The tension in the crisp morning air was thick enough to be cut with one of Draco's condensed mana projectiles. Aamon stood there, his hand still tingling from the crushing pressure of the warrior's handshake, his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm after the massive spike of adrenaline.
Draco Riven didn't move away. He stood firmly rooted to the hex-plated floor, his golden eyes meticulously cataloging every inch of Aamon's posture, his breathing, the way his cheap jacket hung over his lean frame. It was the gaze of a predator trying to decide if the creature in front of it was prey, a rival, or a trap.
"Are you two going to kiss, or are you going to kill each other? Because if it's the latter, I need to know so I can get my medical potions ready. I charge extra credits for reattaching severed limbs you know."
The bright, distinctly feminine voice sliced through the heavy atmosphere like a warm knife through butter.
Aamon and Draco both turned their heads toward the entrance of the manor. Standing on the porch, bathed in the soft, golden light of the morning sun, was Seraphine Blackwood.
If Draco looked like a brooding soldier ready for war, Seraphine looked like she had just stepped out of a high-end catalogue for casual magical sportswear. She wore a fitted, pale green athletic top and dark leggings, her black wavy hair tied back into a messy, practical ponytail. Her bright amethyst purple eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and sharp, calculating intelligence.
"Neither, unfortunately," Aamon replied, forcing his tense shoulders to drop. He offered her a polite, slightly weary smile. While also lamenting. What did she mean by kiss? More like kill. Aamon thought as he added, "Just a minor misunderstanding about perimeter security. He thought I was a Dark Arcanist sneaking in to assassinate everyone."
Seraphine snorted, walking down the steps toward them. She looked at Draco, who hadn't broken his severe frown.
"Honestly, Draco, you need to dial back the paranoia," she chided playfully, though there was a hint of genuine warning in her tone. "Agent Elswright literally sent us a memo on our datapads last night saying a third recruit was arriving this morning. Did you even read it, or were you too busy brooding in the dark?"
Draco's jaw tightened. "I read it. But memos can be forged. Wards can be bypassed. Complacency gets people killed, Seraphine."
"Right, right. Constant vigilance and all that," Seraphine said, waving a hand dismissively. She turned her twinkling eyes to Aamon, stepping closer to inspect him. "Well, I have to say, you look significantly better than the last time I saw you. You were essentially a twitching puddle of corrupted mana and blood in that alleyway. I honestly wasn't sure my purge would take hold before your core collapsed."
"I have you to thank for that," Aamon said earnestly. And he meant it. Without her [Toxin Assimilation] trait pulling the chaotic rift radiation out of his infant core, his reincarnation into this world would have ended in about ten minutes. "I really appreciate what you did."
"Oh, don't worry, I know you appreciate it," Seraphine smiled, her eyes curving into little crescents. "And just so we're clear, my services don't come free. Standard ARIES Bureau rate for an emergency, non-hospitalized localized core purge is roughly five thousand credits. But, since we're officially dorm-mates and team members now, I'll give you the friends-and-family discount. Let's call it a flat four thousand, five hundred. Payable in installments once we start getting our Rift stipends."
Aamon blinked, momentarily stunned by her shamelessness, before a genuine laugh bubbled up from his chest.
God, she really is exactly how the game designed her to be, Aamon thought, a wave of bizarre nostalgia washing over him.
In the game, Seraphine's obsession with billing the protagonist for every minor heal was a running gag that eventually evolved into a deeply emotional subplot about her needing funds to buy expensive alchemical catalysts to cure a curse on her younger sister.
"Put it on my tab," Aamon conceded smoothly, playing along. "Though right now, I think I have about two thousand credits to my name. You might be waiting a while for that first installment."
"I'm a patient woman, Aamon Maverick," she replied, tapping the side of her nose. "Anyway, I was just about to grab breakfast before the official 08:00 AM training block starts. Agent Elswright being deployed means we're strictly on self-governance for the day. You want to come? The dining hall here is incredible. Fully automated culinary dispensers. They even have real, non-synthetic bacon."
Aamon's stomach gave a loud, treacherous rumble at the mere mention of real meat. His diet for the past week had consisted of reconstituted oatmeal, chalky protein bars, and tap water. The physical toll of expanding his mana capacity had left him in a state of perpetual starvation.
"Lead the way," Aamon said instantly.
Seraphine turned and began walking back into the manor. Aamon followed her. Draco stood in the yard for a moment longer, his golden eyes tracking Aamon's back, before silently falling into step behind them.
The dining hall was located at the rear of the first floor, featuring massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a lush, warded forest behind the property. The room was sleek and modern, dominated by a long mahogany table and a wall lined with silver, arcane-powered food dispensers. It looked like the cafeteria of a five-star luxury hotel.
Aamon approached the dispensers, following Seraphine's lead. He selected a massive plate of scrambled eggs, four thick slices of real bacon, a mountain of roasted potatoes, and a tall glass of nutrient-dense orange juice.
Draco, predictably, selected a spartan meal: grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and brown rice, measured out with exact, military precision.
They settled at the large table. Seraphine and Aamon sat across from each other, while Draco took a seat at the far end of the table, placing himself in a position where he had his back to a solid wall and a clear view of all the exits.
As soon as Aamon took his first bite of the bacon, his eyes fluttered shut. The explosion of salt, fat, and genuine flavor was practically a religious experience compared to the cardboard he had been surviving on in District 4.
"Good, right?" Seraphine asked around a mouthful of waffles. "I grew up in the lower rings of District 2, so I'm used to decent food, but the capital's budget for elite recruits is just on another level. I've been eating my body weight in pastries every morning."
"It's incredible," Aamon mumbled, devouring his eggs.
As they ate, Aamon couldn't help but notice Draco. The warrior was eating silently, his movements highly efficient. But his eyes rarely left Aamon. Even while chewing his chicken, Draco was shooting him dark, scrutinizing stares. It was the kind of look a detective gives a prime suspect in an interrogation room.
Aamon forced himself to ignore it, turning his attention entirely to the healer across from him. "So, Sera—can I call you Sera?"
"Only if you don't default on your debt," she replied with a wink. "But yes, Sera is fine. Everyone calls me that."
"Sera, then. Since Agent Elswright is out playing superhero, what exactly is the curriculum here? She mentioned a fast-track program, but she was a bit light on the details before she vanished."
Seraphine wiped her mouth with a napkin, her expression shifting from playful to serious. The capitalist facade dropped, revealing the highly analytical mind that made her such a potent tactical asset.
"The details are brutal," Sera said flatly. "We are currently the ARIES Bureau's highest-risk, highest-reward investments. Because we are self-awakened, we don't fit into the standard educational mold. The Bureau is fast-tracking us to integrate into the Polaris Academy's upcoming freshman class."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Our immediate goal, as dictated by Elswright, is physical and arcane conditioning. We have exactly one month to get our bodies completely synchronized with our cores. In thirty days, Elswright is taking the three of us to a sanctioned Fixed Rift in the outer perimeter of the capital. Our objective will be to clear a nest of F-Rank monsters. Unassisted."
Aamon nodded slowly, chewing on a piece of potato.
A Fixed Rift. Unlike the terrifying, spontaneous Unstable Rifts that swallowed city blocks and spat out chaotic horrors, Fixed Rifts were spatial tears that had been successfully anchored and contained by the government's Zenith Wards. They were permanent portals to specific dungeon dimensions. Because the environment inside was stable, the Bureau and various hunter Guilds used them as farming grounds for monster cores, alchemical materials, and, most importantly, live-combat training for rookies.
"F-Rank monsters in a month," Aamon mused. "Sounds reasonable. A pack of Iron-Hide Boars or maybe some Lesser Shadow-Wolves?"
Draco's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at Aamon, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his stoic features. "You know your rift ecology."
Aamon mentally kicked himself. Careful, developer. Don't show off too much of the database. "I read a lot in the slums," Aamon lied smoothly, meeting Draco's gaze. "Knowledge is free on the public datanet. I like to know what's out there."
Draco didn't look convinced, his eyes narrowing fractionally before he went back to his chicken.
"Regardless of what's in there, it's just the first hurdle," Sera continued, drawing Aamon's attention back. "The real challenge is the overarching goal. We have exactly three months before the Polaris Academy entrance exams begin. By the time we walk through those academy gates, the Bureau expects all three of us to be officially registered as E-Rank Arcanists."
Aamon whistled low, a soft sound of appreciation. "Three months to break through from F to E. That's a hell of a sprint."
In Arcane Frontier, the ranking system was absolute. Ranks went from F, E, D, C, B, A, to the legendary S-Rank.
Moving from F to E wasn't just about storing more mana in the body. It required a fundamental density shift. An Arcanist had to constantly deplete their core to zero and force it to draw in ambient mana, expanding the arcane vessel microscopically each time. Once the vessel reached maximum capacity, the Arcanist had to forcefully compress the mana into a denser, liquid-like state. It was a painful, agonizing process that felt like trying to compress a localized explosion inside your own chest.
"It's a sprint, but a necessary one," Sera explained, swirling her orange juice. "Think about our competition, Aamon. The Polaris Academy isn't a public high school. It's the most prestigious arcane military institution on the continent. The kids taking that exam aren't like us."
"They're corporate scions and legacy kids," Draco spoke up suddenly, his voice laced with a cold, bitter contempt.
Sera nodded in agreement. "Exactly. The legal age for artificial awakening in the Republic is eighteen. The vast majority of the applicants are nineteen years old. They were given high-purity, government-regulated Arcana Stones on their eighteenth birthdays. They've had an entire year of practical program, specialized diets, and safe, controlled environments for training to slowly and comfortably push their cores from F-Rank to E-Rank."
She pointed a finger at Aamon, then at Draco, and finally at herself.
"We are seventeen. We didn't use stones. We self-awakened. The Bureau considers us anomalies because natural awakenings usually result in the person exploding from mana toxicity. But because we survived, our cores are highly elastic. We possess a much higher innate talent and a drastically higher ceiling than the stone-users. The Bureau expects us to bridge a one-year power gap in three months."
Aamon processed the information. It was exactly as he had designed the game's lore. The societal divide between the 'Stone-Awakened' and the rare, dangerous 'Self-Awakened' was a major theme of the story. The academy was going to be a viper's nest of arrogant nobles who looked down on them, combined with the brutal reality that those nobles had a year's head start in actual combat application.
"Can it be done?" Aamon asked, looking at Sera. "Three months for a compression breakthrough?"
Sera offered him a smug, highly confident grin. She held up her right hand.
A soft, deep shade of emerald-green light flared to life around her fingers. It wasn't the chaotic, flickering light of an F-Rank. The light was dense, stable, and flowed like liquid water around her skin. The ambient pressure in the dining hall noticeably shifted, a comforting, healing warmth radiating from her aura.
"I reached E-Rank four days ago," Sera stated proudly, letting the mana dissipate.
Aamon's eyes widened in genuine surprise. He quickly did the mental math. "Wait. You self-awakened four months ago, right? During the District 2 tunnel collapse?"
"Correct. It took me three and a half months to compress my core to E-Rank. And I'm a Healer," she said, stressing the class. "My offensive capabilities are virtually non-existent, and my mana burns through catalysts rather than raw kinetic force. If I can do it in under four months, the two of you—who possess highly volatile, combat-oriented cores—can do it in three. Assuming you don't slack off."
She looked at Draco. "How close are you, brooding boy?"
Draco didn't look up from his plate. He simply raised his left hand.
Unlike Sera's gentle green light, Draco didn't manifest an aura. Instead, he summoned one of his silver, condensed mana projectiles. But this time, Aamon observed it through his Gaming Sense.
The silver projectiles wasn't just hovering. The mana inside it was violently vibrating, compressed to a point where the edges of the blade were visibly distorting the air around it, like heat rising from asphalt. The density was terrifying.
"My core capacity is at ninety-eight percent," Draco said quietly, dismissing the projectiles with a flick of his wrist. "I am simply waiting for the vessel walls to thicken before I initiate the final compression sequence. I will be E-Rank before the end of next week."
Aamon felt a drop of sweat roll down the back of his neck.
Goodness. They are absolute monsters. Seraphine was a prodigy healer who had already hit E-rank. Draco was a combat savant who was days away from his breakthrough.
And then there was Aamon. He had awakened exactly seven days ago. His F-Rank core was barely stable, and his only combat skill was Kinetic Edge, which completely gassed him out after five uses. He was drastically, hilariously outclassed by the two people sitting at this table.
If they were going into a Fixed Rift in thirty days to fight F-Rank monsters, Draco and Sera would be perfectly fine. Aamon, on the other hand, was going to be the weak link. In a real combat scenario, being the weak link didn't just mean getting a bad grade. It meant getting your throat torn out by a shadow-wolf.
"Right," Aamon said, pushing his empty plate away. The delicious food suddenly felt a bit heavy in his stomach. "Three months to E-Rank. One month to survive a dungeon run. I guess I have a lot of catching up to do."
"You do," Draco agreed bluntly, showing zero tact. "You have the lowest mana density I have ever felt from a self-awakened. When you cast that lag spell outside, your core leaked almost thirty percent of the energy into the atmosphere. Your efficiency is garbage."
Aamon gritted his teeth, his developer pride stinging. It wasn't his fault the original owner of this body had been chronically malnourished. The hardware was bottlenecking his software.
"I've been awake for a week, Riven," Aamon shot back, his tone cooling. "Give me a minute to figure out the plumbing before you start critiquing my water pressure."
Draco's golden eyes locked onto Aamon's blue ones. The staredown resumed, heavy and uncompromising.
"The monsters in the Rift won't care how long you've been awake, Maverick," Draco said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a boy who had seen too much death. "If you leak mana in a dungeon, you draw aggro. If you draw aggro and can't handle it, you drag the rest of us down with you. I refuse to die because the Bureau saddled me with a liability."
"Okay, boys, dial the testosterone back down to a five," Sera interjected, clapping her hands together sharply. The sharp sound broke the tension. "Draco, stop being an elitist jerk. Aamon, stop taking the bait. We are a team. If Aamon's efficiency is low, then we train him until it's not. That's the whole point of us being here."
She stood up, grabbing her empty plates and sliding them into the automated cleaning receptacle.
"Breakfast is over," she announced, stretching her arms above her head. "Agent Elswright might be gone, but the schedule remains. 08:30 to 12:00 is physical conditioning and core expansion. 13:00 to 17:00 is live-fire sparring and skill application. I'll be in the medical wing reading up on advanced toxin purging. You two try not to kill each other on the hex-plates."
With a cheerful wave, Seraphine sauntered out of the dining hall, leaving the two boys alone.
Aamon sighed, standing up and clearing his own plates. He looked at Draco, who was already standing, his posture rigid.
"Yard?" Aamon asked simply.
"Yard," Draco confirmed.
They walked out of the manor in silence, stepping back into the bright morning sunlight. The air was beginning to warm up, the dew on the grass at the edge of the hex-plated field evaporating into a faint mist.
Aamon walked toward the center of the field, stretching his arms across his chest. He could feel the residual ache in his muscles from his brutal week at the Ironworks gym in Solmire, but the high-quality food was already working its magic, supplying his body with the raw fuel it desperately needed.
He turned around to face the weapon racks.
Draco was standing ten feet behind him. The warrior hadn't moved toward the dummies. He was simply standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his golden eyes fixed dead on Aamon.
Aamon stopped his stretching. He let out a long, slow breath, looking up at the clear blue sky above Nocturnis City, mentally begging for patience.
He looked back at Draco. The stare was unnerving.
Does this guy still think I'm a Dark Arcanist? Aamon cursed internally. Is it because I dodged his attack? A normal F-rank shouldn't have been able to react to that silver blade. Did my Frame Lag trigger his paranoia? Dammit, I should have just let it clip my shoulder to look like a normal rookie. But on the other hand, why would I let something so stupid like that happen to me? I love my life. And I plan to cherish this one.
"Can I help you, Draco?" Aamon finally asked, his voice tight with barely suppressed irritation. "Or are you just going to stand there and try to burn a hole through my skull with your eyes all morning?"
Draco didn't blink. He uncrossed his arms, letting them hang loosely by his sides.
"Your reaction time outside was unnatural," Draco stated, his voice devoid of accusation, stating it purely as a fact. "My Silver-Edge projectile travels at roughly two hundred feet per second. I fired it from your blind spot. You didn't just dodge it. You manage to perceived its trajectory before it was even in your peripheral vision, and you altered your localized temporal frame to avoid it."
Aamon's blood ran cold.
He noticed the temporal shift. Of course he did. He's a warrior whose paty is related to space and his combat instincts are practically clairvoyant. Aamon knows this. After all, he played the warrior character and he knew his stats by heart. Even if he don't will his SystemInterface right now, he knew.
[Talent: Otherwordly Swordsman (Epic)
Class: Warrior
Traits: Void Insight, Battle Precognition, Sword Mastery
Skills: Void Spikes, Spatial Blink, Void Fracture, Transcedent Slash, Absolute Dominion]
Aamon was too familiar with the stats of the warrior. Including the VoidSpikes, a skill to condense blade-like projectiles and shoot to attack which also has concentrated piercing power, the one that Draco used when he mistook Aamon for a dark arcanist and attacked him.
VoidInsight. Aside from giving him a unique sense of spatial awareness, it was a trait that allows Draco to perceive changes in the void and space. It also allows him to sense if a rift is about to appear unexpectedly near him. He's like a walking rift radar. It's the reason why the ARIES Bureau recruited him in the first place. After all, as he grows in rank, his power when it comes to sensing rift is also growing and added the fact that he's a capable warrior that specializes in space, his value is undoubted.
Of course, for Aamon that's not the main thing. Void Insight paired with Battlefield Precognition. It's no wonder the warrior was able to analyze and notice Aamon's behavior when he dodged Draco's assault earlier.
"It's a spatial awareness trait," Aamon lied, keeping his face perfectly neutral, falling back on the cover story he had prepared for his Gaming Sense and Frame Lag. "It triggers an adrenaline dump and a minor perception acceleration when my core registers a lethal threat. It's an involuntary survival mechanism. It completely drains my mana."
Draco stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were only five feet apart.
"A temporal perception trait on a freshly awakened F-Rank," Draco murmured, his golden eyes searching Aamon's face for a lie. "That is an extraordinarily rare and powerful utility. Truly wonder of Epic-grade talent. And yet, your mana control is abysmal."
"I told you, I'm still figuring it ou," Aamon said, holding his ground, refusing to be intimidated by the character he had literally spent two entire years of his career.
Draco stared at him for three more long, agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, the intense hostility in his eyes began to recede, replaced by a cold, pragmatic calculation.
"Fine," Draco said, his voice dropping an octave. "If you have the perception to dodge my blade, then you have the perception to learn how to fight properly. Seraphine is right. You are a liability in your current state. And I will not allow a liability to watch my back in a Fixed Rift."
Before Aamon could process what was happening, Draco moved.
It wasn't a silver projectile this time. It was pure, physical speed. Draco blurred forward, closing the five-foot gap in a fraction of a second. He didn't use mana. He just threw a devastatingly fast, perfectly executed right hook aimed directly at Aamon's jaw.
Gaming Sense flared, painting the trajectory of the fist in red light.
Aamon didn't have time to cast Frame Lag. He barely had time to react physically. He threw his left arm up in a desperate, sloppy block.
CRACK.
Draco's fist slammed into Aamon's forearm. The sheer kinetic force of the blow hit Aamon like a freight train, lifting him off his feet and sending him skidding backward across the hex-plates. His arm throbbed with a sickening, localized agony, feeling as though the bone had nearly bruised.
Aamon stumbled to a halt, gasping for air, clutching his throbbing arm. He looked up, his blue eyes flashing with genuine anger.
Draco stood exactly where Aamon had been a second ago, his fists raised in a flawless, traditional boxing guard. The brooding, paranoid teenager was gone, replaced entirely by the hyper-focused, lethal warrior that the lore demanded him to be.
"Your block was too wide. You absorbed the kinetic force into your bone instead of deflecting it outward," Draco critiqued coldly, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "You rely entirely on your perception trait to avoid damage. If you can't dodge, you die."
Draco lowered his center of gravity, his golden eyes locking onto Aamon with the intensity of a drill sergeant staring down a recruit.
"Draw your mana, Maverick. Don't use your temporal trick. Augment your physical speed. We are going to spar until you learn how to take a punch without breaking, or until you pass out. Whichever comes first."
Aamon stared at the protagonist, the dull throb in his arm serving as a brutal reminder of the reality of this world. This wasn't a game where he could grind levels by clicking a mouse. If he wanted to survive the Rift in a month, if he wanted to survive the academy, he had to bleed for it.
Slowly, Aamon let go of his bruised arm. He took a deep breath, reaching deep into his chest, tapping into the warm, volatile furnace of his F-Rank core.
He forced the energy outward, flooding his muscles with ambient mana. A faint, barely visible blue aura began to cling to his skin. He raised his fists, mirroring Draco's guard, though his stance was noticeably less refined.
A fierce, manic grin slowly spread across Aamon's face. The developer was gone. Only the player remained.
"Alright, Riven," Aamon said, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Let's see what you've got."
The month of hell had officially begun.