teleport them out."
"You'll be hated for this," Garrick muttered.
Brandt's lips curved faintly, though his eyes never left the orbs, his gaze fixed on the grim tableau playing out before him. "If that's what it takes."
Silence fell again, broken only by the shifting glow of the crystal spheres.
Brandt's gaze returned to Group Nine. The troll towered over the battered students, the elven princess sprawled on the ground, shielded by her desperate teammates. The heroic, albeit suicidal, last stand of the main cast.
And then—his eyes followed the lone figure of Evan Ravenshade, sprinting into the darkness, never once looking back.
Not even flinching as he abandoned his team to their fate.
"What a truly disappointment…" Brandt whispered, almost to himself, the words a final, damning judgment. It was a disappointment not just in Evan, but in the entire generation. A generation that had been promised so much, and had delivered so little.
----
--
[Back in the dungeon—]
A thunderous THUMP echoed as Wilson was sent flying, his shield buckling under the troll's massive strike.
The sound of metal groaning under impossible force was quickly followed by the sickening thud of his body crashing into the stone floor.
He lay there, a crumpled heap of armor, coughing up blood.
"GRAAAAAAAAAA!"
The troll roared again, the sound shaking the very foundations of the cavern. It was a mindless beast—pure destruction given flesh, a primeval force with no thought beyond annihilation.
"Get the princess out of the way! Now!" Aldric barked, his voice filled with a desperate urgency that cut through the fear.
Zephyr, the elf boy, didn't hesitate. He rushed to Seraphina's side, pulling her up by the arm, and hurriedly guided her back, away from the abomination's looming shadow. Her face was pale, her movements clumsy with terror.
"What are we going to do, Aldric?!" Elara's voice cracked, panic bleeding through.
Aldric's eyes darted around—the tunnel walls offered no escape, the troll's hulking frame already blocking the only path out.
His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he weighed their hopeless odds.
"...We have no choice," he said grimly, raising his axe. "There's nowhere to run. Everyone—follow my lead. We fight."
They hesitated—every single one of them. Fear was thick in the air, a physical weight that pressed down on their shoulders, heavier than the troll's monstrous presence.
But there was no other choice. Even a cornered rat bares its fangs when pushed too far.
So, despite the hopelessness carved into their faces, they moved.
Zephyr and Elara steadied themselves at the rear, bows snapping taut as they loosed a flurry of arrows, a desperate hail meant to slow the beast, a futile hope that a thousand tiny pricks could bring down a mountain.
At the front, Aldric gritted his teeth, his heavy axe gleaming with a pale shimmer of mana as he charged.
He didn't look back, didn't wait—he had to be the one to lead, to be the shield that the others could stand behind.
Arthur fell in beside him, his mace clenched tightly, his steps faltering only once before he forced himself forward, a grim resolve replacing his fear.
"Miss Lara… and you—" Lucas turned, his eyes narrowing on the girl beside her. "I don't know your name, but you're also a support mage, right?"
"Y-Yes," she stammered, clutching her staff as if it were a lifeline. "I'm Jasmine. A support mage."
"Good. Then both of you—give me your best buffing spell. I'll charge at that thing."
Lara snapped her head toward him, her eyes widening in disbelief. "Are you stupid?! Aldric and Arthur are barely holding it back, and Wilson was already sent flying! We were healing him just now. What makes you think you have a chance?"
Lucas met her words head-on, his voice firm, unwavering.
He was no longer the boy who spouted nonsense, but a man making a desperate gamble. "Just trust me. This is our last shot. If it fails… then it fails. But I'll take that chance."
"Tch—so annoying." Lara clicked her tongue, glaring at him, but her gaze faltered when she caught the certainty burning in his eyes. The kind of eyes that said just trust me without a shred of doubt.
She sighed heavily, her defiance crumbling. "Fine. But don't expect me to heal you. And Jasmine—if he gets himself killed, we're not looking back."
"That's fine," Lucas said, turning his back to them, his shoulders broad and resolute. "I'll gamble everything on this."
Both girls exchanged a quick glance before raising their hands. A pale light shimmered from Lara's palm, steady and controlled, while Jasmine's glow flickered with nervous energy, a testament to her fear.
Together, their spells coursed into Lucas, his body faintly glowing with layered enchantments, a fragile aura of borrowed power.
"It's nothing much," Lara muttered, lowering her hand, the magical light fading from her fingertips. "Seven to ten minutes at most. Then it's over."
Lucas smirked, flexing his fingers as strength surged through him, a temporary high that masked his fear. "That's all I need."
And without another word, he bolted forward, charging straight at the troll where Arthur and Aldric struggled to hold the beast at bay, a small, courageous dot against an impossible foe.
As Lucas sprinted past Arthur and Aldric, he didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat.
His steps were sharp, decisive—completely unlike the others who faltered before the troll's overwhelming presence.
"What the—?!" Arthur muttered, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief. "Where is he going?"
"Graaaaaa!" The troll roared, its feral green eyes spotting the incoming insect daring to challenge it. With a thunderous swing, its massive fist came crashing down.
BOOM!
The ground split as stone shattered beneath the blow, a crater forming where Lucas had just been.
Dust and debris flew into the air—but Lucas had already slipped past, his body ducking low in a clean, practiced dodge.
In a flash, his blade bit deep, slashing across the thick tendons behind the troll's knee.
"Grrrraaaghhh!!"
The beast staggered, bellowing in pain, its massive body lurching as it turned—its fury now locked entirely on Lucas.
Lucas, still glowing faintly from the buff spells, felt something strange deep within himself. His body was battered, his breaths ragged—yet his thoughts were clearer than ever.
Why… why do I feel so hollow? So uncertain?
When he first saw the troll, he had known instantly: this wasn't something he could defeat.
Not alone, not even with the group combined. Any rational mind would have run. And yet… he didn't feel like fleeing.
He didn't even feel like fighting for victory.
He simply moved, a puppet on a string, his body acting on an instinct he didn't understand. He felt like a boy lost in a dream, his actions dictated by a force he couldn't see.
The troll's massive arm swept down, a wild, crushing blow.
Lucas slipped past it like a ghost, darting closer, his blade scratching flesh.
Another roar. Another strike. Mud and stone exploded around him as the beast's uncalibrated attacks tore into the dungeon floor.
I know I can't win. So why do I keep charging?
Then the troll's massive bulk slammed forward, catching Lucas mid-dodge.
BOOM!
The impact cracked bone, sending him flying across the ground. His ribs screamed, a sharp, white-hot pain.
His vision blurred, the world a dizzying swirl of color and light. But before the dust even settled, Lucas pushed himself up—staggering, bloodied—then ran again, straight toward the beast.
He was a madman, a boy possessed.
"What the hell is he even doing? Has he gone insane?!" Aldric shouted, panic breaking into his voice as he watched Lucas's suicidal charge. "If we don't do something, he's going to die! Elara, elf boy—shoot, distract it!"
"I have a name, human!"
Aldric ignored him, turning to the others. "Your Highness Sarophina, if you're well enough, help us! And Wilson Grayhaven—ready your shield!"
His voice carried authority, a desperate command forged in the heart of chaos.
The only thought driving him: Don't let that idiot teammate of ours die here.