Ascension Gates: Ris Chapter 141 - 140: Seven Days to the Tournament

Chapter 141: Chapter 140: Seven Days to the Tournant

The first bell rang long before the sun had even considered rising.

It was not a gentle sound, nor one that could be ignored or mistaken for anything else. It ca from the central tower—an ancient construct of bronze and stone whose purpose had not changed in centuries—and when it was struck, its voice carried across the entire academy like a command etched into the air itself.

A deep, resonant note rolled outward, reverberating through dormitory halls, echoing across empty courtyards, slipping between the narrow corridors of training complexes, and brushing against the outer walls where early winds still clung to the fading night. It was a sound that seed to vibrate not only through stone and air, but through the bones of those who heard it.

For a brief mont, silence followed.

Then ca the inevitable reaction.

Groans.

Muted curses.

The rustling of blankets and the heavy shifting of bodies reluctant to abandon the last remnants of sleep.

In one dormitory wing, a first-year student dragged a pillow over his head with exaggerated despair. "No," he muttered into the fabric, his voice muffled. "It’s too early. It’s illegal for bells to ring at this hour. I refuse."

Across the hall, soone kicked the wall in response. "Get up, idiot," ca a tired but sharper voice. "You think the instructors care how you feel today?"

"They should," the first-year replied weakly. "I’m deeply offended."

"You’ll be more offended when you’re dragged out of bed and made to run until you collapse."

Another bell rang.

This one louder.

Closer.

More final.

The conversation died instantly.

Doors began to open.

Footsteps followed.

Because today was not a normal day.

And no one—no matter how exhausted, irritated, or unwilling—was foolish enough to test the academy’s tolerance when the National Championship selection phase had officially begun.

By the ti the third bell sounded, the dormitory wings were alive with movent.

Students dressed in haste, so fumbling with uniforms, others already fully prepared, their expressions sharpened by anticipation and anxiety. Conversations were brief, clipped, and often left unfinished as individuals rushed toward the central arena.

The usual morning sluggishness had no place here.

Because failure today would not be forgotten tomorrow.

Or the next week.

Or even the next month.

It would linger.

For an entire year.

And in an environnt where reputation often carried as much weight as power, that was a consequence few were willing to risk.

By the ti the first traces of dawn began to lighten the horizon, the central arena was already filled.

Rows upon rows of students stood in formation across the wide stone expanse, their positions loosely organized by rank, experience, and prior performance. The mist of early morning still clung to the edges of the arena, drifting lazily over the lower seating tiers and softening the harsh lines of the surrounding structure.

The air was cold.

Sharp.

Carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone and iron.

No one spoke.

Not loudly, at least.

Whispers existed, of course—quiet exchanges between friends, murmured speculations about what the next seven days would demand—but even those were restrained, as though the atmosphere itself discouraged unnecessary noise.

Instructors moved along the outer edges of the formation, their presence both watchful and predatory. They did not bark orders yet. They did not correct posture or enforce silence.

They simply observed.

And that was enough.

At the highest platform overlooking the arena stood the Headmaster.

He had arrived without announcent.

No one had seen him approach.

One mont, the platform had been empty.

The next—

He was there.

Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight, his presence unmistakable.

His gaze moved slowly across the assembled students, not hurried, not searching, but assessing. It was the kind of look that did not simply see—it asured, evaluated, and judged without the need for words.

The arena grew quieter.

Even the whispers faded.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the entire space, not raised, yet heard by all.

"Seven days."

That was all.

No explanation.

No elaboration.

No attempt to inspire or encourage.

Just a number.

A limit.

A countdown.

He paused for a brief mont, allowing the weight of those two words to settle into the minds of every student present.

Then he added, almost as an afterthought—

"If you collapse..."

Another pause.

"...crawl."

There was no cruelty in his tone.

No visible emotion at all.

Which sohow made it worse.

Then, without waiting for a response, without offering further instruction, he turned and walked away, disappearing from the platform as quietly as he had appeared.

For a mont—

No one moved.

The students stood frozen, their minds struggling to process the simplicity—and brutality—of what they had just been given.

Seven days.

No guidance.

No safety.

No margin for weakness.

Then a voice shattered the stillness.

"Move!"

Instructor Rowan’s command cracked across the arena like a whip, snapping everyone out of their montary paralysis.

And just like that—

Order dissolved into motion.

The first phase of training began.

It did not ease into difficulty.

It did not build gradually.

It simply... started.

Students were divided into groups with ruthless efficiency, instructors assigning tasks based on rank, specialization, and perceived potential. There was no discussion, no negotiation, and certainly no room for complaint.

Within minutes, the arena transford into a field of controlled chaos.

Sprint drills began first.

Not ordinary running, but weighted sprints across reinforced training grounds where the ground itself resisted movent through embedded energy arrays. Each step required more effort than it should have, turning even short distances into exhausting trials of endurance.

"Faster!" one instructor shouted as a group of mid-ranked students struggled through their second lap. "If you can still breathe comfortably, you’re not trying hard enough!"

Nearby, another group engaged in beast synchronization runs, where tars were required to move in perfect coordination with their contracted beasts. Misalignnt in timing resulted in imdiate penalties—either additional laps or direct intervention from instructors who seed to take a certain satisfaction in correcting mistakes physically.

Further along, reaction sparring unfolded.

Pairs of students faced off under strict conditions, their movents monitored and interrupted at random intervals by instructors who would suddenly alter the paraters of the exercise.

"Switch to defensive stance!"

"Now attack without your primary beast!"

"Recover energy while moving—don’t stop!"

Mistakes were punished instantly.

Hesitation was exposed rcilessly.

And exhaustion ca quickly.

Within the first hour, the strain began to show.

One student stumbled mid-sprint, collapsing to his knees as his breath ca in ragged gasps. He tried to rise, failed, and remained there for several seconds before an instructor appeared beside him.

"Up," the instructor said flatly.

"I... can’t," the student managed, his voice strained.

The instructor crouched slightly, his gaze unyielding. "Then crawl."

The student hesitated.

Then, with visible effort, he placed his hands against the ground and began to move forward, inch by inch, his progress slow but undeniable.

Around him, others watched.

And understood.

This was not training designed to improve.

It was training designed to reveal.

Who would stop.

Who would continue.

And who would push beyond what they believed was possible.

Not everyone reacted well.

Behind one of the outer walls, a noble-born student leaned heavily against the stone, his face pale as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"This is excessive," he muttered, his voice edged with frustration. "There are limits to what is reasonable. We are not beasts to be driven into the ground."

Another student beside him let out a short, humorless laugh. "Try telling that to the instructors."

"I will," the noble said sharply. "There should be structure. Balance. Not this... chaos."

As if summoned by the complaint, an instructor appeared at the corner, his presence silent until the mont he spoke.

"If you have energy to complain," he said, his tone calm but unmistakably firm, "you have energy to train."

The noble straightened slightly, his expression tightening. "I am simply pointing out that—"

"Run," the instructor interrupted.

"...What?"

"Run," he repeated, pointing toward the field. "Or I will assign you double."

The noble hesitated.

Then, with visible reluctance, pushed himself away from the wall and rejoined the training.

Complaints ended there.

For most students, the day would continue in that relentless cycle—effort, exhaustion, recovery, and repetition.

But Aether was not among them.

From the mont the training began, it was clear that placing him within standard drills would serve little purpose.

He had already surpassed the baseline those exercises were designed to improve.

And the instructors knew it.

After observing him briefly, Rowan approached, his expression thoughtful rather than critical.

"You could participate," Rowan said, glancing toward the ongoing drills. "But it would be a waste of your ti."

Aether said nothing.

Rowan crossed his arms. "You already understand battlefield movent better than most of them. Your beasts respond faster. Your decisions are... irritatingly efficient."

"That is not a flaw," Aether replied.

"No," Rowan agreed. "It’s a problem for your opponents."

He paused briefly, then added, "So I’ll give you a different instruction."

Aether looked at him.

"Do not waste ti."

It was not a suggestion.

It was permission.

Aether nodded once.

Then turned.

And walked away from the arena.

His destination was not the training grounds.

Not the sparring fields.

Not even the beast enclosures.

He went to the library.

The academy’s ancient library stood apart from the rest of the campus, both physically and symbolically. It was older than most of the surrounding structures, its foundations laid long before the current generation of instructors—or even the previous ones—had taken their first steps.

The mont Aether stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.

The air was cooler.

Quieter.

Heavier with the presence of knowledge accumulated over ti.

Tall shelves stretched upward toward the high ceiling, filled with texts of varying age and condition. So were pristine, their bindings untouched by ti, while others showed clear signs of wear, their pages yellowed and edges softened by countless readings.

Soft light from spirit lamps illuminated the space, casting a gentle glow that made shadows seem less intrusive.

A few students were already present, seated at tables or moving between shelves, their focus entirely on their own studies.

Aether ignored them.

He moved directly toward the deeper sections of the library.

His objective was clear.

He did not need basic techniques.

He did not need foundational theory.

He needed sothing else.

Sothing rare.

Combination attacks.

Not simple coordination.

Not two beasts acting simultaneously.

But true fusion.

The kind of interaction where abilities did not rely overlap—but amplified one another.

He searched for hours.

Most texts he encountered offered nothing useful—either too basic, too theoretical, or too constrained by conventional understanding.

Until—

He found it.

The book was not where he expected.

It sat among a collection of strategy fiction, its spine worn but intact, its title slightly faded.

"Chronicles of the Nine Beast Kings."

Aether picked it up, flipping through the pages.

At first glance, it was exactly what it appeared to be.

Stories.

Legends.

Exaggerated accounts of battles that likely never occurred.

But as he read deeper—

He noticed sothing.

Patterns.

Descriptions of interactions that, while dramatized, hinted at underlying principles.

Fire compressed through controlled wind channels.

Healing energy redirected into offensive bursts.

Shadow layered to distort perception during high-speed attacks.

Most readers would dismiss it as imagination.

Aether did not.

Because even fiction—

Could carry fragnts of truth.

One concept, in particular, drew his attention.

Soul-Fla Resonance.

The idea was simple.

A support beast would stabilize the energy output of a fire-based beast, allowing it to compress its flas beyond normal limits without imdiate backlash.

The result—

An attack far more powerful than standard output.

The risk—

Loss of control.

Potential self-damage.

Unstable execution.

Aether closed the book slowly.

"Interesting," he murmured.

By afternoon, he stood in a secluded training field behind the western cliffs, the book’s concept already forming into a plan.

The Fla Sovereign Pup stood before him, alert and ready.

The Spirit Fairy hovered nearby, its gentle glow slightly uncertain.

The Fallen Succubus lounged atop a broken pillar, her expression one of open amusent.

"This should be entertaining," she said.

Aether ignored her.

"Spirit stabilization," he said calmly.

The Fairy responded imdiately, releasing a soft, golden light that settled around the Pup.

"Condense."

The Pup inhaled.

Its flas drew inward, compressing beyond their usual threshold.

For one second—

The energy spiked.

Then—

It exploded.

The backlash sent Aether sliding across the ground, dirt scattering beneath him as he absorbed the impact. The Pup coughed out smoke, its expression briefly confused, while the Fairy rushed to heal both of them in a panic.

The Succubus laughed.

"Oh, that was terrible," she said between breaths. "Truly. You’ve outdone yourself."

Aether stood.

Uninjured.

Unbothered.

"Again."

And again.

And again.

Each attempt improved slightly.

Timing adjusted.

Energy flow refined.

But none achieved true resonance.

By sunset, the field was scorched, uneven, marked by failed attempts.

The Pup lay down, exhausted.

The Fairy dimd slightly, drained.

Aether remained standing.

Thinking.

Not frustrated.

Analyzing.

"The theory is correct," he said quietly.

"The execution is not."

He looked toward the fading light.

"I need better timing."

For now—

It was beyond reach.

But not impossible.

As he returned to his room, a silver-winged bird landed on the balcony.

A ssage.

From Liora.

He read it once.

Then again.

The Succubus leaned over his shoulder.

"She misses you," she said.

"She insults efficiently," Aether replied.

Yet he did not discard the letter.

Instead, he placed it carefully beside the roster.

Outside, unseen by most, another presence had already arrived within the academy.

Observers.

Watching.

Waiting.

And marking him.

Inside his room, Aether sat quietly, surrounded by silence.

Three paths lay before him.

Competition.

Connection.

Power.

He had failed today.

And that was acceptable.

Because failure—

Was simply the first step toward sothing greater.

Sowhere within those pages of fiction—

A weapon waited.

And he intended to make it real.