The academy did not slow down. It sharpened.

The posting of the festival events had set something loose in the air. Students who once ambled between classes now sprinted across courtyards. Training fields, once comfortably half-full, were crowded to bursting. Even at night, the glow of spiritlight flickered from courtyards and cultivation rooms—first-years pushing themselves past exhaustion.

For some, the festival was opportunity.

Aston watched it all in silence.

—

Their Monday began with Foundational Spirit Theory, but it wasn't the same as before. Professor Cael entered briskly, robes trimmed with faint runes that pulsed when he moved.

"Your festival is not for spectacle," he said without preamble. "It is proof. Proof that your studies here translate into real combat awareness and practical application."

He tapped his staff against the floor. A dome projection unfurled across the hall, revealing diagrams of past festival matches. Lines of energy traced through simulated beasts and students, illustrating resonance chains, formation failures, and tactical collapses.

"You will not win with raw strength alone," the man continued. "Many of you will be paired against opponents with greater cultivation. You cannot bridge that gap head-on. But you can exploit inefficiency. Hesitation. Miscommunication. Remember that the First-Year Arena is built to reveal cracks in your foundation."

Aston's mind sharpened at the phrasing. Cracks in the foundation. He had no intention of showing his.

When class ended, several students muttered nervously about the Singles Arena. Aston ignored them. His attention lingered on the professor's diagrams—how the smallest delay in a resonance chain spiraled into defeat. He had already known it. Now it was doctrine.

—

In Spirit Bond Synchronization, Professor Nyra adjusted her usual routine. Instead of quiet breathing drills, she arranged the class into duos and trios, forcing them to synchronize not just with their own beasts but with each other's.

"You will not all fight alone," she reminded them. "In cooperative events, failure to resonate across different spirits will cripple you faster than any enemy."

Nyra's expression flickered when she saw the students' chain hold long. "Good," she murmured.

"Very good."

Aston kept his breathing steady, though inwardly, he noted how seamlessly his friends were beginning to mesh. This—more than his own progress—was why they could stand against anyone.

—

Afternoons were worse. Applied Battle Tactics became war drills. Instructor Gorran barked commands like a soldier general, hurling half the class into ambush simulations and forcing the rest to adapt under pressure.

"Festival matches don't stop for excuses!" he roared when one boy tripped over his beast's misstep. "If you fall, your enemy won't wait for you to get back up."

The boy staggered out, pale.

Aston's group survived the drill with minimal mistakes, though not without sweat. Mirage struck from above, Gray slashed through openings, and Aston filled gaps with crisp orders.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

—

The rest of the week unfolded in the same rhythm: classes sharpened into proving grounds, and the hours between were filled with relentless training.

Even meals were no longer simple pauses. The dining halls rang with tactical debates, with students arguing over formations or recounting which events they planned to dominate. Some compared exchange rates, betting which prizes the academy would release this year.

By Thursday, Aston noticed the difference in the air. Sleep-deprived faces. Beasts twitching from over-training. Even confident students carried themselves with taut nerves.

The festival wasn't even here yet, but it had already claimed its first toll.

—

Aston balanced carefully.

He trained with his group during daylight, helping Rowan refine defensive layering and sparring against Kai to sharpen his reactive timing. At night, he walked quieter paths. Sometimes he took solo missions through Shadow Ops—retrieving coded messages, testing concealment traps, or scouting blind zones around the academy's perimeter.

They were simple tasks, but valuable. Each completion earned him Shadow Coins, edging him closer to the Vulcan Elixir waiting in the exchange hall.

He never mentioned these missions to his friends. To them, his disappearances were meditation hours, or late-night beast drills. Aston did not correct them. Secrets had their place.

—

It was during History of Spirit Civilizations with Professor Senn that perspective shifted.

She sketched the outline of a spiral—the old symbol of the festival.

"Over time, events changed. Some were discarded, others added. But the structure remained: to test your limits before specialization pulls you apart. After your second year, you will be too rooted in your strands. Too divided by doctrine. Now, you are still new enough to face each other on equal footing."

She paused, scanning the rows. Her gaze lingered briefly on Aston before moving on.

"Another reason the festival occurs in the third month," she continued, "is to give choice. Many of you entered divisions you did not originally desire. Some chose Healing because of family pressure. Others chose Alchemy because their beasts carried minor affinities. The festival's specialized events are a chance. If you excel, you may reapply for transfer. The Council watches closely. This is your opportunity to shine in the role you truly desire."

The hall murmured softly at that, hope mingling with pressure.

"And finally," Senn said, her voice low but firm, "the prizes you earn will shape your stay here. Every year, the winners rise faster. Access, resources, priority cultivation. Victory is not temporary. It carves paths that last for years."

She set her chalk down and turned. "So I encourage you—every one of you—to participate in as much as you can. Even if you don't win, you will gain something from the attempt. Do not waste this chance."

The bell rang. Students filed out buzzing with new fire.

Aston remained quiet, his eyes distant.

Professor Senn's words had been meant to inspire. But to him, they were also confirmation: every move in the festival would ripple far beyond its three days.

—

That evening, Aston met with his group again in a small training dome at the edge of campus. They had claimed it earlier in the week, a place to strategize without interruption.

Rowan was already setting up terrain markers, while Seria adjusted Oriel's flight patterns. Lyra stretched, her butterfly pulsing faintly with prismatic glow. Kai leaned against the wall, eyes sharp with restless determination.

"We know the events now," Rowan said, his voice steady. "Time's short. We should each choose our focus. But more than that—we should choose how we look."

Lyra smirked. "Always the tactician. You mean reputation, don't you?"

Rowan didn't deny it. "The academy remembers what it sees. If we want to survive the Singles, the Team Arena, or Integration, we can't just win. We have to win convincingly."

Seria nodded once. "Agreed."

Aston listened, leaning against the wall with arms folded. His mind was already ahead of the conversation, mapping the delicate balance between showing enough to succeed—and concealing what needed to stay hidden.

Mirage landed softly at his shoulder, her translucent feathers glimmering. Gray sat at his feet, tail twitching slowly.

The week was shaping the field. The festival was drawing near.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.