The internal clock Cephas had developed during years of self-training was more reliable than any mechanical alarm. At precisely 05:30 AM, his eyes snapped open.
The Omega Dorm was silent, filled only with the rhythmic breathing and occasional snores of his five roommates. The air was stale, thick with the scent of six teenage boys crammed into a space designed for four.
Cephas slipped out of his bunk with the silence of a predator. He washed up in the communal lavatory, the cold water shocking his skin and sharpening his focus. When he returned to the room to grab his satchel, his roommates were still dead to the world.
He stood by the door, hand on the handle, and looked back at the tangled sheets and slumped forms of Jax, Toby, and the others. If they missed the first roll call of the first day, they would be marked as "Low-Discipline" before they even drew a practice sword. In the Academy, a bad reputation was a weight that could drown a career.
He sighed. He wasn't their father, but they were his team.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The sound echoed off the stone walls like a series of gunshots.
"Up! Classes begin in thirty minutes!" Cephas's voice was loud, projected from his diaphragm. "If you're late on day one, you're telling the Kingdom you'd rather be a janitor. Get moving!"
Toby bolted upright, nearly cracking his head on the top bunk. Jax groaned, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the dim light. One by one, the occupants of Room 402 began to stir, their movements sluggish and confused.
"Wait... Cephas? What time is it?" Toby stammered, fumbling for his glasses.
"The time you should be awake," Cephas replied.
He didn't wait for them to thank him or complain. He turned and exited the room, his boots echoing down the hallway. He had forty minutes until the introductory lecture, and he had a ritual to maintain.
The walk to the cafeteria took him across the central quad. The sun was just beginning to bleed over the jagged horizon, painting the reinforced walls of Cynug in shades of bruised purple and gold. As he walked, he noticed he wasn't alone.
Scattered across the grounds, several dozen students were already active. Some were performing high-intensity calisthenics; others were jogging in weighted vests. Cephas slowed his pace, observing them. At first, he felt a surge of competitive heat—until he noticed the insignias on their shoulders.
They weren't first-years. They were the second-year seniors.
Their movements were different—more efficient, and more violent. These students didn't have the nervous energy of the fresh recruits. Their faces were hardened, their eyes frequently darting toward the horizon where the rifts hummed.
'Practical application,' Cephas thought, his mind racing. The rumors are true. The second year isn't spent in a classroom. It's spent in the field. Live combat, rift-closing, and blood.
The sight of the seniors training in the pre-dawn light was a stark reminder of the gap he had to close. Even with a 100% drop rate, a dead man couldn't loot anything. He needed to be faster than them, more durable than them, and twice as ruthless. He was certain he could keep up with most of them given the intensive training he'd been doing all round but their awakening had given them a boost that went beyond physical.
They now possessed more stamina, speed, strength, and other just from awakening Talents that leaned towards fighting. He didn't. His talent didn't give him any of that. That was what had created a gap between them. "Not for long though." He muttered as he turned and headed for his destination.
The cafeteria was a massive, vaulted hall that felt more like an aircraft hangar. The smell of synthetic protein and yeast-bread filled the entire space. Cephas moved through the line, serving himself a modest portion: two boiled eggs, a slice of dry toast, and a cup of black stimulant-tea.
He found a secluded table in the corner, far from the rising chatter of the arriving students. He ate slowly, mechanically. He had never been one to indulge in food; to him, it was simply fuel for the engine.
As he chewed, his eyes wandered to the far end of the hall. There, a group of young men, barely three or four years older than himself, were working. They weren't wearing the tactical fatigues of the students. They wore grey, grease-stained overalls.
They moved in a somber line, collecting the heavy metal trays and hauling stacks of dirty dishes into a steaming industrial kitchen. One of them caught Cephas's eye—a man with a scar running down his cheek and a hollow look in his eyes. He moved with a limp, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the trash he was carrying.
Cephas felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
Failed Awakened.
That was the reality the Academy didn't put on the recruitment posters. If you weren't strong enough to hunt, you were just another pair of hands to keep the machine running. Those men had probably stood exactly where Cephas was standing three or five years ago, full of hope and "Talent." Now, they were ghosts in the machine, cleaning up after the people they used to be.
Cephas stood up, his breakfast finished. He placed his own tray on the rack, his grip tightening on the cold metal.'I will not end up in those grey overalls, he vowed silently. I will become the house, and the house always wins.'
He turned and headed toward the Hall of Foundations.
The first class was a massive assembly. Hundreds of first-year students sat in tiered rows, the air buzzing with excitement. At the front of the room, a holographic map of the Kingdom of Austrie flickered into life, showing the Red Zones where the rifts were most concentrated.
For the next several hours, a series of instructors droned on about the basics. They spoke of the Mana Flow Theory, the history of the Rift Hierarchy whixh Cephas already understood to start from F-Grade which was categorised as a Common Rift to S-Grade ones which they called Cataclysmic Rifts.
They also spoke on the legal obligations of a RiftWalker.
"You are the shield," an elderly instructor with a cybernetic eye lectured. "But a shield that breaks is useless. Your first year is about reinforcing your foundation. You will not see a real monster for the first three months. You will learn to breathe, to move, and to obey."
Beside him, Jax was snoring softly. Toby was frantically taking notes, his hand shaking.
Cephas sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the holographic rifts. To everyone else, this was a boring lecture on theory. To Cephas, it was a map of his future hunting grounds. He memorized the locations of the "Stable F-Rifts" near the city—the ones the Academy used for low-level training.
He didn't care about the "proper" way to retreat or the bureaucratic process of reporting a kill. He was looking for the gaps in the patrols. He was looking for a way out.
The sun was high in the sky by the time the morning sessions ended. As the students filtered out, heading toward their physical assessment labs, Cephas felt a strange sense of calm.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself.
Tomorrow was Saturday—the only day the first-years were allowed Personal Leave within the city limits. Most students would use it to visit their families or spend their meager stipends on sweets and games.
Cephas had a different plan. He had noticed a small, flickering Rift-signature on the outskirts of the Scrap District during the lecture. It was a Spontaneous F-Rank Fracture, too small for the military to bother with, but perfect for a boy with a rusted blade and a suicidal talent.
He walked back toward the dorms, his mind already calculating the health-to-damage ratio he would need to trigger the 10x multiplier. He needed to be beaten, but not broken. He needed to be dying, but still capable of the kill.
It was the ultimate gamble. And tomorrow, he was going All-In. He would either die or survive and become stronger.
[System Notification: Stakes detected.]
[The First Trial awaits in 24 hours.]