Three days passed with accelerating tension as the first-years prepared for the Shroud deployment.

Equipment checks. Core-activation drills. Survival protocol reviews.

Instructors moved among them, offering guidance that swung between practical and grimly philosophical.

"Maintain spatial awareness. Don't lose sight lines to exit points."

And, from another corner, delivered just as calmly: "Some of you will die. That's acceptable. Learn from others' mistakes instead of making your own."

The day of deployment arrived with a grey morning that seemed absurdly appropriate for entering a corrupted dimension—an overcast sky suggesting the universe understood the significance of the trial awaiting the students.

Five hundred first-years assembled in Sparkshire's main courtyard, their expressions showing a spectrum of emotions from eager anticipation to barely controlled fear.

Aldric Thorne stood at the assembly's head, his presence radiating an unwavering authority that made even the terrified candidates straighten up with unconscious military discipline.

"A Tier Two Shroud," Thorne said without preamble. "Moderate threat classification. Expect primarily Initiate-level Lesser and Juvenile Crawlers. No Monarch-type signatures so far."

His gaze swept over them.

"This is a controlled deployment. Your abilities will be evaluated under real combat conditions."

"Here's what you need to understand—if survival is your goal," Thorne went on. "This Shroud randomizes entry points. You'll go in together and come out alone, scattered across corrupted territory."

His expression didn't change.

"Don't count on squad cohesion. Don't build plans that depend on teamwork. Whatever the deployment looks like on paper, you're being evaluated as individuals."

"Crawlers inside are real," Thorne said flatly. "They're not there to test you. Not to defeat you. To kill you."

He let that settle.

"Your defensive matrices will function. Your cores will respond normally. But one mistake—just one—and you're headed for the Great Ones' embrace."

"Stay aware. Stay mobile. Don't engage threats beyond your capability. Don't attempt paltry heroics that will get you killed. Your objective is survival and Crawler elimination—in that order. Dying while achieving an impressive kill count is failure in my book, not success."

"You'll have six hours inside," Thorne continued. "Remember this is a stable gate, So the Shroud will expel you automatically at the time limit. If you're critically injured, activate the emergency beacon—and the instructors will extract you. But extraction counts as failure and will be noted in your permanent record."

"Final words," Thorne said. "Help each other if the opportunity presents. But don't rely on assistance. Don't expect rescue. You're being tested on individual capability. Whether you survive is primarily your responsibility."

"Move out."

The candidates began walking toward the transport vehicles that would carry them to the Shroud location—forty kilometers south of Sparkshire, far enough from campus that the Shroud corruption wouldn't affect the Academy infrastructure.

Bright walked with his group of friends despite knowing separation was inevitable.

"Let's Agree to help each other inside?" Duncan proposed, his tone suggesting he recognized the futility but wanted a symbolic gesture anyway.

"Of course," Mara confirmed.

"Naturally," Adam added.

"Obviously," Bessia said.

Silas materialized long enough to nod agreement before fading back into forgettable periphery.

Here's a novel-style rewrite that keeps Bright's analytical mindset but flows more naturally:

A perfunctory agreement, Bright thought. It won't mean much once we're scattered.

Still, it had value—psychological, not tactical. The illusion of squad cohesion, even when reality made that coordination impossible.

That matters, he decided. Even comfort could steady a mind under pressure.

The journey took two hours. Their transport rolled deeper into Republic territory where the signs of Shroud corruption grew harder to ignore—scarred landscapes, abandoned structures, the quiet evidence of a civilization forever pushing back against encroaching darkness.

Then they arrived.

-----

The Tier Two Shroud manifested as a massive portal—a shadowy chasm that looked like reality had torn open, like a dimensional wound that refused to heal, like an entrance to a corrupted space that existed adjacent to the normal universe.

Large, Bright assessed. It was easily fifty meters across and could accommodate the entire class of five hundred people simultaneously. So that's why they're deploying us en masse rather than small groups.

The architecture around the portal was minimal—the republic military had just established a defensive perimeter, a basic infrastructure for monitoring the Shroud's stability, and emergency extraction equipments for critically injured candidates.

They expect casualties, Bright recognized from equipment positioning. Medical tents. Body collection area. This is supposed to be a controlled exercise, but they're fully prepared for deaths.

Thorne stood before the portal, conducting a final equipment check—making sure every candidate had their emergency beacons.

"Last chance to withdraw," Thorne announced. "No shame in recognizing you're not ready. Better to admit your limitations now than discover it while a Crawler is gnawing at your bones."

No one withdrew. Pride prevented their acknowledgment of fear, as the competitive pressure made vulnerability seem like a failure.

Bright figured withdrawal was just an illusion of control. Backing out only delayed the inevitable. The Academy would find another way to test them.

Better to face it now than later.

"Enter when ready," Thorne commanded. "Trust your training. Trust your cores. Trust yourself."

"And if you die—" Thorne's expression was cold. "—at least die learning something useful for the students who survive you."

Bright took a final breath of normal air, checked his fused katana one last time, activated his cores to a somewhat ready state.

I'm ready, Bright thought. *Better equipped than Grim Hollow. Better trained than Clear Light's Eve.

I'm ready, Bright told himself. Better equipped than in Grim Hollow. Better trained than during Clear Light's Eve.

But the Shroud didn't care about progress. Didn't care how prepared you felt. It killed anyone who made mistakes.

So stay sharp. Stay moving. Stay alive.

He stepped forward, crossing the threshold between normal reality and the corrupted dimension.

The Shroud embraced him like falling into cold water—a sensation of displacement, of reality shifting, of existence temporarily suspended between dimensions.

Then—

Snap.

Bright materialized inside the Shroud, his spatial awareness immediately cataloging his surroundings, his danger sense scanning for threats, his enhanced perception processing the environment that was simultaneously familiar and alien.

-----

The Shroud's interior was wrong in ways that made Bright's spatial awareness struggle with perception.

It was not obviously corrupted like some Shroud spaces he'd encountered. There was no warped geometry that defied physics neither was there any nightmarish terrain that tore at the mind.

Instead— it felt archaic just like the one in grim hollow.

Buildings rose around him, their architecture older than the Republic itself. Structures from before the Great One's fall, remnants of a civilization that once prized beauty as much as function—when humanity hadn't yet been forced into defensive survival.

These structures are old, Bright thought, letting the historian in him rise above the pragmatism that usually dominated his mind. Not merely abandoned. Not recently corrupted. These are remnants from before everything changed.

The architecture was deliberate—geometric, precise, crafted with a confidence that spoke of abundance rather than scarcity. Civilization had valued beauty alongside function.

This is what the world looked like when the Great One lived, he realized. When humanity had the power to create monuments instead of just fortifications. When people built rather than merely survived.

The truth struck him with equal parts fascination and devastation.

We lost this. Lost the skill to build like this. Lost the civilization that raised these walls. Lost everything except the desperate fragments clinging to life in defended outposts.

And the Shroud preserves it. Twists it, corrupts it—but preserves it. Shows us what we once were. Reminds us of what we lost.

It's cruel. Turning paradise into a nightmare. Forcing us to see our own history as hostile territory.

Suddenly his danger sense flared—a threat approaching from the left flank.

Bright's body moved before his mind fully caught up. He displaced three meters sideways, Absolute Void Physique making the movement effortless. Spatial awareness keyed him to a Crawler emerging from the building entrance he'd just occupied.

An initiate level Lesser Crawler, he assessed. A Quadrupedal with chitinous armor and a speed-oriented build.

The Crawler lunged again—too fast for Fledgling-rank Bright to track, but his enhanced perception telegraphed every motion.

The creature died without ceremony—collapsing mid-lunge, its core crystallizing in its chest cavity, evidence of a kill that Bright ignored for now.

He moved deeper into the Shroud's architectural maze, his mind split between awareness and his inappropriate historical appreciation.

This is a field exercise, Bright reminded himself. Not an archaeological expedition. Survive first. Philosophize later.

But still—

Still fascinating. Still important. Still worth remembering that we fight amidst the ruins of our own civilization.

That's what the Shroud is. Not merely corruption. A reminder. A preservation of what we lost. A museum of our failure.

Around him, the Shroud continued its archaic display—buildings older than the catastrophe, architecture speaking of what humanity once was, an environment that killed while showing a glimpses of paradise.

And Bright moved through it as a survivor absorbing the history while staying alert and also as a human caught between the past and present, and fighting for the future. His future.

Six hours, he thought. Survive six hours. Learn what I can. Kill what threatens me. Return alive.

That's the objective. That's all that matters.

Everything else is a luxury I can't afford until my survival is secured.

The Shroud waited.

The trial continued.

And Bright advanced into the corrupted territory —armed, aware, alone.

Exactly as the Academy intended.

Exactly as survival demanded.

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