The bell did not ring.
It tolled.
A low, funereal sound rolled through Black Sepulcher Academy, vibrating through stone, bone, and marrow alike. The sound did not summon—it commanded.
Azreal joined the other survivors as they were guided downward.
Not up.
Not outward.
Down.
Staircases spiraled deep beneath the academy, descending past crypts, sealed laboratories, and chambers that whispered with lingering souls. By the time they reached their destination, the air itself felt heavier—laden with death-aspected energy so dense it pressed against the skin.
They entered the Necropolis Auditorium.
The chamber was vast and circular, carved entirely from black stone. Tiered seating descended toward a central dais shaped like a mass grave—uneven, jagged, and ancient. The walls were embedded with thousands of skulls, each carved with a name.
Some names glowed faintly.
Others were scratched out.
Azreal took his seat among the Ossuary Ward survivors.
There were fewer than a hundred.
Out of several hundred.
No one spoke.
At the center of the dais, mist began to gather.
Figures emerged from it—not walking, not teleporting, but coalescing, as if death itself was taking form.
A skeletal woman bound in soul-chains.
A towering Death Knight fused to his armor.
A hunched wraith stitched together by runes.
And several figures who were unmistakably alive—but carried death in their eyes.
A staff struck stone.
The sound silenced even thought.
From the shadows stepped a tall, thin man draped in layered funeral robes. His face was pale and sharp, untouched by age yet stripped of warmth. His eyes burned with a muted violet glow—cold, precise, and utterly disinterested in mercy.
"I am Headmaster Mortivar Kain," he said.
The name alone settled like a tombstone.
"You are here because you survived," Mortivar continued. "Not because you were worthy."
No outrage followed.
Only tension.
"Black Sepulcher does not train heroes," he said calmly. "We do not cultivate virtue. We do not reward potential."
His gaze swept the hall.
It paused—just briefly—on Azreal.
"We produce results."
A gesture of his staff caused the air behind him to tear open.
A massive projection formed, etched in pale soul-light.
DISCIPLINE SELECTION — MORTAL BRANCHCore Disciplines (Choose Three):
Necromantic Theory & Application
Skeletal Manipulation & Resonance
Soul Structure & Containment
Death-Aspected Mana Control
Anatomy of the Living (Practical)
Anatomy of the Dead (Advanced)
Battlefield Reanimation
Ritual Circles & Large-Scale Arrays
Supplementary Studies (Choose Two):
Combat Conditioning
Mental Fortitude & Pain Tolerance
Alchemy — Corporeal Focus
Runic Engraving
Soul Defense
Inter-System Energy Theory
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Mortivar's staff struck the stone again.
"Silence."
It returned instantly.
"You will choose your path," Mortivar said. "And you will suffer the consequences of that choice. There will be no reassignment. No forgiveness. No appeals."
A student near the front row suddenly stood.
"I—I can't do this," he stammered. His eyes darted wildly. "This place—this isn't an academy. It's a slaughterhouse!"
Several students flinched.
Mortivar turned his gaze on him.
"Oh," he said mildly. "You are correct."
The student's breath came in ragged gasps. "I quit. I don't care if I fail—"
His body locked up.
A sigil flared beneath his feet.
The floor opened.
Black skeletal hands burst upward, dragging the screaming student down as his fingernails tore against stone.
"No—NO—PLEASE—!"
The floor sealed.
Silence.
Mortivar did not look away.
"Black Sepulcher does not accept cowards," he said evenly. "Nor does it release them."
Several students were shaking now.
Azreal did not move.
Inside his soul, his system stirred.
[Hidden System Flag Triggered]
[Mental Stability: Exceptional]
[Death Affinity: Deepening]
[Observation Logged: Academy Core]
Instructors began to step forward.
The towering Death Knight slammed a gauntlet into his chest.
"Instructor Varkesh," he growled. "Combat Conditioning. You will bleed until your body learns faster than your mind."
A skeletal woman drifted forward, soul-chains clinking softly.
"Professor Ysilra," she said pleasantly. "Anatomy of the Living will require subjects. Some of you will volunteer. Some of you will not."
A scarred human man followed, eyes hollow and sharp.
"Forbidden Integration Studies," he said flatly. "If you are here, it means you're already dangerous."
Several instructors' gazes slid toward Azreal.
Something unseen shifted.
[Hidden System Flag Triggered]
[Organic Synthesis: Environmental Compatibility Increased]
[Bone Creation: Stability +3%]
Azreal focused on the projection.
His choices were clear.
Not because they were safe—
—but because they were necessary.
Skeletal Manipulation & Resonance.
Anatomy of the Living.
Inter-System Energy Theory.
Control.
Understanding.
Expansion.
Across the hall, the silver-eyed student sat motionless, eyes fixed on the list. No fear. No excitement.
Calculation.
Their gazes met briefly.
No challenge.
No acknowledgment.
Just recognition.
Mortivar raised his staff one final time.
"Make your selections," he said. "Tomorrow, instruction begins."
He smiled faintly.
"Try not to disappoint us too quickly."
The projection flared brighter.
[Class Selection Interface Available]
[Warning: Chosen disciplines will influence Class Evolution]
Azreal leaned back slightly, wings folded tight, blood still seeping beneath his scales.
Good, he thought.
Now we begin.
Far above the mortal realm—
Cosmic thrones watched their heirs take shape.
And somewhere deeper still—
Existence recorded another variable.