Something was off.
Aron frowned, watching as the last instructor took their seat on the platform.
He glanced at Cedric. Cedric stood perfectly still, hands clasped, expression blank.
'The medallion shook. Could've been anything.'
Flona Frost stood at the center of the platform, waiting. Legends gave speeches. Probably did this every year.
'Nothing's happening.'
Then she spoke.
He leaned back against the bench, forcing himself to relax.
'Nothing's happening. Just orientation. Just another day.'
Then she spoke.
"Welcome to the academy."
Her voice was soft. Calm. But it carried through the entire hall without effort, every word clear as if she were standing right next to each person.
She walked forward slowly, her boots making soft sounds against the platform. "My name is Flona Frost. I graduated from this academy fourteen years ago." She stopped at the edge of the platform, hands clasped behind her back. "Since then, I've cleared sixty-three rifts. Forty-two white. Eighteen red. Three black."
She paused, letting that sink in. A few students shifted in their seats.
'Three black rifts,' Aron thought. 'Three times facing fifth-tier beasts and Riftspawn. And she's still here.'
"I tell you this not to boast," she continued, her gaze moving across the crowd, "but to show you what is possible. What you can become if you survive."
The word 'survive' hung in the air like smoke.
"You are here because you seek power." She turned slightly, her braid swinging. "Because you want to awaken. To become heroes. To stand among the strongest." Her eyes moved across the benches again. "Some of you will succeed. Most of you will not."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Nervous glances exchanged.
"I'm certain you've all read the rules by now," Flona said, her voice still soft but carrying weight. "Eight of them. Simple. Clear. Rules one through seven are understandable. Expected." She paused, her gaze settling on the crowd. "But the eighth rule is what I wish to address. For your safety."
She gestured to the side of the platform.
Two instructors moved, disappearing through a door. When they returned, they were pushing a wheelchair.
Someone sat in it, covered by a white sheet from head to toe.
The hall went silent.
The instructors wheeled the chair to the center of the platform and stepped back. Flona walked over and placed her hand on the sheet.
"All of you want to become powerful," she said quietly. "To awaken as early as possible. To stand above your peers." She pulled the sheet away.
Screams erupted from the crowd.
Students jumped to their feet, some backing away from the benches. Others just stared, hands over their mouths.
Aron's breath caught.
The figure in the wheelchair was barely recognizable as human. Its skin was rough, cracked like dried leather, stretched too tight over bones that jutted out at wrong angles. The arms were thin, skeletal, fingers curled into claws. The chest rose and fell slowly, mechanically, like breathing was something it had to remember to do.
But the worst part was the eyes.
They weren't there.
Just empty sockets, dark and hollow, staring at nothing.
'A living corpse.'
That's what people called them. The ones who failed. Who tried to enter the astral state too early, without preparation, and got trapped. Their souls lost in the astral plane while their bodies remained behind, breathing but empty. Husks. Shells. Some crueler names existed too—walkers, hollows, the soulless—but living corpse was the most common. The most accurate.
'Because that's exactly what they are. Alive, but not living.'
Flona stood beside the wheelchair, her expression unchanged. "This," she said, her voice cutting through the screams and gasps, "is what happens when you fail. When you enter the astral state without proper preparation. Without supervision. Without patience."
She looked out at the crowd, meeting eyes. "Your soul becomes trapped in the astral plane. Your body remains here. Breathing. Heart beating. But no consciousness. No awareness. You become this."
The hall was silent now except for a few students still breathing hard, trying to calm down.
"I show you this not to scare you," Flona continued, gesturing to the figure, "but to make you understand the stakes. Power is not free. It requires sacrifice. Discipline. And above all, patience."
Aron's gaze stayed on the ruined figure, his mind working through what he was seeing.
'She's not just trying to scare them. She's trying to prevent something worse.'
He glanced around the hall. Students from different kingdoms. Different allegiances. Some were allies. Some were enemies. He'd read about the political tensions in the story. Kingdoms that held grudges. Nations that wanted revenge.
'If someone dies attempting the astral state here, their kingdom could claim it was sabotage. That a rival nation murdered their student and made it look like an accident. False accusations. Demands for justice. And then...'
War.
'That's what she's really preventing. Not just dead students. International incidents. One reckless idiot could start a conflict that kills thousands.'
Flona gestured again, and the instructors covered the figure with the sheet and wheeled it away. The hall exhaled collectively.
"Power will come to you," Flona said, her voice softer now, "if you are patient. If you train. If you listen to your instructors and follow the process." She turned, walking across the platform. "But if you rush. If you believe you know better. If you break the eighth rule..." She stopped and looked back at the crowd. "You will become what you just saw."
A voice cut through the silence. Loud. Confident.
"Well then, why don't we see the almighty Flona Frost enter the astral state?"
Heads turned. Whispers spread. Students looked for the source.
A young man stood near the front, arms crossed. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with blonde hair that looked too perfect to be natural. His uniform was pristine, buttons polished, not a wrinkle anywhere. He wore a smirk like it was part of his outfit.
"Yeah," another voice agreed from a few rows back. "Show us what we're working toward."
A few more students murmured agreement, though most stayed quiet, glancing nervously between the blonde man and Flona.
Flona's expression didn't change. She walked toward the edge of the platform, her steps measured, until she stood directly in front of the young man. "And you are?"
The smirk widened. "Prince Aldric Valen. Of the Tarnis Kingdom."
Aron's chest tightened. 'Tarnis. One of the strongest military kingdoms in the world. Their army could crush most nations in weeks.'
Flona studied him for a moment, her blue eyes unreadable. "Very well."
She turned and walked to the center of the platform. The other heroes and instructors shifted in their seats, watching with interest.
Flona stopped. She stood perfectly still, hands at her sides, and closed her eyes.
The hall held its breath.
Her chest rose slowly as she inhaled. Then fell as she exhaled. In. Out. Slow. Controlled. Her shoulders relaxed. Her fingers uncurled. Every muscle in her body seemed to release tension, one by one, like she was sinking into herself.
She was meditating. Right there. In front of everyone.
Seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Nothing happened.
Prince Aldric snorted. His hand moved, reaching for something on the bench beside him. A book. He flipped it open, his smirk returning. "How long is this going to—"
The book burst into flames.
Aldric screamed, throwing it away from him. It hit the floor, pages curling and blackening as fire consumed it in seconds. Smoke rose, filling the air with the smell of burnt paper.
Students gasped. Some jumped to their feet. Others just stared.
Flona's eyes opened.
Blue light surrounded her, wrapping around her body like a second skin. It pulsed, bright and cold, casting shadows across the platform. Her form blurred slightly, like she was standing in two places at once.
But she hadn't moved. She was still standing exactly where she'd been, hands at her sides, perfectly still.
The astral state.
'She's not even here. That's just her body. Her soul is somewhere else entirely. And she still did that.'
Aldric stared at the burnt book, then at Flona. His face had gone pale, the smirk completely gone.
Flona's gaze settled on him. The blue light around her pulsed once, then faded. She blinked, and her eyes returned to normal. "Power requires control," she said softly. "Control requires discipline. Discipline requires patience."
She turned away from him, addressing the whole crowd again. "Do not mistake patience for weakness. Do not mistake rules for restrictions. They exist to keep you alive long enough to matter."
She walked back to the center of the platform. "Welcome to the academy. Your orientation begins now." She gestured to one of the instructors, an older man with gray hair and a stern expression. "Listen carefully."
She turned and walked off the platform, disappearing through the center door.
The older instructor stepped forward. "My name is Instructor Harrow. You will address me as such. Now, let us begin."
'So that's Harrow,' Aron thought. 'Cedric was right. He does look dry.'
But his attention wasn't on the instructor. It was on the empty doorway where Flona had disappeared.
---
The orientation dragged on for another hour. Instructor Harrow covered academy structure, class schedules, training expectations, and behavioral guidelines in a monotone that made even important information sound boring. Students shifted in their seats, fighting to stay focused.
Aron listened with half his attention, the other half still turning over what he'd seen. The trembling medallion. Flona's sudden appearance. The rushed feeling in the air.
When Harrow finally dismissed them, students filed out of the hall in groups, their conversations picking up immediately. Relief and excitement mixed together, the tension from earlier already fading.
Aron stood and looked for Cedric.
The servant was gone.
'Where—'
He spotted him near one of the side exits, moving quickly toward the door. Not running, but close. His hand was pressed against his chest, right where the medallion hung beneath his clothes.
Aron watched him disappear through the doorway.
'A rift attack.'
The pieces clicked. The trembling medallion. Flona showing up. Cedric rushing off the moment orientation ended.
'That scene from the story.'
The one where a rift opened on the road to the academy. Close enough to be a threat. Close enough to pull heroes from orientation. And the protagonist—still traveling, trying to make it here on time—got caught in the middle of it.
'So that's happening right now. While we're all sitting here.'
Aron walked toward the main exit, blending into the flow of students.
'Good for him.'
Not his fight. Not his problem. The protagonist could handle his own introduction to heroism.
Aron kept walking.
At least things were never boring.