The North Campus Dueling Grounds did not sll like the sterile ozone of the Alchemy labs, nor did it hold the polished, suffocating dust of the administrative wing.
It slled like crushed grass, cold wind, and the distinct, heavy tallic tang of old blood that had been washed into the earth over four hundred years of institutional violence. It was a sprawling, open-air amphitheater surrounded by towering stone bleachers. The pale sky above was completely unobstructed.
Standing at the center of the field was Instructor Freya Siegel Roo.
She did not stand like an academic. She stood with the absolute, immovable stillness of a frontline trench veteran. Resting between her scarred fingers was a cheap, unfiltered cinder-leaf cigarette. She didn't ask for silence. She simply exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke.
The pungent sll of raw tobacco and stale mana drifted across the grass, slicing right through the expensive perfus of the aristocratic first-years in the front row. The sheer, oppressive weight of her physical presence forced the two hundred students to imdiately shut their mouths.
"Welco to Odic Engagent," Freya barked. Her voice was raspy, scraped raw by years of shouting over artillery fire, yet it carried across the open field like a physical strike. "Listen to very carefully, fresh at. I do not care about your theoretical essays. I do not care about the poetry of your magic. And I absolutely do not care about the size of your bloodline."
She took another drag, her good right eye narrowing into a predatory glare through the smoke.
"In this class, we asure one thing: your capacity to survive a hostile Odic frequency. Out there in the Fringe, a monster does not care if your father is a Noble Lord. It only cares if your throat is soft enough to bite out. Before we begin the curriculum, I need to know exactly how fragile you are."
Freya casually flicked the remains of her cigarette onto the grass and crushed it beneath her heavy steel-tipped boot. Without another word, she raised her left hand and tapped a heavy brass command node strapped to her wrist.
The air above her arm flickered. A holographic projection materialized—not the sterile blue of a standard student interface, but a deep, authoritative crimson.
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────
[ ODICIOS / FACULTY COMMAND — FIELD OVERRIDE ACCEPTED ]
Authorization : Instructor Freya Siegel RooDeploying Sector Grid 01-15...
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────
The ground didn't just shudder. It groaned like a dying beast.
A sharp, collective gasp rippled through the cohort. Several aristocratic students near the front stumbled backward, their pristine composure shattering as a massive shockwave of raw kinetic mana swept through the grass, knocking the wind out of their lungs.
I didn't stumble. I simply shifted my center of gravity, letting the kinetic pressure wash over while maintaining a completely vacant, exhausted expression.
The earth across the sprawling field literally split apart. Massive slabs of reinforced stone aggressively pushed upward from the dirt in perfect, brutal geotry, locking together with deafening chanical clicks to form fifteen raised, perfectly square dueling arenas.
A second later, a grid of towering, translucent cyan barriers roared to life, enclosing each of the fifteen platforms in its own flawless, humming do of Odic energy.
"This is your classroom," Freya announced over the hum of the fifteen active barriers, entirely unbothered by the terrified whispers of the students recovering their balance.
She tapped her console again. All along the periter of the grass, heavy steel weapon racks violently unlatched and rose from underground storage vaults. Hundreds of weapons glead blindly in the pale afternoon sun.
"Select your armants," Freya said.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The words landed across the amphitheater with the specific weight of soone who had given this instruction in places where getting it wrong ant dying, and had long since stopped pretending the distinction didn't matter.
"Standard issue dead iron. No live Odia-Crysts. You have five minutes. Don't make count."
The cohort surged forward toward the weapon racks lining the periter. The aristocratic students imdiately gravitated toward the longer blades, pushing and jostling, holding them up to the light like they were evaluating purchases at a market stall.
A Glyphron boy a few yards to my left lifted a heavy longsword from the rack with two fingers, tilting it sideways, letting the weight pull the tip toward the grass. He turned to his friend with a theatrical grimace.
"Is this a joke?" He twirled it lazily, the blade dipping in a loose, careless arc. "It handles like a rusted plowshare. If my father saw holding this piece of—"
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He didn't finish.
Nobody in the cohort heard Freya move. One mont she was at the edge of the platform. The next, her steel-tipped boot slamd down on the flat of the blade mid-swing, driving it into the earth with a violent, chanical CLANG that rang across the entire amphitheater.
The kinetic shock ripped the hilt clean out of the boy's velvet-gloved hand. His wrist wrenched backward at an angle that made three people nearby flinch. He let out a short, sharp yelp and stumbled into his friend, nearly going down.
The cohort went silent.
Not quiet. Silent. The specific, total silence of two hundred people simultaneously deciding to stop moving.
Freya didn't step back. She leaned forward, one hand braced on her knee, bringing her face level with his. She took a long, slow pull from the cigarette between her fingers and exhaled the smoke directly into his face. A grey, suffocating cloud that he didn't dare wave away.
Her one good eye looked at him the way a person looks at sothing they're deciding whether to bother with.
"I have buried students," Freya said. Her voice was quiet enough that the front rows had to strain to hear it, which ant everyone in the back was holding their breath trying to catch it. "Good ones. Trained ones. Students who ate their als and did their assignnts and knew every technique in the standard curriculum front to back." She let that sit for a mont. "You know what they had in common with you, right now, in this mont?"
The boy's mouth opened. Nothing ca out.
"They thought a weapon was sothing you perford with," Freya said. "They held their blades like props. Like the blade existed to make them look a certain way rather than to keep them alive." She straightened up slowly, her boot still pinning the sword to the earth. "Every single one of them found out the difference between those two things at the worst possible mont. In the dark. When sothing was already inside their guard." She tilted her head. "Do you understand what I'm telling you, or do you need to demonstrate the lesson physically?"
The boy's face had gone the color of old chalk. "I — no, Instructor. I understand."
"You don't," Freya said flatly. "But you will, or you'll wash out, and either outco is acceptable to ." She lifted her boot off the blade. The steel rang softly against the stone. "Pick it up. Both hands. Grip like you an to keep it."
The boy crouched and lifted the longsword with both hands, white-knuckled, eyes fixed on the ground.
Freya looked at him for one more second. Then she turned and walked back toward the center of the platform without a second glance, trailing a thin ribbon of grey smoke behind her.
"The rest of you," she said, loud enough now for the whole amphitheater, "are holding dead iron because I need you to learn what a weapon actually weighs before I let you near anything that can hurt you. Not the weight in your hands. The weight of what it ans to be holding one." She stopped and turned to face the cohort. "You are standing on a practice ground. The Primordial Fringe is not a practice ground. The things that co through the Gates do not care what your family na is. They do not care about your circuit rank or your house badge or whether your blade has an elegant balance. They care about one thing." She took a slow drag from the cigarette. "Whether you hesitate."
Nobody moved.
"Pick your weapons," Freya said. "And pick them like your life depends on getting it right. Because one day, it will."
I watched the interaction from the back of the crowd, my face a completely vacant, unbothered canvas.
I rember her lore file.
Freya Siegel Roo didn't lose her left eye in a glorious duel with a Manifest-class anomaly or monster. She lost it because a panicked, arrogant rookie swung a blade wildly in the dark during a Gate raid and caught her straight across the face.
She has absolute zero tolerance for theatrical idiocy. The fact that the boy still has his wrist attached to his arm is a profound institutional rcy.
I didn't move. I crossed my arms and stayed exactly where I was at the back of the crowd.
This wasn't politeness. It was a mandatory sanity check. After Arga Orlando had completely abandoned the script yesterday with his formal 1v3 duel, I desperately needed to know if the core narrative of this world was still intact. I needed to see what weapons the rest of the main cast picked. If they deviated from their original builds, my ta-knowledge was officially useless.
I watched them with clinical efficiency.
At the western rack, Zee Kazrana Lestune bypassed the swords entirely. She grabbed a pair of heavy, interlocking iron knuckles, sliding them over her leather gloves. Brute-force kinetic combat. Short-range, high aggression.
Exactly as written.
Nearby, Nova Celestine lody smiled gracefully as she picked up a long, pristine silver staff. Classic backline mage trope. Maintaining the pristine, untouchable aesthetic while staying safely out of the blood splatter.
Still on script.
Alya Pance Varine shrank away from the heavier bladed weapons, her shoulders hunched, eyes darting nervously as if the re sight of steel terrified her. She timidly reached out and wrapped her fingers around the ash-wood shaft of a standard infantry spear. She held it awkwardly, keeping the blade pointed toward the ground, playing the role of a fragile provincial commoner desperate to keep danger at a maximum distance.
Still following the plot.
Syevira Sinclair? The crowd parted for her before she even stepped up to the hooks. She pulled a coiled whipsword from the rack. A weapon specifically designed to command space and keep the world at an absolute, bleeding distance.
Perfect for the Deadzone Girl. Everything is fine.
Further down the line, a towering boy with sharp, hawkish eyes and dark hair pulled tightly into a topknot bypassed the standard swords. Shen Wei. He grabbed a massive polearm with a heavy, curved single-edged blade at the top—a Guandao. Frontline vanguard build. High strength, wide crowd-control sweeps.
Canon compliant.
Beside him, Kaiser William Hattore tested the flex of an ornate, needle-thin rapier with a confident smirk. Precision thrusting, high agility.
Also on script.
I watched them all from the back of the crowd, my face a completely vacant canvas, while my brain processed the data with the clinical desperation of an auditor checking a fragile ledger.
Zee. Nova. Alya. Syevira. Shen. Kaiser.
Every single one of them had gravitated toward their canonical loadouts. Not a single deviation. The secondary cast was perfectly locked into their predetermined archetypes. The foundational architecture of the plot hadn't completely collapsed.
But they were just the supporting cast.
The real test—the only variable that could actually doom —had yet to move. Yesterday, Arga Orlando had shattered the tiline by initiating a formal 1v3 deathmatch on Day One. If his hand reached for the wrong steel today, it ant the core algorithm of this universe was actively rewriting itself.
No walkthroughs. No safety nets. Just a blind drop into a lethal narrative.
I kept my arms crossed, my back pressed against the cold stone of the amphitheater wall, and waited for the protagonist to make his move.
Reviews
All reviews (0)