The week after Aston's Shadow Ops summons passed in a rhythm both familiar and sharpened.

Classes in the morning, group training in the afternoon, solo drills in the evenings.

They weren't the only ones. Across the academy, students who had survived the two-month cut were pushing harder than before. The knowledge that a tenth of their year was gone had stripped away most of the easy chatter. Even the relaxed in-between periods were now filled with sparring duels, beast resonance exercises, and frantic note-trading before exams.

Aston's group made a point of keeping their schedule balanced. They met in the training hall after their midmorning classes, practicing joint maneuvers until they could move as a single unit. Mirage's flight patterns meshed with Oriel's high-altitude sweeps. Gray's bursts of speed paired with Verdy's leaping arcs. Seria and Rowan both kept refining their support coordination, while Kai drilled his combat footwork to match Aston's timing.

None of them said it outright, but the festival was in their minds. Every maneuver was practiced with the unspoken thought: Will this hold up in front of the whole academy?

By the fourth day, the fatigue was catching up. The calluses on Aston's hands felt thicker. Mirage's wingbeats were slower in cooldown laps. Gray had started dozing at his feet between drills instead of pacing restlessly. Even Kai, usually the one to keep pushing, called for an early stop one evening.

Still, none of them talked about slowing down.

—

It was during their Friday morning History class that the air shifted from sweat and training to something more… reflective.

The lecture dome for "Epochs of Spirit Civilization" was quieter than usual when Professor Senn Alder stepped onto the raised platform. She wore her usual deep-forest robes, her long hair tied back in a loose knot, but there was a spark in her eyes that Aston hadn't seen before.

Without preamble, she tapped the board with a thin rune stylus. A projection unfurled—sepia-toned images of a crowded arena, festival stalls, and a massive banner bearing the Dawn Crest insignia.

"Half a century ago," she began, "this academy was very different. We had fewer divisions, fewer specialized branches. Students were pushed into roles too early, sometimes without knowing if they truly fit them. Many drifted through their years without ever testing themselves in the broader field."

The projection shifted to an older, regal figure—stern eyes, silver hair, robes lined with gold thread.

"This," Professor Senn said, "is former Principal Harvey Dorian. Fifty-two years ago, he proposed a new academy tradition to the Elder Council—a gathering where every fresh entrant could test themselves in front of the entire academy. Not in isolated classrooms or small-scale sparring, but in a festival of challenges. Public. Competitive. Celebratory."

A few students leaned forward, curious.

"His reasoning was simple," she continued. "In the first three months, all new students are still on relatively even ground. You've learned some fundamentals. You've begun to understand your beasts. But you have not yet specialized. And that window is fleeting. By the fourth month, the academy's specialized divisions begin advanced-track integration. Combat specialists refine entirely different skillsets from healers, or engineers, or scouts."

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She paced slowly across the platform, eyes scanning the class.

"The third month… is the last chance for everyone to meet on common ground."

Professor Senn tapped the projection again. New images appeared—past events. Some looked familiar, others strange.

"In the beginning, the festival's events were rudimentary. Standard duels. Basic alchemy trials. Trade mockups. But every few years, the council adjusted them. Outdated events were retired. New ones introduced. It kept the festival alive—and unpredictable. What you see on this year's list is the result of five decades of adaptation."

A hand rose near the front. "Professor," a boy asked, "what about these… new events we've been hearing about? The ones that weren't on last year's schedule?"

The professor smiled faintly. "Ah, yes. This year, the Principal and Elder Council voted to add several more. The 'Merchant Royalty' trade competition was added two years ago, the 'Curing Company' cooperative field-healing trial, and the First-Year Battle Arena—teams edition. All intended to test broader skill ranges, and to give students outside the combat core a chance to shine."

She let that sink in before adding, "That, too, was part of the original vision. Not every student enters the academy in their preferred strand. Sometimes, family pressure, sponsorship arrangements, or simple circumstance push them into a division they do not love. The festival allows talent to be recognized publicly. More than once, a student has transferred strands entirely because of what they proved in the festival."

A murmur swept the room.

Aston leaned back slightly in his seat. That… was interesting.

Professor Senn continued. "As for the timing, there is another reason. You are all still new. Your mistakes are still… manageable. By the end of the year, your duels and matches carry political weight between divisions or strands, and your failures have heavier consequences. But now? You can afford to fight without fear of lasting damage to your standing."

Her tone shifted, becoming sharper. "Make no mistake, however. The prizes are not trinkets. The resources offered to winners are designed to change the course of their academy years—sometimes even their post-graduation careers. A guaranteed rare beast egg. Priority access to restricted alchemical stock. Private training from master instructors."

That last one sent a ripple of excitement through the class.

"And for those of you sitting there thinking, 'It's not for me,'" The elderly professor said, her eyes sweeping the room, "consider this: the academy will not hand you another opportunity like this. You do not have to win. You simply have to stand on that field, in front of your peers and elders, and prove that you can move forward without fear."

Her gaze lingered a moment on Aston. He met her eyes evenly, keeping his expression neutral.

"Participation," she said finally, "is strongly encouraged. Not for glory. For growth."

The projection faded, and she moved seamlessly into the next lecture topic, but the room was no longer focused on the intricacies of the Third Epoch's border wars. The festival had taken root in their minds.

—

That afternoon, the group met again for training, but it felt different. Between drills, conversations kept circling back to the festival. Kai was already debating which event would best fit his beast's abilities. Rowan argued that the team arena would be the most efficient way to push their group's reputation. Seria seemed more interested in the Integration Tactics Showcase, but Aston noticed she was listening closely whenever the arena matches came up.

Aston didn't voice his own plans yet. He had other considerations—ones the rest of the group didn't need to know. The Shadow Ops mission added another layer to his strategy, but that was something he'd keep to himself until it served him.

For now, he trained with them like nothing had changed. He moved through the drills with measured precision, Mirage and Gray responding to every cue, every shift in stance.

Inside, though, his mind was already walking the festival grounds that didn't exist yet, mapping the paths between victory, perception, and control.

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