After lunch, classes resumed without incident.

13:00 – Tactical Field Drills.

It was one of the lighter sessions, designed for outdoor stamina control and adapting to uneven terrain. The instructor—a middle-aged ex-ranger with a hoarse voice and little patience—ran them through a formation crawl across tiered forest elevation. By now, Aston's movements were nearly automatic. Gray darted through underbrush like a breeze. Mirage kept low, her gliding path syncing naturally with Aston's breathing.

The instructor grunted once as they completed the course.

"You're reading terrain like it owes you money," he muttered to Aston. "Good."

But as always, he felt eyes on him. Some fleeting. Some measuring. A few resentful.

He let them look.

By the time the bell rang to close the day's session, the whispers had dulled to low embers. They'd burned bright at first, but people were tiring of the story.

That suited Aston perfectly.

—

That evening, he walked the inner garden loop behind the dorms—once.

Just once.

A habit he'd started weeks ago, mostly out of instinct. The garden was the only place in the student grounds without active scrying glyphs. Not for security, but because the mana density in the soil made glyph maintenance erratic.

Nova flickered faintly in his lens.

[No tails. Passive scans: clear.]

He let himself breathe then, slow and even.

The stars above the garden wall were sharp tonight.

"You're different," Seria had said once.

She was right.

But she didn't know the half of it.

—

The next day dawned grey with overcast light bleeding through the arched dormitory windows.

Aston moved through his morning routine quietly—washed, dressed, gear checked. Gray was still curled in a perfect circle at the foot of the bed, tail twitching as he dreamed.

Mirage hovered in the corner like a still shadow, resting her wings.

Nova's update pinged as Aston slid on his jacket.

[Schedule: Friday. Core foundational classes resume.]

The morning classes passed without incident.

Professor Cael lectured on aura ripple latency in multi-core environments. Nyra Talvine guided them through micro-pulse bonding exercises—more theory than strain. Veris Kaon walked them through aura thread detection, but was in a quieter mood than usual.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Aston participated just enough to not be noticed for his silence.

When the midday bell rang, he slipped outside for a quick lunch alone—just some spirit rice and broth by the outer terrace, away from the benches where most students gathered.

He didn't mind.

He didn't need noise.

He needed calm.

Because the afternoon would not be calm.

—

The afternoon unfolded in silence.

In Beast Communication, Aston listened more than he spoke, letting the harmonic frequencies drift across his senses as Professor Levi Ralden demonstrated dual-resonance attunement. Gray responded perfectly, his tail flicking in tandem with the ambient pulses, while Mirage remained cloaked above the rafters, her presence like a note heard only between lines of melody.

He didn't volunteer. He didn't need to.

The instructor's glance once lingered on him mid-demonstration, but no comment followed.

Later, in the long hall of the History wing, the lecture on spirit civilizations washed over him like fog. Epochs of ascension and collapse. The rise of bonded kingdoms. The fall of crystal dynasties. He took notes—not out of obligation, but because he needed something still to anchor his thoughts.

But his mind was already elsewhere.

Not on past civilizations.

On what waited in the dome.

The moment when theory ended—and movement began.

—

15:30 – Applied Battle Tactics.

Instructor Gorran Tull's voice met them before they even entered the dome.

"Pair off? No. Not today."

Students paused, mid-step.

Tull stood at the center of the reinforced combat ring, arms crossed, the glint of a challenge in his sharp-set eyes. Behind him, two assistant monitors were reviewing roster lists on floating screens.

"Today," he continued, "you don't get to pick your partner."

A few groans.

Instructor Tull raised a hand and instantly silenced them.

"Today is rotation combat. You'll fight one-on-one. One tamer, one beast. I'm assigning matches. Not for style. Not for popularity. For pressure. You'll be paired with students you haven't worked with in close proximity before."

A small hush followed his words.

That could mean anything.

Rivals. Strangers. Offenders.

"Fights will continue until one side yields or the beast is incapacitated. Injuries beyond moderate will result in disqualification."

Someone muttered near the back. "Why are we doing this now?"

Tull turned toward the voice with a predator's grin.

"Because you've all grown too comfortable thinking battle only happens in duels between equals. Sometimes the opponent is stronger. Sometimes weaker. Sometimes—" he scanned the group, pausing ever so slightly on Aston, "—they just want to see what happens when the quiet ones are pushed."

A beat.

Then he clapped once, and the assistant monitors began calling out names.

"Reeve versus Fenn."

"Hollard versus Saeko."

"Rhyner versus Donnell."

That one echoed louder.

Aston turned his head toward the far side of the room where Mavrek Donnell stood—a student from the Spirit Combat track, fourteen years old, brawler-type, known for his heavy strikes and even heavier ego.

Several students snickered.

"Wait, he's fighting Mavrek?"

"Red core? More like red tag."

"I thought he only had a cat."

Aston didn't react.

Gray shifted once on his shoulder, claws gently flexing.

Nova pinged calmly.

[Battle parameters confirmed. Opponent rank: ELite. Noted: Overconfidence bias.]

Aston's fingers curled once around the clasp of his glove.

He didn't speak. They didn't know…

That when the match began… they'll see reality.

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