Claudius looked up at the crimson-haired woman fading into the distance, her body dissolving into motes of glowing blue crystal with each silent step deeper into the shadows. The cold air bit into his skin, but it was not the chill that paralyzed him—it was the weight of what he had just witnessed.
His borrowed body trembled, short breaths frosting the air. Messy orange hair fell across his eyes, obscuring most of his vision. But through the fringe, he saw a tall figure, half-shrouded in shadows.
The man stood like an apparition—tall, imposing, with swept-back gray hair and a gaze that pierced reality itself. His very presence thickened the air.
Claudius stiffened. That kind of aura… that knowing smirk...
"L-Lord Zelretch?!" Claudius stumbled to his feet, tripping back until his shoulder slammed into the last remaining upright shipping container. Pain lanced through his back as he gripped the edge for support.
The man stepped forward into the pale moonlight. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
Claudius's mind raced. "Is this some kind of test? Somnus Wing protocol? Reality-layered scenario analysis?"
Zelretch merely turned his back.
"Good luck, boy."
His voice was almost an afterthought, drifting through Claudius's mind like a half-remembered dream. Then, as if swallowed by the world itself, Zelretch vanished.
No wind. No spell. No trace.
Claudius was alone.
The container yard stretched endlessly in every direction. Jagged silhouettes of rusted steel blocked moonlight, forming a labyrinthine graveyard of forgotten freight. No other students. No surveillance wards. No memory anchors. Just silence, and the wind weaving through the steel maze like a whisper.
He inhaled sharply and pressed his fingers together in the pattern for a mnemonic circuit sign. He focused.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
No magical response. No pulse. No feedback. As if his circuits had been cleanly severed.
"Why is my magic disconnected..."
He steadied his breath, adjusting his posture. He tapped his temples, preparing to invoke a memory clarity scan—a common Somnus technique to stabilize internal thought patterns.
It failed.
His hand trembled as he lowered it.
"This isn't a simulation," he said aloud.
A soft, bitter chuckle escaped his lips.
"It's real. A real test... right when finals are approaching. How poetic."
Shaking his head, he turned and spotted a long cotton coat discarded near one of the broken crates. He picked it up, shook off the dust, and threw it over his shoulders.
"What a drag…"
Claudius began to walk.
His steps were deliberate, calculating. The ground was uneven—cracked concrete, scattered weeds, and rust flakes crunched under his boots. He moved through the container maze like a ghost, analyzing corners and potential ambush zones, scanning for defensive positions.
Eventually, he came upon a narrow alley between two corroded stacks. It opened into a clearing where moonlight pooled like spilled mercury.
In the center stood a house.
Or what was left of one.
Wooden panels sagged inward. The roof drooped under age and weather. Windows had long since shattered, glass littering the porch like scattered teeth. The front door dangled by a single hinge, creaking ominously in the night wind.
Claudius circled the property, sharp eyes noting every point of entry. No magical residue. No signs of recent travel. No footprints beyond his own.
Satisfied, he entered.
The house groaned under the intrusion. Inside, it was worse: a skeletal living room. Two overturned chairs. A splintered table. An empty bookshelf collapsed on its side. Dust coated everything like snow, muffling even his footsteps.
But there were walls. There was a roof. Shelter.
He wasted no time.
He used what little fabric remained from the curtains and tied makeshift tripwires across the doorway. He reinforced the broken table leg against the entrance as a door brace. Debris was kicked aside methodically—he would not allow even a stray board to become a liability.
Then he searched.
Every drawer. Every corner. Every loose floorboard.
Nothing.
No tools. No sigils. No maps. No supplies. Not even a rusty knife.
He patted down his pockets and pulled out a hard circular item.
A black G-Shock watch.
He picked it up. The numbers blinked faintly.
"02:40"
Claudius narrowed his eyes. It was all he had but it was compact and efficient. He pocketed it, committing the number to memory.
Then he turned inward.
He examined the body.
It was younger than his normal vessel. Athletic. Faster. Stronger. Better conditioned for direct engagement.
He rolled his shoulders. Shadowboxed in the open floor. Quick jabs. Deep stances. The body's reflexes were razor sharp, finely tuned.
Optimized for combat.
But...
No magical signature.
He tried to feel it again—searching for the familiar heat of his crest, the rhythm of his leyline link, the mental hum of feedback. Nothing. Just... silence.
No circuits. Not even latent magecraft echoes.
"A body born for battle... and yet severed from the essence of magecraft."
Claudius exhaled through his nose.
"What kind of test is this? No explanation, no goal. Just this body and this emptiness."
He caught himself. Thinking without grounding was dangerous.
He dropped to the floor, legs crossed.
Focus.
Mind like water. Intent like stone.
His breath slowed. His mind quieted.
Then came the images.
Zelretch. That unsettling smile.
The moonlight. The metal echoes.
The dissonance.
The weight of displacement.
And suddenly, a single theoretical conclusion clicked.
This was not an illusion.
This was not a Clock Tower test.
This was a breach of reality.
He opened his eyes.
The dust had settled.
He sat in the belly of a collapsed house.
Claudius rose.
There were no rules. No supports. No certainty.
But there was still one truth:
He will pass this test.