Monday—the day we'd all been dreading… or maybe eagerly anticipating—was finally here.
At 6:26 AM, I woke to find Douglas already up and halfway dressed. Judging by the energy in his movements, he was too excited to sleep in. I got up too, hit the showers, came out, and nudged Miles awake. He groaned, but eventually rolled out of bed to start getting ready.
By 7:00 AM, the three of us were dressed and out the door, swept along in a sea of nervous, uniformed first years all headed toward the auditorium.
We arrived at 7:20, grabbed seats, and waited. Right on the dot at 7:30, the lights dimmed, and a soft spotlight illuminated the stage. A hush fell over the crowd.
Then he walked in.
Nile Vale, Headmaster of the Arcadia Institute. His presence was immediate—tall, regal, and radiating the kind of quiet authority that made you sit straighter without thinking. He stepped up to the podium, adjusted the mic, and began.
"Welcome, young protectors, to the Arcadia Institute.
You have passed the screening process—but do not mistake that for acceptance.
Survival here is earned, not granted.
This school is a forge. You are the raw ore. From this moment on, your weaknesses will be tested, your strengths sharpened.
We will provide knowledge. We will provide the means. But it is you who must take the steps toward becoming strong.
We train Awakeners here—not students. This is not a place of comfort. It is a crucible.
Many of you will stumble. Some may even break. But those who endure… will rise.
I wish you all the strength to persevere."**
The hall was silent when he stepped back. Not out of fear—but focus.
Then the instructors entered and began directing us toward the training fields. The sheer size of it was staggering—it could fit 150 students and 30 instructors without feeling crowded.
We were split into three groups. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—I got separated from Douglas and Miles. Not that it mattered. The tests were individual.
I sighed. Reality was already tapping me on the shoulder.
I didn't have the stats for this.
We were handed training uniforms—plain shirts and shorts with green stripes marking us as first years—along with strange-looking wrist and ankle bands. Once changed, we were led to a 16-lane, 500-meter circular track.
The instructors lined us up in staggered rows—eight in front, eight behind, the last row holding two to round out the group.
Then came the countdown.
Three… two… one… GO!
A loud bang rang out, and instantly the bands on my wrists and ankles activated, their weight increasing dramatically.
Others sprinted ahead with ease. I settled into a steady jog. I wasn't here to win—I was here to survive.
Minutes dragged on. My legs turned to rubber, lungs burning, body begging me to stop.
This is what transmigration got me? And I'm struggling just to survive an hour of running? Pathetic.
Still—I moved. One foot after the other.
Until finally…
"Stop!"
I collapsed onto the track the moment the word rang out. I didn't care who saw. I lay there, gasping, drenched in sweat.
When I finally looked up, maybe ten others were still standing. Most, like me, were sprawled across the ground.
Maybe I'm not as bad as I thought.
The instructors regrouped us and directed us to check our terminal watches.
Average speed: 22 km/h.
Top candidate: 57 km/h.
Overall average: 32 km/h.
Okay—maybe I was bad.
But the instructors were encouraging, reminding us this was just the first day. Improvement was the goal, and for a first-year average, the numbers were "impressive."
Next came mana circulation practice. Instructors demonstrated the process by channeling their own mana into our bodies. The sensation was strange—like a warm current threading beneath my skin.
After about ten minutes, we were taught our first spell—Refresh.
It was a universal spell, accessible to anyone with mana, regardless of affinity. The incantation was:
"O gentle moon, watcher of our weary world,
Ease the burdens that cling to flesh and bone.
Let strength return, and weariness fall,
That we may rise once more and carry on."
As I repeated it, I felt the flow of mana for the first time, guiding it through my body. My muscles eased, my fatigue lightened. I kept casting, again and again, until something clicked—until I could cast without chanting at all.
Apparently, it takes most people three days to reach chantless casting.
But thanks to Immersion, I managed it in under an hour.
I really hit the jackpot with this skill.