The underground dojo hummed with restrained violence. The air was thick with the musk of sweat, oiled wood, and the faint, metallic tang of weapons that had seen far too many training bouts. Dozens of Sleepers filled the vast chamber, each moving through katas and weapon forms with varying degrees of precision. The shuffle of feet, the snap of strikes, and the occasional grunt of exertion echoed against walls reinforced with runes and memory-forged stone.
It was more than a training hall — it was a sanctuary, buried deep beneath the Academy's foundations for one reason: safety. The deeper levels were designed to withstand anything a Sleeper or even an Awakened could throw at it. The ceiling stretched high into shadow, swallowing sound, while the floor spread as wide as a soccer field. No matter the chaos within, the walls were made to resist and not break.
At the far end of the dojo lay the circle — an arena carved from polished stone, its surface bore thousands of scratches from past battles, yet not a single dent, as if even the fury of a hundred Sleepers could leave no true mark. This was where evaluation was carried out, and where reputations were made or broken.
For the past two weeks, the instructors had tested the raw material they had to work with. Sleepers had been weighed, measured, divided — Poor, Basic, Advanced, Special. It was the first attempt to carve order from the chaos of hundreds of new recruits. Bari, despite his age and smaller stature, had been placed in Advanced. His body, sharpened by relentless training, surpassed most of his peers — though his youth remained an obstacle he could not overcome, unless it was with age and the saturation of his core.
Now came the second trial. Sparring.
Not controlled drills. Not endurance tests. A pure, unbroken knockout chain, where one Sleeper fought until they fell, and their victor replaced them in turn. No Aspects, no killing, no maiming — but the instructors made it clear that blood would not only be tolerated, but expected.
Bari stood among the sea of uniforms, the green-and-black tide of hopefuls, while the instructors formed a wall before the arena. One man stepped forward — an instructor, early twenties, brown hair combed back, eyes like polished chocolate but sharpened by years of battle. His uniform mirrored the students' only in colour; the rest was built for battle, reinforced for when an instructor needed to step in. He carried authority with the ease of someone who had commanded it before.
His voice was smooth but firm, cutting through the restless murmurs.
"You are here to be assessed on your combat abilities."
He let silence draw taut before continuing.
"You will be ranked according to the same system as yesterday's evaluation. This time, it will not be numbers we measure, but instinct, discipline, and the reality of your skill." His gaze hardened, scanning the restless crowd.
"There will be no killing. No mutilating. But if you break bones or spill blood, do not hesitate. We have healers for a reason. Do not hold back — but do not overreach."
He gestured to the side, where racks of weapons gleamed beneath the dim glow of runic lanterns. Blades, spears, staves, axes, maces — none were Memories, merely steel and wood crafted for efficiency.
"You will choose a weapon. You will enter the circle. If you win, you remain until defeated. If you lose, you step aside. The process will continue until every sleeper has fought."
The crowd of Sleepers broke into motion, the clatter of weapons ringing out as hands sought familiarity or comfort.
Bari's small frame weaved between older students, his eyes scanning with the detached precision only he could summon. Most weapons were unwieldy, better suited to older, larger frames. He settled on a simple short sword, its balance acceptable, its length manageable. Nothing more than iron, but it would suffice.
The instructor's gaze swept the arena once more, lingering — and then locking on Bari.
"Will-Born. Step forward. You'll begin."
No surprise. Of course they would test him first. He carried the weight of a True Name. They wanted to see what that meant.
Bari walked into the circle, blade loose in hand, movements calm. He did not flinch, nor betray any thought. He simply waited, eyes flicking across the gathered students, searching for who would rise.
It didn't take long.
From the opposite end of the ring stepped a tall figure — broad-shouldered, confident, cutting through the crowd with an aura that demanded space. His face was sharp, carved in cold lines, his dark eyes glinting with something fierce. He moved like someone who had trained long before the Academy, and his bearing screamed legacy.
The whispers began at once.
"That's Cormac…"
"Cormac of Valor."
He stopped at the edge of the circle, gaze locking with Bari's. His voice was deep, calm, but carried the weight of someone used to command.
"I am Cormac of Valor. It is a pleasure to meet you, Will-Born of the Immortal Flame Clan."
His words were polite, even formal — but Bari's eyes stripped the mask away. Beneath the calm tone, there was eagerness. Anticipation. The hunger of someone who wanted to test themselves against him.
Bari raised his sword slightly, his voice level.
"I suppose."
The circle hummed around them, and the crowd pressed closer, anticipating the fight between the two legacies.