The second month of the school year passed like falling leaves—quiet for some, but shattering for others.
By the final day of the eighth week, the campus atmosphere had shifted. What had once been murmurs turned into silence. No grand ceremony marked it, no list was posted. Students simply… vanished.
Some dorm rooms sat empty that night. Others bore the faint signs of forced packing—half-folded clothes, a left-behind datapad, a nameplate removed too quickly. They hadn't reached the minimum AP requirement: thirty points, by the end of month two.
The academy had warned them.
Still, it hit hard.
Some left quietly, shoulders stiff with pride. Others wept behind closed doors. A few, Aston heard, even begged—offering to clean the outer halls or scrub latrines just for a chance to stay.
The answer was the same.
Dawn Crest Academy was not kind.
He and his group said nothing during that week, but they noticed. A girl from Kai's terrain tactics group was gone. One of Lyra's rivals in Beast Communication, too. Even a boy Aston remembered from the awakening trials—Alex, with the azure ferret—had been dismissed.
By the start of the ninth week—the first week of the third month—their year was down by a tenth.
The seats left behind weren't filled.
And yet, life moved forward.
It was during the following Monday morning, just as the students settled into their seats for Foundational Spirit Theory, that the announcement came.
Professor Cael stood at the front of the room, robes as crisp as ever, but there was a glint of something unusual in his eye—a rare flicker of enthusiasm.
"For those of you still standing," he said, voice echoing slightly across the dome-shaped hall, "congratulations. You've cleared the second moon of your time here. But now comes a tradition older than your classes, your beasts, or even your instructors."
Several students leaned forward, curious.
"By order of the Academy Council," he continued, "Dawn Crest Academy will hold its yearly Grand Neophyte Festival at the close of the third month. Events will span three days. You will be dismissed from classes for the duration."
That got attention.
Professor Cael's tone sharpened. "It is not merely a celebration. It is also a proving ground. Competitions, both combat and cooperative, will be held. Resource races. Tactical matches. Integration drills."
He paused.
"And, of course… the First-Year Arena."
Murmurs spread like fire through the hall.
"The freshmen competition is the festival's final highlight. Only the top thirty first-years per division will qualify. Rankings will be based on AP performance, conduct, and instructor recommendation. The winner will receive significant benefits… and a secret prize."
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Aston's eyes narrowed slightly.
Professor Cael didn't linger. "More details will follow. For now, I suggest you continue to earn your place."
Then he turned to the board and resumed the lecture as if nothing had happened.
But the room was no longer calm.
—
Aston didn't move for several seconds.
The moment Professor Cael turned to begin the lecture, the background noise of scribbling pens and spiritlight quills resumed, but Aston's mind stayed locked on a single word.
Arena.
He wasn't surprised Dawn Crest had its own spectacle—every elite institution did. But the phrasing stuck with him.
Not a showcase. Not a presentation.
A proving ground.
His fingers curled faintly atop his notebook, the edges of the page crinkling beneath his grip. A stage like that was dangerous. Not just for those unprepared… but for those hiding something.
A public competition was one of the hardest places to lie.
Especially with eyes like Darius still lurking in the back of his mind.
"Thirty students," Aston murmured under his breath, letting the numbers tick through his memory. Each class had at least fifty to sixty students—maybe more, depending on strand. Even within a division, there would be dozens clawing toward that threshold. Conduct, AP, recommendation…
He wasn't worried about qualifying.
But attention?
That was another matter entirely.
—
Later, at lunch, the atmosphere across the mess hall had flipped.
Gone was the slow chatter and meandering conversations of a regular week. Now, everywhere Aston looked, heads were bowed together, whispering strategy. Schedules. Point-tallies. Instructor preferences.
A map of anxiety and ambition.
He reached the usual table last—Seria, Rowan, Kai, and Lyra already seated.
"Well," Kai said, stabbing a root chip with force, "I guess we're not getting a peaceful third month."
"Did you really think we would?" Lyra replied dryly, setting down her tea. "Dawn Crest has always had the festival. The only surprise is how fast it's coming."
Seria didn't say anything immediately, her eyes distant. Mirage settled on the railing behind them, wings tucked, while Oriel hovered just above her shoulder, tilting his head at their expressions.
Rowan leaned back. "The top thirty cut is fair. Harsh, but fair. It filters out slackers. I heard Instructor Ilyen Vey's already reviewing her recommendations."
Aston took a sip of his soup. "They'll use this to check for consistency. Students who spike early but drop off? Gone. Anyone who coasted on team missions? At risk."
Kai frowned. "Which means—"
"—We keep pushing," Aston finished. "Treat the next three weeks like finals. Anyone planning to coast until exams will fall behind."
Lyra glanced toward Seria. "You thinking of entering the arena?"
Seria's answer came quiet, but firm. "I have to. With Oriel now, Lumine's chain capabilities are better. I want to test them."
Kai huffed. "Well, I'm not about to sit on the sidelines either. I may not be elite yet, but there's no way I'm getting shown up by Rowan twice in one year."
Rowan grinned. "You'll get there."
Aston said nothing more.
His thoughts were elsewhere—tracking timelines, predicting patterns, and one truth he couldn't ignore:
A stage was coming.
And the world would be watching.
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