The eight doors at each end of the auditorium swung open at the same moment, and the freshman teams poured in from both sides.
Four groups entered from the right — four more emerged from the left. Professors lead each group, each fifteen strong. They filed into the lower rows in a rough symmetry, and in that moment, the crowd above roared before they even reached their seats.
The auditorium was full in a way it wasn't on ordinary assembly days. The lower bleachers held the usual arrangement of sophomores, juniors, and seniors in their colored sections — but the civilian gallery, covering the upper balconies, was packed. Families pressed shoulder to shoulder along the railing. Officials from the surrounding districts occupied the reserved boxes near the center. Media crews had been stationed at intervals along the gallery's edge since early morning.
The freshman tournament had always drawn public interest. This year, for the first time, it was going to be broadcast. Not regionally. Not selectively. Worldwide.
What had once been an internal competition watched by a few hundred had been reframed as something the world was being invited to witness. Which meant that the freshmen walking into that hall today were not just being introduced to their classmates. They were being introduced to the world.
Landen was at the tail end of his team, which gave him a clear view of the three other groups entering alongside them and the four teams filing in from the opposite end. The professors were easy enough to spot — older, steadier, carrying themselves differently from the students at their backs.
Chief Marshal Gordon Vanderbilt stood at the center of the stage, his staff planted firmly beside him. He waited until the last echo of crowd noise faded, then brought the end of his staff down against the floor. The impact was soft, but the room went completely silent.
"Welcome to all of you," Vanderbilt said, his voice carrying clearly through the amplified acoustics. "You represent the select few who have earned your place at Aegis Academy. Today, we recognize you before your peers—and before the world."
He raised his hand, gesturing to each section in turn.
"To my left, representing experience and proven excellence—our sophomores in blue."
The blue-clad students stood and shouted, their voices sharp and coordinated.
"To my right, our juniors in red—further along the path, pushing toward mastery."
The juniors rose with a louder, deeper, more assured roar.
"And finally," Vanderbilt continued, "our seniors in white. The approaching graduates. The ones who will soon represent us beyond these walls."
The seniors didn't bother competing with the noise. They stood in silent acknowledgment, and somehow their quiet was the most commanding gesture of all. The crowd understood—that was the confidence of those who no longer needed to prove anything.
"Now — it's time to meet the freshman teams."
The civilian gallery settled into a focused quiet. This was the moment they'd come for. They leaned forward, eager to catch sight of the future stars, the rookies who might one day become the names everyone knew. Some whispered to their neighbors, already placing bets. Others refused to blink, intent on witnessing the first moments of whoever was about to become famous.
Organizational recruiters were positioned strategically throughout the gallery. They were already assessing, already taking notes. Sponsors weren't far behind, scanning for early favorites, looking for someone who might become their golden investment before anyone else claimed them.
For some students, that was why they were here, for the fame, but for some, like Landen, he was here to learn.
As Vanderbilt spoke, Landen made sure to pay attention. He needed to assess the other students. They had completed the same evaluations as his group and were considered the top students in their class. That meant they were likely just as strong or stronger.
"System," he said under his breath. "Is there a way to keep track of what I learn about these teams?"
The system menu appeared in his peripheral vision. "I can record observations in your Heroes Tab."
The tab pulsed in and out.
"Do it. Log everything."
"Understood."
Vanderbilt introduced them in order, working from one end of the hall to the other. Eight teams. Eight different groups. Each wore the same basic uniform as Landen's team—the Halvek uniform with its cobalt blue trim—but the other teams had different colors running along their sleeves and collars. Yellow, green, purple, orange, pink, red, and white.
As the teams took turns standing, Landen noticed a pattern. Every team had at least one three-star member—students whose potential was marked clearly for all to see. Landen still wasn't entirely sure what the stars meant in practical terms. Numbers didn't always tell the whole story. But every group had at least one, sometimes two.
Then there was the four-star.
Only one in the entire freshman class. He has red spiked hair that looked actively combustible, and when he stood, the media crews moved as one, cameras zeroing in. He was exactly what everyone had come to see—the prodigy, the sure thing, the one whose star shone brighter than everyone else's.
He was impressive, but the one who drew the most attention wasn't the four-star.
It was Landen.
When his team stood, the camera operators noticed immediately. A zero-star. Landen watched the recognition ripple through the crowd like a wave, saw the media crews pivot, saw fingers pointing.
The civilian gallery's tone shifted.
Some were quick to judge.
"What is he doing here? How did he get in?"
He caught fragments of contempt, dismissal, and immediate discrediting of his entire team.
"One weak link ruins everything. They should have done a better screening."
But others—and this was what struck Landen—cheered.
They were the vast majority of the world's population. The ones without stars. The ones who had never qualified for anything, never tested exceptional. For them, seeing someone like them standing here was inspiring. It meant the impossible wasn't completely impossible. It meant that "civilian" didn't have to mean "excluded."
Less than one percent of the global population ever broke free from civilian status. Landen was the first at Aegis Academy to walk in without a star already burning bright.
For some in that crowd, he was the first sign that they might actually belong somewhere too.
Vanderbilt let the last of the noise run out, surveyed the eight freshman teams assembled below him and the thousands of civilians watching from above, and set his staff lightly against the stage floor.
"Now we will recognize the top performers of the Aegis Entry Assessments."
The auditorium held its breath, anticipation peaked.
Vanderbilt pulled out a piece of paper.
"When I call your name, please stand."
He glanced down at the paper.
"The top score from the agility assessment. From Team Orvyn—Lysara Venn."
A girl stood up. She moved smoothly. Sharp features, athletic build—the type who probably grew up running. She was beautiful with her dark hair pulled back tight in a braid. Even just standing there, she seemed ready to move.
"The individual who endured longest in the stamina trial. From Team Drex—Torvin Hale."
A huge guy got to his feet. Not just tall—thick. The kind of size that made you realize how much space a person could actually take up. His face was scarred, a line that ran from his temple down his jaw. Three stars on his crest. When he stood, people actually moved back a little. Not consciously, probably. Just that automatic thing your body does when something bigger than you shows up.
"The highest energy density measured across all trials. From Team Carath—Cinder Strife."
Cinder stood, his red hair looking as if on fire. He was the one with the highest essence grade of four stars. He looked over toward where Ember was sitting, and she looked away immediately.
"The highest precision score, demonstrating calm under pressure in the accuracy trials. From Team Sullen—Nyssa Aethra."
A girl slowly stood up. She was tall with long pale blonde hair—the kind that actually caught the light when she moved. Pretty in that obvious way where you didn't have to think about it. Sharp cheekbones, blue eyes. She looked like she'd already won before any of this started. People stared at her like she might disappear.
"The highest measured intelligence across all assessments—Landen Knight."
Landen stood up. The moment his name came out of Vanderbilt's mouth, the whole room changed.
It went still. Like someone had hit pause. The murmuring stopped.
Everyone on his team looked at him shocked. Especially Ember. She thought he was the biggest idiot of them all, but here he was, standing as the brightest of them all.
The whispers started immediately. His name was passing through the crowd. But before people could dwell on this further, Vanderbilt continued.
"And finally," he said, drawing it out, "the individual with the highest recorded physical strength. Maledic Thorne."
56, the white-haired boy, sitting a few seats away from Landen, stood up.
Landen's eyes went wide.
They stood together, Maledic looking away. Landen was completely speechless. His mind raced. He wasn't surprised because of his strength, he was surprised by his name, Thorne. The name he called his team. The name he was born with. His real name—Landen Thorne.
"Another Thorne. How—how is he a Thorne?"