The announcement appeared during a morning assembly, projected across Sparkshire's central courtyard with immense clarity that made ignoring it impossible.

MANDATORY FIELD EXERCISE - TIER TWO SHROUD INCURSION

All first-year candidates will participate in a controlled Shroud exploration. Deployment scheduled for three days from announcement. Prepare equipment. Review the survival protocols. Expect combat engagement with Crawler entities.

Murmurs rippled through the assembled students —excitement from some, apprehension from others, careful neutrality from those experienced enough to recognize the danger beneath the controlled exercise designation.

For some noble candidates, this would be their first actual Shroud exposure—their pampered upbringings having shielded them from frontier realities, their combat training occurring in safe Academy environments rather than the corrupted dimensions where a single mistake produced a quick and final death rather than just a failure in grades.

They're terrified, Bright observed, watching several nobles whose expressions showed poorly masked fear. They've probably never faced real mortality, he thought. Never fought something that meant to kill them, not just win.

They're about to learn what we already know—the lesson outpost life drills into you, again and again, until it sticks.

For Bright, the announcement dragged old memories to the surface.

Grim Hollow. The desperation of his Fledgling days. Facing Crawlers with gear that barely held together and training that never felt like enough. Watching people die. Learning, the hard way, that survival took more than skill—it took luck, ruthlessness, and the willingness to make choices that stayed with you long after the fighting stopped.

I was terrified back then, Bright remembered. Barely holding it together. Moving on instinct and desperation, not real skill.

Now he was a whole other level from a common Initiate with Absolute Void Physique. He could make most initiates look like helpless children and he was just in the low tier.

But the Shroud didn't care how strong he'd grown. Its violence was impartial, unforgiving—anyone who slipped, no matter their rank, was at risk. And in a place like that, mistakes were everywhere, waiting.

So a slight fear from his part was still appropriate. Still rational.

Around him, his squadmates processed the announcement with varying reactions.

Duncan looked determined—recognizing this as an opportunity to prove his newfound capabilities in actual combat rather than some training scenarios.

Mara's expression showed a cold calculation—she was deviating completely from the bubbly girl bright met at grim hollow. With her thoughts on how to maim and kill the crawlers as quickly as possible.

Adam appeared thoughtful rather than anxious. Combat-wise, he was the weakest among them. Advancing to Initiate had given him a boost, yes, but it wasn't as comprehensive as the gains Bright, Silas, or Duncan had received.

Bessia looked concerned but composed—As a budding healer she understood her role would always be critical,and that keeping people alive mattered more than some personal combat achievement in her field.

Silas lingered somewhere in the crowd, lounging with easy detachment as if the performance had already begun in his mind.

The group—and every other student—was made aware of this Shroud's particular mechanics.

It didn't drop entrants in neat order. Instead, it scattered them randomly throughout its corrupted expanse.

Inside, individual skill was the only thing that mattered. Any plans or alliances made beforehand became meaningless the moment they stepped into its chaos.

-----

Theodore Selaris received the Shroud deployment announcement with calculating interest rather than apprehension.

Mandatory field exercise, he thought. A controlled environment where accidents could happen—or not. Where candidates might get injured, or even die, and the institution never has to answer for it.

A Perfect opportunity to test the waters.

He'd been building his enforcement apparatus carefully—recruiting chumps like Gregor as primary muscle and positioning other followers as a support network.

But an enforcement team meant nothing without an example, Theodore realized. Words alone wouldn't cement authority.

If he wanted the social exclusion he advocated to carry weight, people had to believe there were consequences—real ones. That rejecting the hierarchy he championed led to more than discomfort. It had to feel risky.

The Shroud was perfect. With Crawlers everywhere and death an ordinary risk, anything that happened inside could pass as misfortune rather than intent.

He reviewed potential targets systematically.

The Vester recruits gave off a predatory vibe that made them uncomfortable to have as peers—survivors who'd faced real danger, who operated with competence that challenged his supporters assumed superiority.

Need to eliminate that challenge, Theodore calculated.

Someone had to prove that the survival the Vester kids prided themselves on didn't automatically translate to dominance in the field. That was the narrative he was pushing—not out of resentment, not really, but for reasons far more self-serving.

He didn't care about noble rhetoric or inherited superiority. What mattered was being above others, one way or another. Power had many shapes. He might not be the strongest—although he'd never truly been tested —but if he could stand behind the strongest, control them, as they answer to his every whims… what more could he desire in his level.

There were four or five viable targets among the Vester group— candidates whose injury or death would send a message without creating any excessive political complications.

The healer's off limits, Theodore decided immediately.

A beautiful girl with a valuable specialization. Targeting a healer—an appealing one at that—was inefficient. It bred sympathy, squandered a useful asset.

And, he admitted privately, he had his own bias. A soft spot for pretty faces. Political logic only stretched so far.

So the brutes are the viable options.

He needed an opponent who would make Gregor earn the win. An enforcer who couldn't enforce was useless. This way, the demonstration would carry weight.

And it served two purposes at once—measure the outpost recruits' real combat worth, and see exactly how sharp his own weapon truly was.

He reviewed the male Vester candidates systematically.

And narrowed it down to Silas Drey. Calm, almost lazy in demeanor—the kind of man people underestimated at a glance. He lacked the overt intimidation of the others, but there was something in the way he carried himself that suggested a fight with him wouldn't come easy.

A perfect choice.

It was an irony Theodore couldn't possibly foresee—that the name Drey would one day carry weight enough to make people uneasy.

The quiet, forgettable figure he'd marked for a convenient removal would not stay either of those things later on; still that kind of recognition belonged to the future.

He summoned Gregor for a private meeting in the common room corner where their conversations wouldn't be overheard.

"The Shroud deployment," Theodore said without preamble. "Is another opportunity to cement our hierarchy in this institution."

"You want me to go after someone," Gregor said at once. He wasn't stupid—just lacking in long-term subtlety. Simple objectives, he understood perfectly.

"A candidate named Silas Drey," Theodore replied. "Vester recruit. Assassin-type build, so not built for direct confrontation. Usually operates solo. And this Shroud randomizes drop points… which gives us room to maneuver."

"You want him dead?" Gregor asked carefully.

"I want him damaged," Theodore corrected. "Injured severely enough to require extended recovery."

"But not dead. Death triggers a higher form of scrutiny."

Gregor nodded understanding. "How do I find him? The Shroud deployments randomize positioning."

"You don't," Theodore replied. "You let him find you. Move toward the central area where multiple candidates will converge while fighting Crawlers. Engage him when the opportunity presents. Make it look like he got caught in the crossfire."

"He's an assassin, he would be hard to track," Gregor observed.

"Which makes him a perfect target," Theodore said. "Because if he disappears—if he gets lost in the Shroud chaos—who's going to question whether a blade to his back was an accident or deliberate? His entire capability is being unseen. Leveraging that against him is just efficiency."

Gregor accepted with a curt nod, the understanding unspoken. He wasn't being asked—he was being positioned. An instrument. A demonstration that Theodore's brand of pressure came with consequences.

This will work, Theodore told himself.

And if it failed—if Gregor stumbled, or worse—then he was only a tool that had broken. Replaceable. His loss would stain nothing essential.

That was the principle. Power built on distance. On buffers. On people who absorbed the risk while you remained untouched.

Father would really approve.

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