"What does he mean by ghosts?" a student murmured near the back.

"Probably data? Or… actual ghosts? They don't exist," another scoffed.

Elder Drexen raised a single hand, and the lights inside Hollow Hall dimmed. A low pulse echoed beneath the stone as the simulation engine came alive.

The projection map twisted to life overhead—dense tree canopies shifted, cliff edges distorted and reformed under flickers of ghostlight. The jungle ravine pulsed like a living thing, not just with motion… but with memory.

Drexen Veil sat unmoving, his skeletal vulture perched at his side like a fossilized sentinel. Neither breathed. Neither blinked.

"These are ghosts," he said. "Not spirits. Not myths. Echoes—made from data left behind by your predecessors. Failures. Deaths. Choices. Their mistakes now walk this map."

A sharp pause.

"They see you. You will not see them. Team One—begin."

The doors opened.

Five students entered the simulation gate.

The map shifted—now a highland jungle, ridges twisting across uneven terrain, low-hanging fog flowing like rivers. Their objective flickered: a downed beacon embedded in the side of a moss-covered gorge.

They moved quickly. Too quickly.

Only three minutes in, one broke formation to scout ahead—and vanished beneath a flicker of light.

[Signal lost.]

Another tried to double back—only to fall prey to an ambush illusion, his spirit beast crushed beneath a phantom's sweeping tail.

Only two returned.

The other three had been forcibly ejected from the simulation—marked by the system as incapacitated. Their forms had flickered and vanished the moment a ghost-phantom made contact. Somewhere beneath the chamber, they would be recovering in the stasis holding alcoves, awaiting simulation sync realignment.

The beacon was left behind.

Drexen didn't even glance toward the hidden exit. "Disorganized," he said. "Panicked. Not all wounds bleed."

He motioned to the next.

"Team Two."

They entered.

This time, the simulation shifted to a sunken forest with decaying trees and thick vines. An eerie stillness hung over everything.

They moved as a unit—carefully. But they underestimated a silent choke zone marked only by faint wind patterns. Their lead member stepped directly into a suppression trap. The rest scattered too far to regroup.

Four eliminated. One tagged trying to flee.

Failure.

"Speed without awareness is suicide," Drexen said coldly. "Not everything that glows is guidance."

Aston felt the tension crawling into his chest. He turned to check their own squad, eyes passing over Seria, Rowan, Lyra, Kai…

Then Ren.

The other boy stood a pace behind, arms crossed lightly, as if debating something internally. After a breath, he stepped closer.

"Aston," Ren said quietly. "I'm going to withdraw from Team Nine."

Aston blinked. "What?"

"You've already got five. It's a violation to bring six into the sim. I joined late. It's fine."

Aston frowned. "You sure?"

Ren gave a faint nod. "That team only has four members. They could use someone. Besides…" He offered a half-smile. "You'll be fine without me."

Aston gave a slow nod in return. "Stay sharp."

"You too."

With that, Ren turned and walked toward the other prep gate.

A few moments later, Team Three was called. Then Team Four.

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The jungle reset. The results were the same.

Failures, near misses, incomplete retrievals.

Some teams managed to retrieve the beacon—only to fall during extraction. Others held tight formations but failed to detect the ghost-phantoms until it was too late. A few never made it past the initial treeline.

By the time Team Eight exited, only one group had made it out with all five members. The rest bore scorch marks, illusions still clinging to their minds, or strained spirit beast bonds.

Then, at last, Drexen lifted a pale hand.

"Team Nine—start."

The room quieted.

Seria adjusted her glove. Rowan exhaled slowly. Lyra touched her beast's crystal. Kai checked Shelldon's limbs.

Aston glanced at them all.

Then stepped forward first.

"Let's move."

—

As the simulation gate sealed behind them, a low pulse echoed beneath their feet—like a heartbeat made of stone.

Darkness flickered, then resolved into a dense ravine jungle. The canopy overhead shifted with spectral wind. Long vines draped over crooked roots, and the mist that clung to the earth carried an eerie blue tint.

[Objective: Downed scout beacon located 124 meters northwest.]

[Ghost recon entities: Active. Number unknown.]

Aston raised his hand silently, and the team fanned out.

Gray slinked low, completely silent, his form half-concealed by the brush. Mirage flew high and vanished into the fog with Glass Cloak, while Verdy bounded up a twisted tree, leaping from branch to branch as Rowan kept pace beneath.

"Chill, forward sweep," Lyra whispered. "Kai, stay center. Shelldon anchors our flank."

"I've got the rear," Kai said quietly, already touching his beast's shell. "Barrier at 60% readiness."

The first thirty meters passed in silence.

Then Mirage let out a soft clicking tone—an alert signal only Aston recognized. A ripple of motion shimmered to their left, like a breeze dragging cloth through water.

A flicker.

A blur.

Then—

[Spirit tether strain detected: Seria – Prismatic Butterfly]

Seria's breath hitched. Her knees buckled slightly as a spectral claw passed just inches from her left side. She threw herself back instinctively, but her illusion field didn't react fast enough.

"Fall back!" Aston ordered.

Seria rolled and activated Photon Bloom mid-motion. A burst of radiant light flared from Lumine's wings—blinding and loud. The ghost-phantom shrieked and dissolved into mist, its form scattering like ash in the wind.

"That was too close," Seria muttered, eyes wide.

"They're fast," Lyra said, scanning the haze. "And precise."

"They go for the heart of formations," Rowan added. "That was calculated."

Aston remained calm.

"Shift pattern. Seria mid-line. Kai back center. I'll scout lead. We don't split—ever."

Everyone nodded.

Verdy let out a rustle from the treetops. A flicker of motion—something humanoid crouched beside a branch, head twitching too fast, eyes pure white.

Ghost.

Aston raised his hand. "Suppress it."

Mirage dropped from above, releasing a sharp Icy Gale that swept through the canopy. The wind froze moisture in the air, revealing trails of movement—three entities circling around, using spectral footwork that left no print, only aura distortion.

"Watch the flanks," Aston said. "They're adapting."

Gray's form shimmered behind him. Surgical Claw cut a branch in two as a fourth phantom emerged in the mist—only to be sliced and scattered.

Then—quiet.

They advanced again, slower now.

Another thirty meters.

The mist thinned.

A ruined tree outpost came into view, wrapped in broken signal thread and shattered spirit glass. Hanging near its base was the beacon—fractured but intact, glowing faintly with golden light.

[Target location confirmed. Initiate retrieval.]

"Cover me," Aston said.

He broke from the group with calculated precision, ducking behind cover as Mirage swept overhead. Lumine pulsed softly, scattering residual distortion. Shelldon planted his limbs firmly and began charging Shellforge Wall in anticipation.

Then—

Gray growled low.

Movement.

Two ghost silhouettes appeared at the tree's base. One crouched near the beacon. The other circled the right flank—jittery, twitching, fast.

Aston crouched low.

He didn't attack.

He waited.

Gray moved in sync.

The moment the crouched phantom moved its hand toward the beacon—as if to destroy it—Aston surged forward.

"Now."

Gray vanished into mist and reappeared behind the phantom with an arcing slash. The cut was silent—Surgical Claw. The ghost stuttered, then dissipated.

The second phantom lunged at Aston—but Kai threw out a pre-charged Shellforge Wall like a reflex.

Clang—!

The ghost's claw screeched against the barrier. Aston dove forward and seized the beacon, clutching it to his chest.

[Beacon secured. Extraction route: Recalibrated.]

Rowan's voice rang in over local channel. "Verdy spotted an opening northeast—thinned ghosts, less mist."

"Then we move," Aston said, standing.

Seria fell in line beside him.

No one spoke.

Not yet.

They had the objective—but the exit was still ahead.

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