Alexander Blake was slowly coming to his senses. With difficulty, he opened his heavy, lead-filled eyelids and stared at an unfamiliar stone-crystal ceiling. For several minutes, he lay motionless, trying to convince himself this wasn't a dream.
Gradually, memories began to return. A party celebrating their admissions, a blinding flash, Gabriel's mad ravings, strange beings calling themselves gods. An alien world, a castle, a room. His heart clenched, his breathing quickened. Panic crept into him, cold and merciless.
"This is impossible," flashed through his mind. His entire previous life had crumbled in an instant. Family, parents, close friends—all of it was now impossibly far away, perhaps forever. He felt a lump in his throat, his breath faltering. Alexander instinctively clutched his neck, as if hoping to feel that none of this was real.
"What's happened to them now? They're back there. How did they react to my disappearance?" his thoughts tangled, fueling his panic. And Adam… Gabriel's words wouldn't leave him alone. He clearly knew something the goddess had dismissed as nonsense. But what if it wasn't nonsense? What about Adam then—where was he now, and why was he the only one taken?
His head throbbed with anxious thoughts. Blake took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the unease wouldn't fade. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to regain control of his breathing.
"Maybe it's not that bad?" he tried to reassure himself. "Maybe the goddess was telling the truth?" Yet doubts continued to gnaw at him. It was all too simple and too complicated at once. A typical tale of chosen ones and a battle against darkness—clichés hard to believe, yet now his reality.
He slowly sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to organize his thoughts and find some footing in this new world.
But what if he was overthinking it? Perhaps the goddess had spoken the truth. On the other hand, why would she lie? What could be the point of such deception? He clutched his head in confusion, searching for a logical explanation. But everything seemed too convoluted and, at the same time, impossibly straightforward—a classic story of chosen ones, fighting darkness, and training the powers bestowed by mysterious beings.
Power. Right.
The moment Blake thought of it, a translucent window appeared before him, resembling a game interface. He reached out, watching his fingers pass through the image without resistance. Despite that, the window felt real—lines, numbers, and stat names shimmered as if inviting him to confirm their authenticity.
"It's all too much like a cheap, clichéd isekai," Alexander thought with irony.
Taking a deep breath, he rose from the bed and carefully examined himself. His clothes were the same as last night, slightly wrinkled and uncomfortable after a long sleep.
He recalled how they'd been led into the castle, separated into individual chambers, and told to rest. Alexander had barely entered his room before collapsing onto the bed and falling into a deep, heavy sleep. How long he'd slept was a complete mystery.
Morning. Time. Yes, time.
Alexander's gaze settled on a clock on the bedside table. Mechanical, styled like an antique, it showed 8:05.
He pondered. Time here might work differently. But perhaps the clock was set to their familiar rhythm to ease their adjustment. Though now that he was here, the very concept of time felt relative and unreliable.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Alexander finally stood and began examining the room more closely. It was massive, far larger than any space he was used to. Numerous wardrobes, strange unfamiliar devices, and an exquisite design—it was all breathtaking yet slightly alienating. The walls of pristine white stone were adorned with multicolored crystals that clearly served as lighting. The moment Blake thought of light, the crystals flared brightly, illuminating the room further.
"Technomagic," flickered in Alexander's mind.
He headed toward what he assumed was the bathroom and, after walking about ten meters, stepped into a truly impressive space. A massive stone bathtub stood in the center, beside it a spacious shower, and a sink and toilet that looked unusually elegant.
Blake quickly shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the handle to full blast. An icy cascade poured down, snapping him out of his lingering daze and grounding him in reality. A shiver ran through him, his breath catching. He quickly touched a crystal embedded in the shower wall, and it warmed instantly, glowing reddish as the water became pleasantly hot.
After standing under the warm streams for about ten minutes, Alexander stepped out, only then realizing he had neither a towel nor spare clothes. A brief wave of panic hit him, but he shook it off and began checking the cabinets, finding everything he needed. Inside were magnificent towels with intricate patterns, more like museum pieces than everyday items.
"It's strange to use something so luxurious and beautiful so casually," Alexander thought, but he had no other choice. He dried off and continued exploring the cabinets, discovering various clothing sets that seemed tailored specifically for him. It was an odd sensation, as if someone had measured him while he slept—or was it magic again?
Selecting a white-and-gold outfit adorned with blue crystals, along with all the necessary undergarments, he was about to leave the bathroom when his gaze lingered on a large mirror. Alexander cautiously approached and froze, struck by his reflection.
It was him, but… different. The face he'd known his whole life now looked perfect. Every small scar, blemish, and faint trace of fatigue had vanished without a trace. It was as if someone had performed subtle, masterful plastic surgery with no sign of intervention. Blake examined his entire body. He'd always been fit, training for physical health, but now his body was an enhanced version of itself. Muscles were more defined, excess fat gone, skin flawless.
"Did my body… change while I slept?" he thought with a mix of alarm and curiosity.
To be sure, he slapped his cheek hard. It hurt. So this wasn't a dream. Though, honestly, after the shower, that was already clear.
Fully dressed, Blake returned to the room, where something incredible awaited him on the table—food, his favorite food. Mushroom and pepperoni pizza, cream pie, roasted turkey, and an array of other dishes, alongside glasses of various drinks. It seemed no one had entered, or had he simply not noticed?
Alexander cautiously sat at the table and hesitated as he picked up a slice of pizza, sniffing it. The aroma was divine, the pizza perfectly warm, as if fresh from the oven. Deciding to risk it, he took a bite and nearly closed his eyes in bliss—the taste was impeccable, perfect. Blake devoured several slices in quick succession, only later noticing that the pizza he'd nearly finished was whole again.
Puzzled, he picked up a glass of juice, sipped it, and set it down, only to see it refill itself.
"Does all the food here just… appear on its own?" he marveled.
Somewhat sated, Alexander returned to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth. He found no toothpaste, but as he began brushing, a fresh, minty sensation filled his mouth, and a foamy substance appeared on the toothbrush, resembling paste.
"Another wonder of this place," he thought, finishing up.
When he returned to the room, the main dishes had vanished, replaced by an assortment of snacks and drinks.
"Time to stop being surprised," Alexander decided, heading for the exit.
The door slid open silently, and he stepped into a spacious corridor.
The corridor was impossibly wide and tall, as if built for giants. The walls, made of the same white stone as his room, were decorated with stunning engravings. Blake walked slowly, studying the images. The walls depicted scenes of epic battles with astonishing creatures, heroes in majestic armor, unfamiliar cities, massive fortresses, and intricate star maps studded with glowing crystals. It was all so detailed and lifelike that Alexander couldn't help but slow his pace, taking in every detail.
The corridor seemed endless. He walked for a while, losing track of his steps, until he reached massive double doors adorned with complex runic patterns. On either side stood giant statues—or so he thought until one of them moved, and Blake froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. Before him towered a figure at least two and a half meters tall, clad in massive iron armor etched with mysterious runes. The giant wielded an enormous halberd with ease, its blade gleaming menacingly in the soft crystal light.
For a few seconds, they stared at each other. Alexander's heart pounded wildly, and he had no idea what to say. But the guard spoke first.
"Glad to see another chosen one has awakened," boomed a deep voice, amplified by the helmet. "You need to head to the inner courtyard. The others are already waiting for you."
Blake felt a wave of relief and gave a slight nod.
"Thank you… How do I get there?"
The giant guard calmly and unhurriedly explained the route, accompanying his words with gestures that made the directions immediately clear.
"Thank you," Alexander said again, cautiously passing the towering figure and heading toward the inner courtyard.
The further he went, the more incomprehensible and magnificent the surrounding spaces became. He passed through vast halls with ceilings stretching into infinity, covered in frescoes and paintings that took his breath away. Everywhere, giant statues rose dozens of meters high, carved from shimmering multicolored crystals. Some bore a striking resemblance to the beings who had greeted them on their arrival—gods, majestic and enigmatic.
Despite its grandeur, the castle felt strangely empty. Alexander saw no servants or other people anywhere. Only occasionally did he encounter guards, frozen in their massive armor at intersections or corners. Each time he approached, they stirred just enough to offer a slight nod of greeting and point the way before returning to stillness.
Gradually, he realized he couldn't grasp the castle's layout. The corridors and halls seemed designed to confuse him, twisting and diverging in an incomprehensible pattern. At some point, he understood he had no idea how to retrace his steps. There was only one option—keep moving forward.
Finally, the corridors parted, revealing what might be called an inner courtyard—if the word could capture the scale of what he saw. Walls soared upward, curving and dissolving into a radiant sky. Instead of clear boundaries, structures stretched into the distance—arches and bridges connecting towers, platforms, and terraces, as if the castle grew not just upward but in every direction at once.
Around the courtyard's perimeter stood enormous statues, silent witnesses to eternity. Some held swords, others sat on throne-like pedestals, and still others reached toward the heavens. Each was carved from a single crystal, varying in color and texture: ruby-red, silver-blue, smoky-black. Some faces seemed familiar—Blake recognized the features of the gods who had appeared to them that day.
Between the statues, like amidst giant columns, stretched pristine gardens: trees with turquoise leaves, glowing flowers, fountains with hovering water. It resembled not architecture but dreams—dreams of a grandeur long beyond human reach.
Yet, amidst this splendor, there was no bustle. No people. No voices. Only the wind rustling through the monuments and leaves, and a soft light pouring from above, as if the sky itself blessed this place.
But in the distance—beyond a winding path, among crystalline arches and trees—he heard a familiar sound. Voices. Speech. Words in his native tongue.
Alexander strained to listen. Someone laughed. Someone argued. The words weren't fully clear, but he knew: others were there.
With each step, he felt a spark of something like hope ignite within him—alongside a growing, strange tension.
Passing through an arch of crystalline vines, he entered a majestic open-air gallery. Sunlight streamed through tall arches, casting soft shadows over blooming pathways and marble fountains. There, in this strange, almost fairytale-like space, his classmates were already gathering. They'd split into groups: by energy, by power type, by temperament—as if an invisible hand had already sorted them into categories.
To the right clustered the A-class. They exuded calm and inner focus, as if they knew something the others didn't.
Felicia Green stood by a crystalline pedestal, speaking in a low, persuasive tone. A few students listened, entranced, as if hypnotized. Her voice wasn't loud, but each word seemed to imprint itself on their minds. Mind influence? Sound manipulation? Perhaps both. The effect was tangible.
Evelyn Stone sat cross-legged, tracing glowing geometric shapes in the air. From the ground beneath her sprouted statuettes that shifted forms, responding to her calculated patterns. Astonishingly precise control—her name a reflection of her essence.
Leon Stark stood with his face slightly tilted toward the sun. Light fell on him like on an ancient statue, and the air around him shimmered. His skin glowed with a soft golden hue. He seemed to absorb the light, transforming it into something inexplicable. His aura was… enhancing. Pleasant. Warmth radiated not just from the sun.
Iris Vale sat with a trembling C-class girl clutching her cloak's edge. Iris spoke calmly, quietly, touching her shoulder. As she talked, the girl's breathing steadied, her gaze cleared. Empathy. Genuine, not performative. A gift for calming. Holding steady.
Jasper Flame twirled a fireball with genuine curiosity. It changed colors with his emotions—crimson, green, blue. He laughed like a child, but his presence carried a dangerous volatility. The flame, like him, was fickle, capricious, alive.
Gabriel Knight leaned against a statue's base, motionless, staring into the distance. The wind tousled his hair, and his gaze—sharp, piercing—seemed to search for something only he could see.
To the left surged the raw physical power of the B-class.
Max Tian, like a titanium fortress, sparred with a C-class student. His movements were forceful yet controlled. He knew where and how hard to strike. His opponent flew across the field but rose with a grin.
Raina Steel vanished and reappeared across the area, sometimes phasing through objects—even the fountain. Each time she solidified, a faint click sounded. Phase shifting? Instant teleportation? Her grace carried a threat.
Grok Strike sat on a stone slab, tinkering with a piece of metal. Under his fingers, it flowed like clay, forming blades, spikes, axes. He fused branches and metal into new shapes, weaving weapons from chaos. Matter manipulation, no doubt.
Klaus Blade trained before a mirror that wasn't ordinary. His movements were precise, like a fencing master's, with magical flickers dancing around him. At times, his reflection doubled, as if it, too, learned. Himself against himself.
Thorn Wild stood in a clearing, absorbing sunlight. His skin glowed from within, and when he thrust his hand forward, a pulse of light erupted. A blinding flash illuminated the area. Stored energy? Or something else?
Taira Hunt lingered in the shadows, doing nothing. But the grass beneath her swayed. The air nearby warped, like heat haze. Her outline occasionally blurred. Spatial manipulation. She had no need to prove anything.
Logan Carter was the group's center. He spoke, joked, encouraged. His charisma rivaled his strength. He gripped a boulder, squeezed—and it crumbled to dust. Beneath his cheerful mask lay near-monstrous power.
At the courtyard's heart, surrounded by both attention and disregard, gathered the C-class—the strangest, most unpredictable, and perhaps most dangerous.
Raina Solvain stood still, but golden light flickered around her. She stared ahead, as if through time, while a ghostly figure fluttered above her head—a being from another game, another world.
Ron Tarvin sat on the ground, seemingly tweaking an interface. His fingers danced over invisible panels. He frowned occasionally, like a programmer deep in debugging.
Thorn Elword gathered herbs and crystals, humming to himself. He placed them into a glowing cube that shifted colors with each addition. His alchemy looked like play, but it held more meaning than some lectures.
Zara Welton sat on a bench. Nearby lay items—towels, trinkets. In an instant, they vanished, replaced by a shimmering scroll. Turning junk into treasure? A perfect survival skill.
Saira Telmik stomped her foot—the ground trembled. She waved her arms, unleashing lightning. A small golden dragon burst from her back and crashed into a statue. No damage, but impressive. Something wild and untamed burned in her.
May Zorvel skipped along the clearing's edge, laughing. Each step sparked energy, scorching leaves, tearing petals. A halo flickered above her—pure, joyful chaos.
Blake stopped. He watched them all and realized: these weren't just teenagers. They were blueprints for future gods or executioners. Potentials wrapped in flesh.
Yet none of their gazes held pain. No one's face faltered at the word "home," no one searched the sky for something familiar. Only excitement, awe, the euphoria of power. Except, perhaps, for one.
Gabriel.
He stood apart, near a crystalline arch's base. The wind tousled his hair, and he seemed tenser than the others. When Blake approached, Gabriel noticed him immediately. Their eyes met.
"Glad you're awake too," Gabriel said with a faint attempt at a smile. "The morning here… it's weird."
"You okay?" Blake asked. "You… yesterday… you said some strange things."
A shadow crossed Gabriel's face. He looked away, as if reluctant to answer right away.
"I remember what the gods said. I remember how we were brought here. I remember everything. Except…" he paused, frowning. "Except myself. What I said then… what I felt—it's a blank. Like it wasn't me. Just a strange dream, like someone was whispering to me from the other side. I'm trying to recall, but… it won't come."
His words sounded sincere. But his eyes. That gaze—like it pierced through something beyond what could be spoken. Blake realized: he's lying. Or no—he *can't* speak. Not yet.
He nodded.
"Alright. If you remember, let me know."
Gabriel said nothing. He gave a brief glance, and in that look was enough for Blake to decide: best not to push him. Not now.
He stepped away, weaving through the buzzing groups. Some were already forming mini-squads, others showing off abilities. It all felt too… normal.
He paused when he saw Felicia. She stood by a fountain, talking to Iris, but upon noticing his approach, she nodded to her companion and stepped forward.
"Blake. Good to see you've come around too," her voice was steady, calm, as always. Almost comforting.
"Good?" he chuckled, but there was bitterness in it. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… all this—" he gestured at the courtyard, the crystals, the glowing figures, the laughing kids. "It feels too… polished. Too arranged. Don't you feel it?"
Felicia paused, glancing at the dancing energy above the fountain.
"I do. It all looks perfect. Like we've stepped into a fairytale. But that's exactly what's unsettling. They took us, yes. Gave us powers, rooms, food… But behind it all—silence. No explanations, no assurances. Just: 'Wait.'" She frowned. "And we're waiting. But for what?"
"And how long do we wait?" Blake interjected. "We don't even know where this place is, who's behind it. They called themselves gods, but…"
"But they didn't even give us a name," Raina finished, stepping closer. "Hi there, you're heroes now. Go sleep. Convenient. Stylish. And no clue what's next."
"And Adam?" Jasper asked. "Does anyone even know what happened to him?"
They exchanged looks. Silence.
"I think…" Leon began, "we shouldn't dwell on it now. If something happened to him, we won't find out. If he's alive, he'll show up. If not—they'll tell us. Maybe. Someday. I say we assume he really stayed home."
Felicia nodded.
"Yeah. Right now, we can't do anything. Tormenting ourselves is pointless. Better to save our strength and regroup."
"As if we know what we're regrouping for," Blake grumbled, though softer now.
They fell silent. The conversation shifted to what each had seen in their rooms, what their interfaces could do, how wild their first ability activations were. Laughter, amazement, attempts at analysis. More joined in—Klaus, Iris, May. The group grew.
Gradually, late risers trickled in. First came Sonya, hair disheveled but eyes wide with puzzled awe. Then silent Kir, heading straight for Logan. After them, Arthur, brooding and thoughtful, as if seeking meaning in the architecture's shapes. Then Hanako, cautious but composed. And finally—the teachers.
Henry Withers, precise as a formula, appeared at the clearing's edge. He stopped by a path and struck his cane sharply against the stone. The sound was crisp, cutting, like a timestamp—and everything froze, as if by inertia. Even the talkers turned. Faint red threads stretched from the cane up his fingers, thin as spells or a spatial grid tied to the world itself.
Behind him came Graham Harper, stern and assured. His face was calm but alert, instantly gauging distances, crowd density, threats. Nora Mayer brought up the rear, weary, with a worn backpack, but her gaze warm. Despite everything, she held on—for them.
"Everyone, listen," Withers said, voice low but clear. "No time for panic now. We're alive. We have you. We have each other. Our task is to come together. Not to obey, but to figure out what to do next, together."
"B-class," Graham said, quiet but firm. "Come here. Let's check everyone's accounted for. If you're in shock, sit. If you're fine, help the others."
"C-class," Nora spoke softly, with warmth. "I'm here. Come over. We'll start simple: names, how you're feeling, who's nearby. Right now, it's about staying together."
For a few seconds, no one moved. Then it began. People stopped standing idle. They spoke. Some counted, some helped, some just listened to the adults' voices like an anchor.
At that moment, Henry Withers stepped forward and struck his cane against the stone path again. A clear, sharp sound rang out, echoing in the silence like a command. Faint red threads stretched from the cane's tip to his fingers—barely visible, but felt on an instinctive level. All eyes turned to him.
"A-class. Everyone else. Listen." His voice was quiet but distinct. "No time for panic now. We're alive. We have each other. That means we can act. Together. Calmly. Rationally."
"Stop pretending you're still in charge," Alexandra Richmond's voice cut through. She stood tall, eyes gleaming. "You were dragged here too. You're not our superiors. You're just like us."
"And you don't have answers," Max Velarin muttered, glaring from under his brows. "Why should we listen to you?"
"We shouldn't," Max Tian added. "And you've got no right to order us around. There's no 'teachers' and 'students' now. Just people with questions."
Some nodded, others exchanged glances. But Withers didn't snap back. He merely raised his cane slightly.
"You might be right," he said calmly. "We're not in charge. But we're the ones who remember how you've handled tough times. We know you. We've seen you break and rise again. And that's why we're not stepping back yet."
Nora stepped closer.
"We're not commanding you. We just want to gather you. Not for power. For order. So no one gets lost. So everyone's seen."
"Want to ignore us?" Graham added. "Go ahead. But when it gets real, remember who didn't abandon you from day one."
Some of the bolder ones turned away, but most fell silent. Order began to form. Quietly. Stubbornly. Through distrust—but it began.
The silence after Withers' words and the brief flare of retorts was broken by a new sound—rhythmic, heavy, like the beats of an ancient mechanism. From an eastern arch emerged a procession: several figures in long hooded robes, followed by towering, nearly three-meter-tall guards clad in segmented armor. Their steps reverberated in the stone, their bodies glowing with a soft inner light, as if crystals burned within.
The priests moved unhurriedly, each step seeming to dampen the clearing's noise. Their robes shimmered like oil on water, and on each chest was a symbol—a circle split into three: flame, eye, and star.
One, the eldest, stopped at the central fountain's base. He removed his hood—his face ageless, with fine features as if carved from amber. When he spoke, his voice was low, melodic, resonating in the chest.
"We welcome you, chosen ones. Those selected to become something greater. We see you—and we rejoice."
Others spoke in turn:
"From this day, you are not alone. You are part of the Path. And the Path demands knowledge, strength, and discipline."
"Here, you will be trained to wield what has awakened within you. Not just magic. Not just power. But understanding—of what you are, and what you can become."
"You will be taught to fight. But also to think. To see. To feel. To judge. We will reveal not only this world's workings but what lies beyond its borders."
"When you are ready, you will embark on the Great Journey across the universe, to gain experience and strength to face the coming darkness and discord. Until then, we will care for you and prepare you for all that lies ahead."
Their voices weren't threatening. They carried care. Confidence. A touch ceremonial, yet not false.
One guard knelt, as if showing respect. The others formed a semicircle—living walls, ready to protect or observe.
The priest continued:
"You are the seeds of a new cycle. But to sprout, you need patience. Order. We will be with you. And none of you will be left without will, without direction."
The clearing stilled. Some looked on with unease. Others with awe. A few with suspicion.
Max Velarin snorted, arms crossed.
"'Prepared.' And who decides when we're ready? You? Or the ones who dragged us here without asking?"
Alexandra Richmond tilted her head, a smirk escaping.
"Pretty words. Very… lofty. Can we skip the theatrics? Or is everything here scripted?"
Max Tian stepped forward, eyeing not the priests but the guards.
"We don't need babysitting. We're not kids. Give清教徒. He didn't even bother with quotation marks, so I've added them here to make it consistent with the rest of the text:
"We don't need babysitting. We're not kids. Give us a goal, and we'll handle it. Or just admit it—are we prisoners here?"
A few froze. Some raised brows. Others nodded, as if their words voiced a shared ache.
The priest didn't reply immediately. He simply watched them—calmly, attentively. Then nodded.
"Doubt is reasonable. Your mistrust and questions stem from your youth. But there's no need for fear. No need for reverence or rebellion. Just—go. Listen. Learn. The rest will come in time. Let the day pass—and you'll see for yourselves why you were chosen."
He stepped back, allowing Henry Withers to reclaim the focus. Withers tapped his cane against the stone path—a short, sharp sound rang out, silencing the murmurs like an unseen signal. Faint red threads wove from the cane to his fingers, channeling something beyond mere attention.
"Who, and how, will prepare us for this… Path?" Withers asked steadily, firmly, addressing the priests.
The eldest priest nodded with a faint smile.
"Your first training begins today. You will be taught not only by us, the Temple's servants. We have summoned great warriors, sages, and keepers—those who have walked through wars and mysteries. They will pass on strength, knowledge, and will."
From the opened gate emerged a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in a heavy, iridescent mantle, its colors shifting like the night sky at different hours—starlit blue, ashen gray, deep violet. The hood hid their face, but glints of light flickered in its folds, like quiet sparks in the dark.
In their right hand, they carried a weapon—or perhaps a tool. A staff-spear-sword. A long, two-handed shaft studded with crystals, patterns, and runes. The blade flared from the tip—wide, silver, threaded with dark veins and blue flecks, as if forged from the shards of fallen stars.
They stopped and, without removing the hood, spoke. Their voice was simple yet deep. Like one who doesn't rush. Who has seen enough to let silence speak.
"Greetings."
A pause. They let the word settle. Then glanced at the waiting priests.
"My name is Il'Ravel. I heard your request, received payment, and have arrived," they surveyed the gathered people. "Now I understand why I was summoned."
With a gaze deeper than an ocean trench, they looked at each person present. Lingering less than a second on most, but pausing notably on Gabriel.
"Within each of you lies great power, granted from beyond. No. Mere sparks of power that must be nurtured to become yours, not someone else's."
They shifted the spear to their left hand and planted it vertically. The metal rang with a faint, pure note, like a plucked string. Some students flinched—not from fear, but surprise. Only then did they lower their hood.
His face was refined, statuesque, and strikingly calm. Pale skin with a faint silver sheen. Eyes the color of cold gold, deep as an autumn sky. On their temples glowed faint tattoos, like trails of light that faded and flared with their words.
Some students gasped. Not in reverence, but in the primal sense of encountering something truly ancient. Il'Ravel smiled—warmly, humanly.
"I'll admit, I'm a bit surprised. So many faces. And nearly all so young. Not even twenty standard years, correct?" They tilted their head slightly. "Yet in each of you, sparks of power already shine. More than you realize. And that… is beautiful."
They paused briefly, then inclined their head toward the priests.
"What exactly am I to teach them?"
The eldest priest stepped forward.
"You will teach them to see. To feel. To wield what slumbers within. You will show them the Path."
Il'Ravel nodded, eyes still on the group.
"I see you're split into groups. Convenient. Then that's how we'll begin."
They swept their gaze over everyone.
"Group A… You'll be my special focus. In you burns the power of the mind and the universe's energy most fiercely. I'd wager you've been gifted various… magical abilities. If that's easier for you to grasp."
A few in Group A exchanged glances. Some straightened, others frowned.
Il'Ravel smirked.
"No need to get cocky or scared. It just means your abilities… require a unique approach. And…" they glanced at Gabriel again, "…your connection to what's coming is stronger than ever."
Gabriel flinched but stayed silent.
Il'Ravel continued:
"The other groups… don't worry. You won't be overlooked. Others will work with you, I assume," they briefly turned to the priests, who seemed to be waiting for something. In the distance, another figure emerged from the gates, clad in striking armor.
"Well, let's postpone our detailed introductions until all the mentors arrive."
From the opened gates stepped another figure.
Clearly not human, they were clad not in armor but in living metal shaped like a woman of unearthly beauty. Standing about two meters tall, her proportions were impossibly perfect, as if sculpted by a divine hand.
Her skin gleamed silver, adorned with intricate technological patterns and embedded symbols that pulsed softly, drawing the eye and mesmerizing. Her hair seemed forged from dark metal, segmented into flowing strands that framed her face, enhancing her otherworldly aesthetic.
She wore a form-fitting exosuit—not clothing, but a second skin, symbiotically tracing every curve and underscoring her majesty.
Her eyes didn't blink. They radiated an inner, alien glow—deep turquoise-green, shining with wisdom and power, hypnotizing with a single glance.
Her body bore faint circles and lines, pulsing in rhythm with her breath, hinting at the hidden strength and energy thrumming beneath her "skin." She moved with fluid grace, exuding calm and confidence, yet radiating an aura of absolute dominance.
Her presence wasn't just restrained power. It was something that commanded without words.
She stopped at the courtyard's center, scanning the group. When her eyes lingered on Il'Ravel, they held a trace of condescension. A faint shadow of superiority. As if she'd weighed his worth… and found it lacking.
Then she turned to the priests standing nearby.
"So, priests," her voice turned cold, formal. "What are my further instructions? And what is the extent of my involvement with these… charges?"
Blake noticed Il'Ravel tense slightly, as if sensing a trap or veiled threat.
After hearing the priests' brief reply, Elael turned back to the students.
"Greetings, so-called Chosen Ones," she said, her deep, melodic voice silencing even the chattiest. "I am Elael."
She paused briefly, letting her words sink in.
"I am one of those who will aid you on your path. And I hope our collaboration proves fruitful."
Elael surveyed the group, a hint of arrogance in her tone.
"Well, there are quite a few of you… More than I expected in such a… trivial place. I hope you realize the honor bestowed upon you by my overseeing your training."
She paused again, as if testing their reaction.
"I've been hired to refine your… rather raw abilities. To turn you into something… greater. Something useful. Let's see if I can work a miracle with this… material."
Murmurs of indignation rippled through the crowd.
"What right do you have to talk to us like that?" someone shouted from the back. "We're not kids to be lectured like this!"
"Who are you to order us around?" another chimed in.
Elael fell silent.
The atmosphere shifted. Pressure thickened the air. Breathing grew difficult. Voices died. An unseen weight pressed down on everyone.
She slowly scanned the crowd. Her eyes flared with cold, alien fire.
"You, pitiful ants, dare snap at me?" her icy tone no longer sang—it commanded. "You should be grateful I've deigned to train you at all. Learn manners and obedience. Especially toward those stronger and older than you. Your mentors are not your playthings."
Silence became absolute. Only the crackle of energy from her form broke the void.
"Remember that well," she added. "And think before opening your insignificant mouths in my presence again."
But then Il'Ravel stepped forward. His staff tapped the stone slab lightly. A wave of gentle energy dispersed the oppressive atmosphere.
"I believe," he said evenly, "you too, Lady Elael, should not forget where you stand. And what your place is."
Elael turned. Irritation flashed in her eyes.
"What did you say, elf?" she hissed.
"I merely reminded you of courtesy," Il'Ravel replied calmly. "These people are not ants. They are the future. Treating them with disdain disrespects the very purpose of our presence here."
Elael unleashed another wave of pressure. But Il'Ravel didn't budge. He gripped his staff tighter. The runes along its shaft glowed, pulsing with his energy.
"Nor should you forget, Lady," his voice hardened, "that arrogance rarely leads to wisdom. And here, we teach wisdom. Including to you."
Blake held his breath. He sensed something… dangerous hanging in the air. One wrong move, and it could all spiral into disaster.
But the priests intervened.
"Enough!" the eldest priest declared, stepping forward. His voice, amplified by magic, echoed across the courtyard, smothering the rising confrontation. "This is no place for quarrels. Especially now, with the last mentor arriving."
He glanced at Elael and Il'Ravel, his look a stern warning.
"Remember why you're here. You've come to help these young men and women prepare for the trials ahead, not to flex your strength against each other."
The priests looked skyward, and all eyes followed, awaiting the final mentor's arrival.
Suddenly, the sky darkened, as if a colossal shadow engulfed them. The crowd looked up in awe as a massive ship descended majestically through dissipating clouds. Its size was staggering—at least three hundred meters long, perhaps more. It resembled a titanic fortress, clad in armor like a dragon's scales, bristling with weapons like the maws of monstrous beasts.
Powerful gusts radiated from the ship, slamming into the ground with growing force. Trees bent and snapped like twigs under the invisible onslaught, some torn up by their roots and spinning helplessly in the vortex. Statues and objects, once unyielding, swayed, lost balance, and crashed into rubble with a roar.
The earth shook as massive landing struts extended from the ship's belly. They struck the ground with a deafening clang, and the vessel, like a giant beast, settled onto a relatively flat clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
After a moment, a platform-lift descended from a side compartment. On it stood a lone figure clad in sleek military armor—futuristic yet elegant. He seemed the most ordinary of all they'd seen so far.
Without waiting for the platform to fully lower, he leapt off, landing neatly with the aid of a small jetpack at his waist. The armor looked heavy but didn't restrict him. It bore intricate designs and symbols, like ancient script, and the helmet featured a striking blue cross-shaped visor glowing atop his head. A heraldic wolf emblem on the helm lent him a wild courage and nobility.
Approaching the priests, he stopped, sized up the eldest, and spoke without waiting for an invitation—his voice a blend of artillery fire and frontline morning coffee:
"So… you're the local robe-wearing bosses, huh? Be straight with me—was it for THIS you dragged me across three and a half galaxies? For a sum that made even my account blush like a virgin on her first date? And yanked me from Jakraxis-4, where my red-faced morons in the Iron Wolves are currently gnawing at the C'Rak Syndicate without me? All for a bunch of pups with 'where's the toilet' eyes and 'mom, I shat myself in space' faces?"
He slowly scanned the students, like a general surveying a battlefield where someone forgot to dig trenches.
"I thought I was hired to train an elite. A team I could take into a final stand. But this… classes. Cliques. Young talents with combat readiness at the level of preschool calisthenics."
"Well, since you're silent, I'll take that as a yes. I'm here, contract's signed, the zeros in my account are singing serenades, and flying back sounds like a drag. But mark my words: if all that's left of these brats are skills to kill any enemy and survive any hellhole, don't come crying to me—take it up with your weirdo megalomania department."
He turned to the crowd and stepped forward, as if at a drill.
"Alright, listen up, snot-nosed dream cadets! I, your worst nightmare and last shot at combat dignity, have arrived. Anyone still clinging to naive hopes of a kind mentor with cookies—head to daycare. They've got an opening in the 'we don't cry, we sulk quietly' club."
He swept his gaze over their faces.
"While you're whining, I'll already be digging a pit. And it might just be for you. Want to be fighters? Learn to be someone worth looking at in armor. Right now, you're tour guides to your own incompetence. But maybe—just maybe—I can pull some of you out of the swamp called 'I can't handle it.' We'll see. First, you yell. Then you think. Then you fight. And maybe you live. Got it? Great. Didn't get it? Training's gonna be even more fun."
He glanced at Il'Ravel and Elael.
"And who've we got here? Mr. Cloak and Miss Glam from the 'all-inclusive' section? This is your serious prep? For a second, I thought I'd landed in a Temple, not a second-rate cosmic drama set. Surprise me, will you?"
Elael lifted her head. Cold fire flared in her gaze.
"Surprise?" her voice rang like glass, laced with venom. "I'm not here to entertain soldier boys with hero complexes and nuke-ram psychology. My task is to turn this raw mess into something that can think. Not meat for your trenches."
Michigan smirked, squaring his shoulders.
"Let's clear this up. Michigan. And yeah, I'm the guy they call when everything's already gone to shit. Because I turn the sniveling-est brats into legends—or martyrs, if it doesn't work out. Fair and square. No tears."
He stepped closer, locking eyes with her.
"And you, princess, seem to think playing transcendence with shiny antennas and a polished attitude beats experience. So let me be clear—your 'thinking' hasn't saved anyone bleeding out. I've pulled those out. Bare hands, from ashes. So before you open your mouth, consider who you're planning to teach."
"I'll teach them to win," Elael cut in coldly. "To win, not scrape by on instincts like savages. I'll burn weakness out of them. Including worship of pointless violence and heroism for heroism's sake."
"Savage?" Michigan chuckled. "You haven't seen savage. Savage is when tenth of second decides who wakes up tomorrow. And I'll teach them this tenth. If need be, I'll teach them to kill gods. Even ones like you."
Elael stepped forward. The air thickened. Space trembled. Her form shifted: she grew taller, her skin turned silver-black, clad in living metal. From her back erupted blazing ring-wings, slowly spinning, studded with spear-like protrusions. A helmet-diadem snapped over her face, sprouting glowing antennae. Her aura of suppression became monstrous, the air syrupy. Even Il'Ravel stepped back instinctively.
"Think you're a threat to me, mortal?" her voice boomed like a bell, rattling bones and minds.
Michigan didn't flinch. His helmet clicked open. A weathered, scarred face. Wars etched into skin, eyes sharp as a double-edged blade. No fear in that steel—just calculation and memory.
"Think I'm scared of you, girl?" he smirked. "I know what you are. Niflung."
Il'Ravel tensed. His grip tightened on his staff. But he stayed silent.
"You're Tarshim if to be precise. One of the ancient kind. And you're damn far from home. I've met your type. Killed them too. Last time, it took thirteen tries to finish one of your kin. How many revives you got? Ten? Eleven? Wanna test it?"
Elael flared. Her regalia pulsed. Pseudoswords formed around her—not blades, but stellar clots, burning and hissing like dying stars. A wave of force slammed everyone to the ground. Space howled.
But Il'Ravel finally acted. He raised his staff, traced a symbol in the air, and struck the ground. A flash—and the gravitational pressure scattered like a storm swept away. He straightened, gave both mentors a weary look, then lowered his gaze.
"Enough. Do what you want. But not in front of them."
He said no more, stepping aside as if relinquishing control. It wasn't approval—more a surrender. He'd chosen not to push further.
From behind came the calm but firm voice of the eldest priest:
"That's enough. You're not here for this. We summoned mentors, not throne claimants. Calm down. Or leave the Temple's bounds."
The words settled like clicks in the air. A pause. A second—and the tension slowly ebbed.
Michigan, as if taking the cue, stepped forward and addressed the students—no venom now, just rumbling conviction:
"So there's no confusion. I'm G1 Michigan. Veteran of forty-two campaigns. Commander of the Iron Wolves. The guy who didn't burn in hell because I was the senior in the squad."
He scanned the students:
"My job's to make you not corpses with special effects, but survivors. Run, fight, endure pain, make decisions. Reality doesn't come with subtitles. Every day now is a test with no retakes."
He nodded toward Il'Ravel:
"This elf'll teach you tricks, magic, inner glow, and all that jazz. Maybe he even believes in you. Props to him for that."
A nod toward Elael:
"Iron Lady, from what I gather, handles physical upgrades and tuning you to some higher-form standards. Sure she'll 'appreciate' you too."
He turned back to the students:
"I'm not your friend. Not your crutch. I'm a tool. Sharp. And if you don't want to change, it'll cut you down into something useful."
A pause.
"Tomorrow at dawn—first training. Today—food, sleep, prayers. Or if you're an atheist, just think of whoever's back home and why you're still breathing."
He noticed the students had already clustered—not around the mentors, but near the adults standing aside. Teachers, presumably. Michigan's face twitched, like he'd seen this before.
He snorted:
"Tell me this isn't… Are we doing this again? Teens ripped from their beds, handed powers, given a mission, and they're praying you at least make it to the john without a manual?"
One of the teachers nodded. Silent. Affirmative. Michigan exhaled heavily, shaking his head.
"Well, fuck me. Again?"
He sighed like he'd just shouldered not a pack, but the world. Then jabbed a finger at the teachers:
"You lot. By tonight—detailed dossiers on every one of them. Personality. Behavior. Abilities. Fears. Quirks. Even how they sneeze. I don't play guess-who, I train survivors."
He stepped back and turned to the students. His voice rose slightly:
"And you, kiddos. From now on, no 'hey' or 'dude.' To me, it's 'sir' or 'instructor.' For the disciplined—G1. Or Grey-Leader. Clear?"
Silence. Some nodded, some swallowed, some froze, faces blank as after a blast.
Michigan grinned, like a tank locking onto a new target:
"Perfect. So not a total zero yet."
Without waiting for replies, he turned and stomped back to his ship, as if this whole scene had been rehearsed on battlefields long past.
And Alexander, who'd watched it all in silence, was left pondering one simple thing: "Just what—and how deep—have we gotten ourselves into?"