Nero stepped through the door and into a wastend.

  The heat struck first, dry and oppressive, wrapping around him like a second skin. Sand stretched endlessly in all directions, golden dunes rising and falling like frozen waves. The sky above was vast and cloudless, painted in hues of burnt orange, as if the sun had been caught in an eternal dusk.

  The wind howled. It carried no scent, no warmth. Just a hollow emptiness, sweeping over the nd like a whisper of something long dead.

  Nero took a cautious step forward, feeling the sand shift beneath his boots. In the distance, the dunes curved unnaturally, their ridges bending inward as if forming a path. And somehow, despite the overwhelming silence, he knew he was being led somewhere.

  He walked.

  With each step, the ndscape warped. Shadows stretched too far, the sky darkened at the edges, and the sun never seemed to move, yet the horizon shifted. Time was meaningless here.

  Then, without warning—

  A door.

  It stood alone in the sand, unconnected to any structure. It was tall and narrow, its frame cracked like ancient wood left too long under the sun. The handle was cold despite the heat.

  Nero hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open.

  He stepped into a library.

  The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink. Endless shelves spiraled upward, vanishing into a misty ceiling that refused to reveal its height. Books lined every inch, some pristine, others crumbling with age. The architecture was impossible—staircases twisted in loops, aisles shifted when unobserved, and nterns glowed without fire.

  It should have been silent.

  But the books whispered.

  Soft voices slithered through the air, pages turning on their own, secrets spilling into the emptiness. Some voices were gentle, telling stories of things long past. Others were harsh, hissing words Nero couldn't understand—words that felt forbidden.

  A lone desk stood in the center of it all.

  On it y an open book, its pages bnk. Waiting.

  Nero stepped forward, drawn by something he couldn't name. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, pressing against him as if unseen eyes were watching, judging. He hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, fingers brushing against the empty page.

  The book reacted.

  Ink bled into existence, shapes twisted, rearranged, letters spiraling into symbols he didn't recognize. They pulsed, alive, shifting too fast for him to comprehend.

  The ink spread.

  It slithered across the page, then dripped downward. But instead of staining the desk, it pooled into nothingness, vanishing as if sinking through the world itself. The air trembled.

  And then the ink crawled outward.

  Lines stretched from the book like veins, tracing patterns along the desk's surface, moving further—etching into the stone floor. The ground groaned as symbols carved themselves into existence, glowing with an eerie light. The library seemed to exhale, the whispers growing louder, the shelves quivering.

  Then, it rose.

  A shape began to take form. The ink lifted from the floor, pulling itself upward, stretching into something tangible. The liquid solidified, edges sharpening, symbols merging—until at st, it stood before him.

  A door.

  The scent of earth flooded his senses.

  The ink shimmered, shifting like liquid caught between worlds. It pulsed once—then, as if recognizing him, it split apart. The surface rippled outward, opening without a sound.

  Nero stepped inside.

  A dense forest loomed before him, its canopy so thick it drowned out the sky. The air was damp, rich with the scent of moss, wet wood, and something faintly sweet. Bioluminescent fungi clung to tree trunks, casting a faint blue glow that barely touched the forest floor.

  Nero took a step, and the ground pulsed beneath his feet, alive.

  Something moved in the distance. A shape, flickering between the trees, too fast to track. The leaves rustled, though no wind passed through.

  The trees were ancient, their bark carved with symbols, spiraling patterns that pulsed like veins carrying some unseen energy. Roots twisted unnaturally, forming archways and pathways that beckoned deeper into the woods.

  Nero followed.

  The deeper he went, the quieter the whispers became. The air grew heavy, thick with something unseen. And then, he saw it.

  A clearing.

  In its center stood a pedestal, carved from the same wood as the trees. Resting atop it was an orb, swirling with shifting colors, its glow casting long shadows.

  The moment his gaze locked onto it, something inside him resonated.

  His breath caught.

  He stepped forward, drawn by an instinct he couldn't name, reaching. Then the ground shattered.

  He was falling.

  Wind roared past his ears, yet there was no sky, no earth, only a vast void, stretching in all directions.

  A bridge emerged beneath him.

  He nded soundlessly, standing atop an impossibly long bridge suspended over nothing. Its stone surface was worn, cracks running through it like veins. Pilrs lined its edges, stretching into a mist that obscured both ends.

  And ahead, barely visible in the fog, a figure.

  Or rather—

  A pair of red eyes, distant yet piercing.

  They looked at him with indifference.

  Nero barely had a moment to react before the bridge colpsed beneath him.

  Nero's eyes snapped open.

  For a moment, reality felt distant. Like he was still falling, still trapped in that endless dreamscape. The remnants of the void clung to his senses, the weight of unseen eyes lingering at the edges of his mind. He inhaled sharply, grounding himself in the present.

  Around him, the training arena was no longer silent. Low murmurs filled the space as students stirred from their trances. Some sat up with wide, exhirated eyes, already whispering among themselves. Others remained still, their expressions tense in concentration, struggling to grasp something just out of reach.

  Jaris and Iris were already awake.

  Jaris stretched his arms, looking mildly disoriented. "That was… weird," he muttered. "Not bad, though. I think I felt something."

  Iris, sitting cross-legged with perfect posture, had a thoughtful expression. "It was different than I expected," she said, her voice quiet but composed. "But I did sense something. A distant link, faint but there."

  Nero's gaze drifted to Zeke. Unlike the others, he hadn't even participated. He leaned zily against a nearby pilr, arms crossed, watching the scene with mild amusement.

  "Didn't need to do it," Zeke said, noticing Nero's look. "I already formed my connection back home. Family tradition and all."

  Of course. Being from one of the ten great families, Zeke had probably gone through a more formalized ritual.

  Nero turned his focus inward.

  For a brief moment, there was nothing. Only the quiet hum of his own thoughts. Then, at the very center of his mind, he saw it.

  A small orb of light.

  It pulsed faintly, like a distant star, subtle yet undeniably there.

  A sense of triumph washed over him.

  I succeeded.

  Ten minutes passed, and one by one, the remaining students stirred from their trance.

  Some sat up with wide grins, eyes alight with excitement as they whispered among themselves. Others had more neutral expressions, quietly contempting what they had experienced. A few, however, looked downcast, their brows furrowed, lips pressed in frustration.

  Warren let the chatter go on for a moment before raising his hand.

  Silence fell.

  "This is just the beginning," he said, his voice steady. "Some of you have formed a connection, while others will need more time. That's normal. But let me be clear, this was the easy part."

  A few students exchanged gnces at that.

  "Forming the link is one thing. Awakening an ability through it is another. There is no strict formu, no guaranteed method. It takes effort, patience… and most importantly, luck. Some of you might awaken an ability within days. Others may take weeks or months."

  His sharp gaze swept across the css. "Do not assume your journey is set in stone just because of today's results."

  A heavy silence followed his words.

  Then, with a dismissive wave, Warren stepped back. "That's all for now. You're dismissed."

  The tension broke instantly as students exhaled and rose to their feet. Some walked off with renewed energy, chatting about their experiences. Others remained quiet, lost in thought.

  Nero gnced at his friends. Jaris had a thoughtful look on his face, Iris seemed composed as ever, and Zeke—well, Zeke just looked vaguely entertained.

  This was only the first step.

  * * *

  As they walked toward their next css, the conversation naturally drifted to their expectations for their abilities.

  "I hope I get something that lets me hide," Jaris said, his tone half-serious, half-hopeful. "Something sneaky, you know? Maybe turn invisible or slip through walls."

  Iris raised a brow. "You're already good at disappearing when there's work to do."

  Jaris grinned. "Exactly. Imagine if I could make it official."

  Iris sighed. "Aside from healing, I just hope my first ability is something offensive. Something that actually lets me fight."

  Nero nodded. "Yeah, that'd be useful." But then he frowned, thinking about his own patron. "Though, knowing my god, I don't even know what kind of offensive abilities I'd get. Maybe I can bash someone over the head with a door."

  There was a pause. Then Jaris let out a loud snort, and Iris covered her mouth, trying to hold back a ugh. Even Zeke chuckled.

  "Just summon a door mid-fight and sm it into someone's face," Jaris said between ughs. "That'd be terrifying."

  "Ultimate technique," Zeke added with a smirk. "The Door Sm of Death."

  Nero groaned, shaking his head as they continued walking. Then he gnced at Zeke. "What about you? Any ability you're hoping for?"

  Zeke shrugged. "I dunno. Guess I'll find out when the time comes."

  Too nonchant.

  Jaris narrowed his eyes. "Hold on..." He pointed an accusing finger. "You already awakened something, didn't you?"

  Zeke didn't confirm it, but he didn't deny it either. His smirk deepened.

  Nero and Jaris exchanged gnces. Iris, ever perceptive, studied him with quiet curiosity.

  "Come on," Nero pressed. "At least give us a hint."

  Zeke leaned in slightly as if about to whisper a secret, then just winked.

  "Secret," he said simply.

  Before others could grumble a response, they arrived at their next css.

  Weapon Selection.

  Unlike the previous cssroom setting, this one was held in an open dueling arena. Rows of seating surrounded a rge training ground, and the sunlight cast long shadows over the worn stone floor. The space felt different, more alive, buzzing with the echoes of past battles.

  They spotted four empty seats near the front and took them, watching as students filtered in.

  Then, a man walked onto the field.

  Burly and scarred, with arms like steel cables. A bald head that gleamed under the sun. His presence was commanding, not because of any divine aura, but the sheer weight of experience he carried.

  The murmurs quieted as he stopped in the center and looked over the css.

  "My name is Titus Fable," he said, voice carrying across the arena like a drill sergeant's. "From this moment on, you will address me as Sir."

  His sharp gaze scanned the students, and when no one objected, he nodded in approval.

  "Good. Now, unlike some of your other instructors, I don't give long-winded speeches. I won't be spoon-feeding you history lessons or philosophy. My job is to make sure you understand the intricacies of a weapon."

  A few students straightened at that.

  Titus crossed his arms. "Some of you have already formed a connection with your patron god. That's good. Because today, you're taking the next step. You will choose your weapon."

  "Now, let's talk weapons. Some of you might be drawn to heavy weapons: Battleaxes, greatswords, warhammers. Strong, devastating, but requiring immense control. Others might prefer finesse: rapiers, daggers, or even barehanded combat. Every choice comes with its own advantages and limitations. And then there are the rare ones—those who forge their own style, using unconventional weapons or mixing techniques."

  A hand went up.

  Titus pointed at the student. "Speak."

  The guy hesitated but then asked, "What about those of us who don't get offensive abilities? Should we still carry a weapon?"

  Titus nodded. "Good question. The answer is simple—no, you don't need one."

  Murmurs spread through the students.

  He let them talk for a second before raising a hand to silence them. "Would a weapon help you? Absolutely. But at the end of the day, weapons are tools. If a tool starts hindering you, you throw it away. Never let a weapon define you. Your strength does not come from steel or mana, it comes from you."

  As he spoke, he reached behind his back and drew his own weapon.

  It was a scimitar... almost. The bde had a hybrid design, not fully curved like a traditional scimitar, but jagged with sharp, spike-like edges running along the ft side. It had a distinct, menacing beauty to it, like a beast waiting to strike.

  Jaris leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "That sword looks so cool!" he muttered under his breath.

  "This," he said, his voice carrying across the arena, "is Arosh. I have wielded this sword for nineteen years. It will not grant me greater strength. It will not cut deeper than any other bde. But what it does do," he turned to face a row of training dummies, "is amplify my abilities."

  Without any warning, he sshed at the air.

  Nothing happened.

  A second passed.

  Then the air howled.

  A violent gust surged forward, swirling around the bde before expanding outward in a spiraling torrent. The harmless breeze transformed into a raging cyclone in the blink of an eye. The tornado tore through the training dummies with terrifying speed—lifting them, shredding them, obliterating them into nothing but splinters.

  The students instinctively stepped back, eyes wide. Some even shielded themselves from the gust of wind that reached them.

  Titus let the chaos settle. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the storm vanished as if it had never existed. Only the remains of the dummies scattered across the ground proved it had been real.

  He turned back to the css, resting Arosh against his shoulder.

  "A weapon is more than just a tool. It's an extension of yourself. Your instincts, your fighting style, your strengths, your weaknesses, everything is reflected in the weapon you wield. Some of you might already have an idea of what suits you. Others will need to figure it out the hard way."

  He paused, then smirked.

  "Don't worry. That's what I'm here for."