The first official gathering of the entire first-year class took place in the Grand Combat Arena. It was a vast, open-air amphitheater on one of the lower islands, a place that could be reconfigured with hard-light projections and elemental manipulation to simulate any environment, from a volcanic wasteland to a frozen tundra. Today, it was simple, open stone, a stage for the man who stood at its center.
Master Theron Ashvale, the Academy's Combat Instructor, was a man who looked like he had been carved from granite and then set on fire. He was a retired Pyralis warmaster, and his life story was written in the network of scars that covered every visible inch of his skin. One eye was a milky white orb, a souvenir from a duel with a Glaciem battle-mage. Three fingers on his left hand were made of obsidian, replacements for the ones he'd lost to a Vex'Arak spatial blade. He had more scars than teeth, and the teeth he had left were yellowed and crooked. He stood before the hundreds of assembled students, his arms crossed over his massive chest, radiating an aura of such intense, violent competence that the air itself seemed to crackle around him.
He hadn't said a word yet, but he already had their complete, terrified attention.
"Welcome to Lumina Academy," he growled, his voice like rocks grinding together. "My name is Master Ashvale. For those of you who survive, I will be your combat instructor. My job is to teach you how to kill, and how not to be killed. Most of you will be mediocre at both. My goal is to ensure your mediocrity doesn't get your comrades killed."
A cocky upperclassman, a Pyralis cousin with more bravado than sense who was assisting with the orientation, let out a loud snort. "Don't listen to the old man," he called out to the first-years. "He's all bark and no…"
He didn't finish the sentence. In a movement so fast it was barely a blur, Ashvale closed the thirty-foot distance between them. There was no fancy technique, no burst of fire. Just pure, brutal speed. He grabbed the upperclassman by the throat, lifted him clean off the ground, and slammed him into the stone floor. The sound of the impact echoed through the silent arena. The upperclassman lay there, gasping, the wind knocked out of him, his face a mask of shock and pain.
Ashvale stood over him, dusting off his hands. "As I was saying," he continued, his voice not even slightly raised, "my job is to teach you. And my philosophy is simple." He pointed a scarred finger at the groaning student on the floor. "Pain teaches. Pain is a lesson that is not easily forgotten. In my class, you will experience a great deal of pain. You will learn to accept it, to use it, and to inflict it. If this philosophy does not appeal to you, the sky-ferry back to the capital leaves every hour. Do not let me detain you."
No one moved. No one even breathed. The lesson had been delivered.
From my place in the crowd, I watched the demonstration with a cold, analytical focus. The new 'I' was a strange mix of reactions. Azrael, the accountant, was horrified. This was brutality, pure and simple. This man was a monster. But Damon, the Mournblade, felt a flicker of something else. Respect. This was a man who understood violence, not as a tool of politics or a display of power, but as a fundamental truth of existence. He was a kindred spirit, a fellow practitioner of a grim art. He was someone who had killed, and who had been killed by his own hands, and had gotten back up. I understood him.
Kaelen, standing a few rows away, watched with wide, determined eyes. He wasn't horrified. He was inspired. This was a man of true strength, a strength born from hardship, not from a fancy bloodline. Ashvale's words about pain resonated with him. Kaelen's whole life had been pain. He knew how to endure it. For the first time, he felt like he might have an advantage in this place. He resolved to train harder than anyone, to earn this brutal man's respect.
Not far from him, Elara Glaciem observed the scene with detached curiosity. Her mind was already processing the data. *Instructor: Theron Ashvale. Threat level: Extreme. Teaching methodology: Negative reinforcement through physical trauma. Probability of student injury in his class: 97.8%. Probability of effective learning: 62.3%. An inefficient, but potentially effective, method for certain student archetypes.* She made a note to calculate the optimal level of participation in his class to gain the necessary combat skills without sustaining debilitating injury.
Isabella Pyralis, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement. A wide, predatory grin was plastered on her face. Finally! Someone who understood! Someone who wasn't going to bore her with theories and ethics. Pain teaches? Brutality works? This was a language she understood perfectly. She couldn't wait for his class to start. She looked at the fallen upperclassman—her own cousin—with a mixture of pity and contempt. He should have known better than to disrespect a true warrior.
Ashvale let the silence stretch for another long moment, letting his lesson sink in. Then he spoke again. "The entrance examinations will begin in one week. They will consist of three trials, designed to test your affinity, your strategic mind, and your will to survive. Your performance will determine your rank, your class placement, and your standing in this Academy for the next century."
He began to pace, his presence as heavy as a mountain. "I encourage you to use this week for preparation, for prayer, and for writing letters to your loved ones." A grim, humorless smile touched his scarred lips. "Just in case."
The coming trial. The words hung in the air, a promise and a threat. The first act of the novel was about to begin in earnest. The examinations were the catalyst, the event that would bring all the main characters together, that would expose their strengths and weaknesses, and that would serve as the backdrop for the Vex'Arak's catastrophic summoning.
I stood perfectly still, a ghost in the crowd, my face a mask of calm indifference. But inside, my new mind was racing, processing the variables, calculating the odds, and preparing for the storm. The other students saw a week of tests. I saw a countdown to an apocalypse. And I had seven days to prepare.