The trail swallowed them whole.

"Watch where you place your weight," the instructor's voice called back—low but carried. "Flat feet are for parades. On trails, your heel is a liability."

Aston adjusted his gait again, focusing on placing the balls of his feet down first, keeping his frame low. It was exhausting. The tension of watching every step, every breath, burned more than a sprint.

Gray moved beside him, body close to the ground, ears flicking at each sound. Mirage was somewhere above—Aston didn't know where, only that he felt her presence watching, scanning.

Oscar stopped.

They all froze.

Up ahead, a clearing opened—small and naturally formed, surrounded by clusters of fern-like plants with bluish leaves that shifted when touched. At its center was a fallen log, and strewn around it were white feathers… and claw marks carved into the bark.

Instructor Oscar crouched beside the log, brushing his fingers lightly across the grooves.

"Lesson one: terrain profiling," says he without turning. "When you step into an unfamiliar zone, your first task is to reach the echoes."

He pointed to the claw marks.

"These were made recently. How do I know? The edges are sharp. No moss. Still smells like fresh bark sap. Predator type? He nodded toward a student near the front. "You, speak."

The girl stiffened. "U-uh… something large? A bestial monster?"

"Too vague." He turned to Aston. "You."

Aston examined the area. The spacing of the marks was wide. Not random. Intentional. "A quadruped. But not like a prey. Claws are too curved for climbing—it's a strike pattern. Probably an ambush predator. Fast. Heavy."

The instructor's lips curled—just slightly.

"Good. And the feathers?"

A boy near the back chimed in. "A bird was eaten here?"

"Wrong," the instructor plucked one of the feathers and twirled it between his fingers. "Too clean. No blood. Not a kill site. This is a decoy plume. Meant to mislead observers. Drop false signs. Throw off pursuit."

He crushed the feather.

"Your environment lies. Every bush, every trail, every broken twig is a potential trap. You need to learn to separate noise from intent."

Kess gave a low click from above, and Oscar glanced toward the canopy.

"We're being watched. Find them."

Gasps rippled through the group. Aston's heartbeat spiked.

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"Spread out in a tight radius. No talking. Use your senses. If you find the target, signal silently." He tapped his temple. "Link up with your beasts. They'll feel it before you do."

The group hesitated, but then began to fan out. Aston moved left, angling along the tree line. Gray slinked beside him, nostrils flaring. Mirage still didn't return—she was hunting something above.

The forest was dense here. Too dense. The rustling overhead stopped.

Then, a snap.

Aston dropped to a crouch, heart pounding. A flicker moved across his peripheral vision—then another. Leaves scattered from an unnatural gust.

Gray snarled, low and quiet. Mirage's signal pulsed across their bond.

East. Three meters. Camouflaged.

Aston reached out with his spirit sense. A fluctuation, barely noticeable, distorted like a mirage in the air itself. Not illusion—just perfect blending.

He extended one hand, palm open, forming the signal.

Two heartbeats later, Mirage dove.

The figure moved, but not fast enough. The owl struck hard, knocking the concealed oversver from the tree. A shape cloaked in shadow rolled across the ground—and then stilled.

The instructor appeared behind them in an instant.

"Very good."

He turned to the fallen figure over.It was a third-year student, dressed in dull browns and greens, with a light cloaking weave across his shoulders. The older student gave a sheepish smile and bowed his head slightly.

"Observer Four, neutralized," Instructor Oscar said aloud. "Four remain."

Gasps and muffled shouts came from the other side of the clearing.

"Begin phase two," the instructor said. "You have ten minutes. Subdue the remaining observers. Work in pairs if needed. Use your beasts. Use your eyes. And remember…"

He gestured toward the student Mirage dropped.

"If they were enemies, you'd already be bleeding."

—

Aston moved silently through the underbrush, eyes scanning for movement—presence, a shimmer, anything. Mirage circled high above, tracking with surgical precision. Gray kept low, his nose twitching and body tensed like a coiled spring.

A soft rustle drew his attention to the right. He edged closer, ducking beneath a vine-draped limb.

Seria.

She was crouched behind a thick trunk, lips pressed thin in concentration. Beside her was another student with a lean build and dark-furred lynx-like spirit beast. They were coordinating movements using hand signs, scanning the canopy in tandem. Fluttering above them was Seria's Prismatic Butterfly, ready to shower them with its scales.

Aston's lips tightened. He hadn't expected Seria to already have a partner—but it made sense. She was skilled, perceptive, and kind; someone people naturally gravitated toward.

He gave a small nod toward himself and turned away without making his presence known.

Further along the trail, the forest began to slope. Moss gave way to leaf mulch. Aston passed a fallen tree that had rotted into rich, spongy soil. Then, a familiar voice called in a whisper.

"Psst—Aston!"

He turned to see Rowan stepping out from behind a tangle of root ferns, looking slightly winded.

"You soloing too?" Rowan asked, brushing leaves from his shoulder. "Everyone's paired off already."

"Looks like it," Aston replied, eyeing the edge of the trail. "Seria's with somebody already."

Rowan groaned. "She moves quick. I was going to ask her next."

Verdy peered out from Rowan's shoulder, eyes glowing faintly green.

"You good teaming up?" Rowan asked. "Two heads and claws are better than one."

Aston nodded. "Definitely."

"Perfect," Rowan said, turning to Verdy. "Time to use Lattice Sync."

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