As Reed walked side-by-side with Marek through the softly echoing halls of the front office, the ominous words etched into his assignment card weighed heavy in his mind: Special Training by Professor Harlen. The implication alone made his chest tighten. It wasn't that he didn't expect something strange after all, nothing about his presence at the academy had been normal—but to be singled out this way… it was unnerving.
The hallway was dense with voices, the chattering hum of hundreds of students filling the cramped corridors. The entry doors, their once polished wood now marked with handprints and scuff marks, were completely blocked by the crowd of new arrivals still flooding in. Students, some no older than fourteen, elbowed past each other, each trying to get a step closer to the front desk. The air was hot with breath and body heat, and the whole place felt stifling.
Reed wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then noticed a small side door weathered and slightly ajar, clearly propped open for orientation traffic. Without a word, he nudged Marek and pointed.
"Over there."
The two slipped out through the wooden doorway and into the open air.
For a moment, the world felt quiet again. The heavy door thudded shut behind them, muffling the chaos inside. Reed took a deep breath, feeling the cool breeze brush against his cheeks. The sharp scent of trimmed grass and the faint sweetness of campus flora filled his lungs, grounding him again. After being packed in like sardines for over an hour, it felt like walking into a different world.
The sun was beginning to climb high now, casting long shadows behind the gothic towers of the academy. Birds chirped lazily, perched on the spires. The contrast between the solemn, medieval buildings and the modern garden paths was still jarring, but it was beautiful in a strange, off-kilter way.
"Man," Marek sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair, "I still think they should've made this place a little less… Dracula's summer home."
Reed laughed, genuinely amused. "Yeah. All it needs is some thunder and an organ."
They wandered the campus for the rest of the day, mapping out Marek's schedule and familiarizing themselves with the maze of classrooms and facilities. Marek was endlessly curious, bouncing from place to place, trying to peek through doorways or chat up other students. Reed was quieter, thoughtful, though he played along. He wanted to help, and honestly, it kept his mind off what was coming next.
Eventually, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting golden beams over the academy's rooftops, Reed knew he could delay it no longer.
"I should probably go," he said, finally.
Marek turned to him with an uncharacteristic pause in his voice. "You sure?"
Reed nodded, eyes distant. "I need to figure out what this… training is."
"…Hey. Just be careful, alright?"
"I will."
And with that, Reed set off toward the western edge of campus, where Professor Harlen's building lay. The walk took about fifteen minutes, but the further he got from the center of the school, the quieter everything became. Trees grew taller here, older. The air grew still. And finally, nestled between a thick grove of ivy and moss-covered stone walls, stood Harlen's office.
The building was small, almost humble, but no less gothic than the rest of the academy. Sharp spires jutted from its roof like spears, and iron-laced windows peered out like watchful eyes. A small open field stretched out beside it, complete with basic training dummies, sparring rings, and a few pieces of exercise equipment worn from years of use. A single lantern flickered at the doorway, even though the sun still hadn't fully set.
Reed stared at the door for a few seconds, then exhaled deeply.
"All right," he muttered to himself. "Let's get this over with."
The wooden door creaked as he stepped inside.
The air was warm. Not stuffy—cozy. Several oil lamps hung from hooks on the walls or rested on thick, overstuffed bookshelves, casting a soft orange glow over the room. Everything was made of wood, from the floorboards to the walls to the furniture. The scent of old paper and cedar lingered in the air. It was a far cry from the cold, marble corridors of the main buildings. It felt more like a cottage than a professor's office.
In the far corner of the room, gently rocking in a wooden chair, sat Professor Harlen, thumbing through a leather-bound book. He looked up the moment Reed entered.
"Ah," he said with a calm smile. "Nice of you to finally arrive, Reed."
Reed hesitated in the doorway, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry. I was… helping Marek find his classes."
It was only half a lie. Maybe less.
Harlen didn't press it. Instead, he closed the book, marked the page, and rested it on a nearby table.
"I imagine you have questions," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "Ask whatever you like. I will answer what I can."
Reed took a seat across from him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Why me? Why am I alone in this? Why can't I train with the others? And why can't I use magic? Everyone else can absorb mana stones or monster cores and get stronger… how am I supposed to keep up with them?"
Harlen listened carefully, nodding along.
"I'll answer your first question last," he said. "As for the rest… we don't know."
Reed blinked. "You don't?"
"No," Harlen said plainly. "We don't understand how your powers work. You have no mana pathways. No core. And yet you produce energy. Mist. Shadow. Power. But it doesn't follow any magical principle we understand. So you can't use mana stones. You can't absorb monster cores. Perhaps it's physical conditioning. Perhaps there's another method. That's part of what we'll be figuring out together."
Reed looked down at his hands. The room was warm, but his fingers felt cold.
"And the reason I'm not with the others?"
At this, Harlen stood.
His footsteps were heavy on the wood as he crossed the room. He reached the door, locked it with a quiet click, then turned and drew every curtain tight. The light dimmed further, bathing the room in deep amber shadows.
"Because it's not safe for you to be with the others," he said, voice low. "But more importantly, you're not the only one."
Reed's head snapped up.
"There are five others—your age, give or take—chosen by different professors. Each one special. Different. Some gifted. Some unstable. Some simply… unique. You were chosen by me because your abilities, while still mysterious, have potential. And because of what's coming. You will be one of the leaders of the future, of what's coming"
Reed's heart skipped a beat.
"What's coming?"
Harlen moved to a shelf and pulled out a dusty, leather-bound folder. He flipped it open and slid a page across the desk. An old blueprint. Faded, cracked. It showed a sprawling chamber buried beneath the academy.
"A gateway," he said quietly. "We discovered it five weeks ago beneath the academy during an excavation. We don't know where it leads. But no one over the age of eighteen can enter. We've tried. No amount of strength, magic, or force makes a difference. Adults are repelled. Rejected."
Reed's voice was dry. "Then… how do you know it lets in younger people?"
Harlen didn't answer at first. His gaze fell to the desk, brows drawn together in pain.
"…Because we sent in five students."
Reed's stomach turned cold.
"None of them came back. No bodies. No trace. Only a letter—sent back through the gate. It said:
'The Sacred Trials will only commence when more than 50 of the chosen have entered. No more, no less. 45 to go.'
That's all it said. But it was enough.
Reed didn't move. He couldn't. His thoughts were racing—but they all froze as soon as Harlen said the words "Sacred Trials."
Because in that instant, something shifted deep inside him.
A dull pressure pressed against his spine. His shoulder blades prickled. The mark his skull-shaped mark itched, buzzed. A ghost of mist began to rise from his skin, faint and curling like smoke.
Harlen's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He didn't need to.
Reed sat there, spine straight, breath caught in his throat, heart pounding with something ancient and terrible and thrilling. The mist curled in the air around him, reacting to the words. To the truth.
The Sacred Trials were real. And they had already begun.