Inside a quiet observation room overlooking the great hall, Dr. Aaron stood with his arms behind his back. The firelight from a small lamp flickered across his skull-like face. Beside him, Alex—a seasoned third-year—watched the shaken new students below.
[Alex]: Professor… why do we put them through this every year? Isn't it too much?
Dr. Aaron remained silent for a moment, the gears of thought turning behind the hollow sockets of his skull. Then, slowly, he spoke—his voice low, calm, but carrying the weight of something far older than the academy itself.
[Dr. Aaron]: Tell me, Alex… what do you see when you look at them?
[Alex]: A group of kids who just stared death in the face. Some didn't even make it through without breaking.
Dr. Aaron turned, his skeletal visage unreadable—but there was no malice, no coldness in his tone. Only sorrow. And conviction.
[Dr. Aaron]: And what I see... are lives that still have a chance.
He walked slowly to the window, looking down at the students—each marked now by fear, by pain, by survival.
[Dr. Aaron]: I see potential still breathing. I see children who might live long enough to grow old. I've watched too many bright souls fall in their second year… or their third. Not because they were weak… but because they never saw it coming.
He turned to Alex, his voice firmer now.
[Dr. Aaron]: This isn't cruelty. It's preparation. If they break here—where we can reach them, guide them, rebuild them—then maybe we can spare them from breaking out there. When no one's left to help."
He stepped closer to Alex, placing a gloved hand on the student's shoulder.
[Dr. Aaron]: I don't take joy in this, Alex. I don't sleep easy because of it. But I would rather be feared and hated by every student under this roof... than see one more name carved into our memorial stones.
His voice lowered, heavy with emotion.
[Dr. Aaron]: Better they hate me now and live… than love me and die unprepared.
Alex looked down, shame in his throat, guilt in his gut. The students below, still standing, still breathing—were proof enough.
Dr. Aaron turned back to the window, watching in silence.
[Back to Zero]
Zero sat in the dining hall, elbows on the table, staring at the protein bar in his hand. It was hard, dense, and had the color of dried stone. Supposedly made from compressed minerals and preserved fruits—an old soldier's ration, designed for survival, not taste.
He didn't eat right away.
Instead, he looked around the hall, at the students seated in small, silent groups, some barely speaking, others picking at their food like it might bite back. The tension in the air had faded slightly, but the shadows of the trials still lingered behind tired eyes.
Zero let out a breath.
[Zero] :(He made us suffer to not die later.)
He'd read the lore—dozens of stories buried in NPC dialogue, hidden in obscure books, forgotten side quests. Tales of students who once resented Dr. Aaron, only to later fall to their knees and thank him when the real horrors came. Many of them owed their lives to the brutal, merciless man in the skull mask. Most never made it far enough to understand.
But Zero did.
He took a small bite of the bar—it tasted like chalk and dried apples—and forced it down.
A loud, satisfied grunt caught his attention.
Grant dropped into the seat across from him, slamming down his tray like it owed him money. His Warhammer was resting beside him, cleaned but chipped from the fight with the Iron Doll. His broad orcish face lit up as he bit into the same bar like it was a gourmet feast.
[Grant]: Hah! Not bad! Better than the time I ate a sand worm's liver in the Ash Fields. That thing tasted like boiled glue.
Zero raised an eyebrow, suppressing a small smile.
[Zero]: You're actually enjoying this?
[Grant]: Of course! That trial? That was glorious. An iron beast, an endless fight, death breathing down our necks? That's the kind of challenge my clan sings about! If I died there, I'd have been happy.
He paused, then gave Zero a nod of respect.
[Grant]: But I'm glad we both made it. You? You fight like a demon with a grudge.
Zero looked at him for a long moment before nodding back.
[Zero]: Thanks. You held the line when it mattered.
The two sat in silence for a moment, eating the rest of their rations while the quiet hum of student voices filled the hall.
Zero leaned forward, elbows on the battered metal table. The bar was halfway gone now, but he didn't care much for the taste. His thoughts were on something heavier than food.
[Zero]: Grant… what do you think the next trial will be?
Grant took another loud bite of his protein bar, chewed like a grinder, then finally shrugged.
[Grant]: Dunno. Could be anything. Last year's batch got thrown into a cursed library that tried to eat their memories. One before that had to hunt each other in a shifting labyrinth. Depends on what the academy thinks we need.
Zero nodded slowly. That was the scary part—they never knew. Every trial pulled from somewhere in this world's twisted soul. It wasn't about fairness. It was about forging killers, leaders… survivors.
He tapped the table with two fingers, lost in thought.
[Zero]: If the first trial was survival… and the second was teamwork… the third might test loyalty. Or betrayal.
Grant's eyes narrowed.
[Grant]: You think they'll turn us against each other?
[Zero]: I think they already did. That Iron Doll—only two of us walked out. Doesn't feel random.
Grant's jaw tightened. His war-orc blood ran deep, and the thought of betrayal didn't sit well with him.
[Grant]: If they try to break us… I'll spit in their faces. No one tells me who to trust.
Zero smirked slightly.
[Zero]: Good. Just don't forget to watch your back… because I think the trial already started.
Grant paused mid-bite, brow furrowing.
[Grant]: What do you mean?
Zero tilted his head toward a nearby table.
A small group of students had entered the hall—six of them, walking together like they'd trained as one. Perfect posture, quiet discipline, and not a hint of exhaustion. Their uniforms were pristine, expressions unreadable.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too… out of place.
[Zero]: Those five over there… weren't here yesterday.
Grant followed his gaze, chewing slower now.
[Zero]: No names. No chatter. Just watching. Every movement is too precise to be random. They're either older students… or plants.
[Grant]: Saboteurs?
[Zero]: Maybe. Or the test itself. Could be loyalty. Could be infiltration. But trust me—they're not just here for breakfast.
One of the new students glanced in their direction. Not long. Just enough to register Zero and Grant were looking back. Then turned away, as if nothing had happened.
Too smooth.
[Zero]: Keep an eye on them. If the next trial's already begun, they'll be the storm front.
[Grant]: And what do we do if they move?
[Zero]: Then we remind them who survived the Iron Doll.
Grant grinned darkly and cracked his knuckles.
[Chapter end]
[The Dark age of faith]