The morning haze clung to the academy grounds like a veil of dew. Students filed toward their classes as usual, but the air wasn't usual—it pulsed with restless expectation. Conversations were hushed at first, then sharp. More and more heads turned toward the central square.

Something was posted on the bulletin boards.

Aston caught sight of it the moment he stepped out of the dormitory arch. A dense cluster of students had gathered around the wide wooden frames, shoulders jostling, voices rising. The usual notices—class reminders, trade rates, or disciplinary warnings—were buried under a crisp, freshly inked sheet gilded with the academy's seal.

He already knew what it was before he reached it.

The candidate list for the singles arena.

—

"Top thirty," someone hissed ahead. "They finally posted the qualifiers."

"Posted not ranked?" another said. "Just names?"

"Well, they don't want a bloodbath to start before the festival."

Aston worked his way through the crowd slowly, Gray padding silently at his heels, Mirage circling once overhead before perching on the roofline. By the time he found a gap close enough to read, the first heading had burned into his eyes:

Division: Combat

Thirty names. Each marked by class identifiers. He recognized a few from his courses—Tristan among them, of course—but most were strangers. No surprise. The Combat Division was the largest pool, and half of them carried family crests sewn into their sleeves.

He scanned downward.

Division: Healing

The smallest list. Only a handful of names stood out—bright prodigies already spoken of in whispers. Lyra leaned close beside him, eyes flickering across it, but her name wasn't there. She didn't seem surprised. Healing had never been her focus.

Then—

Division: Scouting

His eyes tightened. There it was.

Rhyner, Aston.

For a moment, the hum of the crowd dulled around him. The letters gleamed faintly in the early light, pressed neatly into place. Not at the top—no ranks, only names—but there all the same.

Then another.

Sacramento, Seria.

And another.

Yves, Lyra.

His lips pressed together faintly.

So they'd made it.

The board continued with Trade and Commerce, Alchemy, Engineering—different divisions, different pools—but Aston's eyes had already locked onto the scouting list.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Damn," Kai muttered from behind him. His arms were folded, his jaw tense. "So that's it."

Rowan was quieter. His gaze moved down the list twice, then fell away. No proof of his work.

Lyra caught it before Aston said a word. She stepped lightly between them, her butterfly flaring once in sympathy. "It doesn't mean you aren't good enough," she said firmly. "The criteria are broad—AP, conduct, evaluations. They're weighing everything, not just raw performance."

Rowan gave her a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Still feels like I fell short."

"You broke into Elite rank before any of us," Seria reminded him, her tone quiet but steady. "One list doesn't erase that. If anything, it means you're not trapped by labels. You'll get your chance."

Kai grunted. "Easy for you to say. You're on here."

That earned him a sharp glance from Seria. She didn't snap back. She just turned, pointing lightly at the board. "Look again. Combat division. Did you see how many students were cut? More than half. That's not nothing."

Kai's shoulders stiffened, but his mouth shut.

Aston finally spoke, voice even. "The board isn't the end. It's the filter. The festival itself is where you'll prove yourselves."

Rowan studied him for a moment, then let out a slow breath and nodded. "Yeah. You're right."

Lyra clapped Kai's arm with a grin that was only slightly forced. "Besides, do you really want to spend the next two weeks sulking while the rest of us train? Because if you do, I'll be happy to use you as a practice dummy."

Kai barked out a laugh despite himself. "You wish."

The tension broke slightly. Enough for them to step back from the crowd, letting others push forward to scour the lists.

—

For the rest of the day, the names on the board became the academy's heartbeat. Students whispered them in corridors, debated them in lecture halls. Some despaired as their names were not on the list. Rivalries sharpened. Support divisions made bets on which combatants would last in the arena. Even in Professor Nyra's synchronization class, half the students were distracted, sneaking glances at those whose names had been posted.

Aston ignored it. But he felt the shift. Not hostility exactly—but eyes lingered longer now. His name, once just another syllable in the background, was marked.

He'd planned for this. Still, when he caught a group of second-years murmuring his name with half-curious, half-condescending tones, he let the noise wash over him without reaction. Better they underestimated him still.

—

That night, their group gathered in one of the practice domes to burn off the weight of the day. Rowan pushed himself harder than usual, Verdy throwing moss screens with twice his normal speed. Kai drove his beast into spar after spar, sweat slicking his hair. Seria worked Oriel and Lumine in tandem, weaving light fields until her spirit energy trembled. Lyra refined her butterfly's resonance against Mirage's frost-slick air.

Aston trained alongside them, but his mind was already half elsewhere. The Shadow Ops mission still pressed on his shoulders: place top three in any event. A challenge disguised as encouragement.

When they collapsed near midnight, lying on the cool floorboards with beasts sprawled at their sides, Rowan finally spoke.

"So what now?"

Aston looked at the ceiling. The faint lines of the dome glimmered above. "Now?" He closed his eyes briefly. "We get ready. The festival isn't going to wait for us."

—

And the festival did not wait.

The first week of the third month started with banners strung across terraces, lanterns pulsing in division colors, and the central grounds transformed into a maze of stalls and tents. The Trade Division's merchants spilled into every corner, calling out with samples of food and trinkets. Spirit Alchemists set up small bubbling cauldrons in public squares, drawing curious crowds with gleaming flasks. Engineers dragged out half-built machines and challenged each other to make them work under pressure.

Everywhere, the Support and Healing Division tended to the exhausted, while Enchantment Artisans etched runes into banners and sigils into lanterns.

Security was doubled. Scouting and Combat patrols walked side by side, keeping order where the energy threatened to boil over.

Aston walked through the grounds with his group, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp. The festive air was real. But beneath it, competition simmered like a storm waiting to break.

The Grand Neophyte Festival had begun.

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