The Training Grounds
The quartet of mortals followed Tamiel in silence, while the goddess of Magic trailed quietly behind them.
Hana had noticed how vast their classroom truly was—too vast, perhaps, for a place they had never truly explored. The pace of events had never allowed it. Everything had happened too quickly.
Their footsteps were the only sound echoing through the corridors as they followed Tamiel.
Tap. Tap.
The near-silence of this divine abode felt almost stifling. Whether within their own group or from the world beyond these walls, there was rarely any disturbance, any sign of life breaking the stillness.
It was a kind of quiet Hana might once have cherished in her homeland. Not that she despised noise—the sounds that marked a place as alive—but there were moments when it became overwhelming, especially as the city grew and its people burned with constant fervor.
Here, however, the silence felt different.
It made Adam and his companions realize, with an unsettling certainty, that this place was unlike anything they had known—on Earth or even within Astra.
Only later would Adam notice that they were still within the classroom—though far removed from the familiar rows of seats where they usually listened to their teachers' lectures.
Guided by Tamiel, the group followed a path unknown to the mortals. After several minutes, they came to a stop before a weathered door, its surface worn by time, its design faintly archaic in Adam's eyes.
The teenager and his companions felt a growing tension. None of them knew anything about combat.
None, except Clayton.
A veteran.
Tamiel, for his part, had noticed Clayton's sharpness from the very beginning of their meeting.
Creeeak.
The ancient looking doors opened themselves without intervention from anyone.
The sight that welcomed the chosen was stunning.
Beyond the threshold, the space opened into something vast—unnaturally so.
Suspended in the air were dozens of platforms, floating at uneven heights, scattered without any apparent order. Some hovered close enough to one another to suggest passage; others drifted alone, isolated, as though daring anyone to reach them.
Beneath these platforms lay a field of spikes.
Countless, elongated, and impossibly sharp, they rose from the depths below, their metallic surfaces glinting faintly in the ambient light—silent witnesses to a lethality that required no movement to be felt.
Despite the ancient appearance of the doors they had passed through, the training hall itself was meticulously maintained. There was no dust, no decay—only a cleanliness that made the danger feel intentional. Designed.
Strangely, there was no scent to match the brutality of the place. No iron, no blood, no damp stone. The air was neutral, almost sterile, as though the room refused to acknowledge the fate it promised.
Hana and Sophia stood frozen, their expressions caught between awe and disbelief.
Floating around the platforms were luminous triangular constructs—softly glowing, slowly rotating—serving as suspended lamps. Their light cast shifting reflections across the spikes below, making the entire chamber feel alive in a quiet, watchful way.
"This place is astounding," Clayton muttered at last, his gaze scanning the room with a soldier's instinct. "But it's just as deadly. I keep underestimating how… extravagant the gods can be."
Even he had to admit it.
His experience was limited—far more than he had once believed. He had seen war, chaos, and death, and yet this world continued to challenge his assumptions.
Astra was not merely a realm of extraordinary powers; it was a complex, rich civilization, full of mysteries yet to be uncovered.
Behind the veteran, Adam stood in stunned silence.
His eyes widened as he finally took in the full scale of the structure.
The hall resembled a tower—circular, rising far above them—yet that was not what unsettled him most.
The walls themselves were lined with spikes.
Ya Allah…
How could anyone possibly think this was a training hall meant for hand-to-hand combat?
Adam's thoughts spiraled wildly. He truly could not grasp the reasoning of these so-called divine beings.
Why would the god of wisdom lead them into a place like this?
Did he believe their potential would awaken just like in some fiction?
This was reality—their reality.
No. Don't lose heart.
Smack.
He slapped his own cheek and forced himself to look around the chamber once more.
Damn it.
A bitter feeling settled in his chest.
Learning how to fight here…
It was going to be hell.
"Let us begin," Tamiel said, drawing the mortals' attention back to him, pulling them out of their wandering thoughts.
Impatience and nervous tension were clearly written on their faces.
Even Clayton—who believed he held an advantage—could no longer maintain his neutral expression.
Though experienced, he was not foolish. A single misstep here would be fatal. Fighting while knowing that a fall meant death made focus far more difficult than on any battlefield he had known.
Behind them, Astéria manifested a luxurious chair and a table with a casual gesture.
Her usual playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a solemn stillness. In that moment, she looked every bit the goddess she was—one whose presence alone could command reverence.
Even then, none of the mortals noticed.
Only later would they realize how unusual this was.
Aside from the rare moments when she taught them the nature of eidos, she had never carried herself with such gravity.
The goddess took her seat, a mysterious book appearing in her hands. Its leather cover was pale, almost white, adorned with a crescent-shaped lunar symbol.
Circles of violet light and luminous triangular glyphs emerged above the pages—unknown letters pulsing with arcane power.
It was clear that today's training did not concern her directly. She would continue her own work.
The goddess's position was set slightly away from the fractured pathway leading forward.
It was there that the mortals finally noticed it.
Barely ten meters past the threshold, the stone path ended abruptly.
The floor had been deliberately fractured, as though the road itself had been severed to prevent any further advance.
Directly ahead of them—at the same level—floated the first platform.
Not higher.
Not lower.
Just separated.
Tamiel stepped forward without another word.
The God of History began to run lightly and leapt from the edge of the broken path toward the floating platform.
The distance was modest. Two meters, perhaps a little more.
His feet touched the surface with a muted sound. The platform trembled once—then steadied.
No flash of power.
No divine aura.
No magic.
Just a jump.
For a brief moment, the four mortals stood frozen, taken by surprise.
It wasn't impressive in the way they had expected—no spectacle, no supernatural display. And yet… that was precisely what unsettled them.
Tamiel turned back toward them and raised his hand, palm open, beckoning.
Adam swallowed.
Only then did it strike him: Tamiel had chosen not to use his divinity.
It was subtle—but deliberate.
A lesson.
Clayton noticed it immediately.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Without waiting for further instruction, the veteran moved forward.
He planted his feet, rolled his shoulders once, and took a short running start. His movements were practiced, instinctive—muscle memory honed over decades of training.
Then he jumped.
For a split second, the void beneath him yawned wide, the spikes below catching the light like a bed of waiting fangs.
But his body responded without hesitation.
Clayton landed cleanly on the platform, knees bending slightly to absorb the impact.
He straightened, breathing out a low laugh.
"Hah… I did it," he muttered, almost amused.
Then, more softly: "Feels nostalgic."
The sensation stirred something old inside him—memories of obstacle courses, night drills, and leaps taken under fire. The circumstances were different, infinitely more dangerous… but the core was the same.
Movement.
Commitment.
No hesitation.
Behind him, Adam felt his throat tighten.
If Clayton could do it… then it was possible.
Still terrifying. Still lethal.
But possible.
Tamiel stood a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the platform without the slightest change in expression.
No encouragement. No judgment.
Just that unreadable calm that made the silence heavier than words.
"So… now it's my turn," the teenager muttered as he took his position.
Aaah.
He let out a frustrated sigh, then pushed himself forward, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.
The ground rushed beneath his feet.
At the very last moment, he leapt from the edge—timing it as best he could.
"Oh my gosh!"
The cry burst from his throat, half panic, half adrenaline, as Adam poured every ounce of strength into the jump.
Boom!
His body slammed onto the platform.
It wasn't smooth.
It wasn't elegant.
Nothing like Clayton's.
But he made it.
That was all that mattered in that instant.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, flooding him with a raw, almost dizzy sense of pride.
"Hhh… hhh…!"
He gasped for air, breathing hard as if his lungs were about to give out. His legs trembled beneath him as he slowly pushed himself upright.
That was when he noticed them.
Tamiel.
Clayton.
Both were watching him—calm, amused… and unmistakably mocking.
Clayton stepped closer without a word. Grasping Adam's hand and steadying his shoulder, he helped him to his feet with firm ease.
"Good," he said at last. "That was a solid move for your first attempt at something like this. Or am I wrong?"
The compliment caught Adam off guard. He looked away instinctively, a shy flush rising to his face.
But it didn't last.
Almost immediately, his expression hardened again, the familiar reserved mask slipping back into place as if his brief embarrassment had never existed.
"You're not wrong," Adam replied quietly.
"It's the first time I've ever done something like that."
"It's your turn, ladies."
Clayton turned toward the two women and raised his voice slightly, the short distance between them making the reminder unnecessary—but firm.
Hana and Sophia exchanged a silent glance.
For a brief moment, neither spoke. Each was wondering who should go first… and who should go last.
"Ma'am, I'll go first, if you don't mind," Sophia said at last, addressing the Japanese woman with quiet respect.
"You should," Hana replied softly. "I've never really been good at things like this."
She knew herself well enough to admit it.
Fear still lingered in her chest—sharp, familiar—the echo of her last accident during the obstacle course. And besides, going first or second didn't truly matter. Not here. Not now.
"…Alright."
The young French woman stepped forward and took her position.
Don't stress, Sophia.
Don't stress. I can do this.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Stay calm. Breathe. Just like we learned.
Hhh…
Haa…
Her breathing slowed, steady and controlled.
As she focused her mind, she did something none of the others had done so clearly.
She recalled the Vital Breath.
Her awareness shifted inward—toward her waist, her legs, the strength coiled within her thighs. She felt the tension, not as fear, but as potential.
Sophia ran.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Her breath synchronized with her movement.
Hhh—step.
Haa—step.
Six strides.
Then she pushed off.
Her body surged forward in a single, fluid motion—fast, precise, almost effortless. There was no hesitation, no panic. Compared to Adam… even Clayton… she looked calmer. More centered.
Thump.
She landed lightly on the platform, barely making a sound.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Hana's eyes widened.
Adam froze mid-breath.
Even Clayton stared, genuinely taken aback.
The movement had been eerily familiar.
It mirrored Tamiel's leap.
In that moment, understanding settled over them.
So that's what it meant.
The demonstration.
The precision.
The control.
No wonder Tamiel bore the title God of Wisdom.
He wasn't merely teaching them.
He was showing them the path—and living proof of what mastery truly looked like.
Sophia let out a slow, satisfied breath.
A faint smile curved her lips as she turned toward the two men.
"So… did you understand?" she asked lightly.
There was no mockery in her tone—only quiet confidence. What she had shown them was not meant to diminish their courage, nor the raw resolve it had taken for Adam to leap, or the experience Clayton carried in his muscles.
It simply proved that strength could take many forms.
Grace was one of them.
She stepped forward and joined them on the platform, standing shoulder to shoulder with the two men. Together, the trio turned their gaze back toward the fractured path.
Toward the one they were missing.
"Madam Hana," Sophia called gently, raising her voice just enough to carry across the gap. "You can do it. You don't need to complicate things."
Adam nodded, swallowing his own lingering fear.
"Just run," he added. "As hard as you can."
"Haaah…"
On the other side, Hana exhaled shakily.
Her chest rose and fell as nerves tightened around her ribs. Seeing their gestures—Clayton's steady stance, Adam's clenched encouragement—she understood that there was no turning back.
For once, she could not let herself drift passively with the current, as she so often had in life.
Hana stood alone at the edge of the fractured path, her gaze wavering between the yawning void and the forest of sharpened spikes below—waiting with macabre patience at the base of the tower.
She felt painfully aware of her thirty-five years.
Of her ordinary body.
A civilian woman whose life in Osaka had been built from quiet routines, patient care, and evenings spent tending bonsai trees—worlds away from Clayton's hardened physique or Adam's youthful vitality.
This was not a test of power.
It was a test of resolve.
Alright… my turn.
She closed her eyes.
Calm your mind.
Sophia was right.
She couldn't imitate them.
So she wouldn't.
I'll just run. With everything I have.
Hana leaned forward, knees bent. The muscles beneath her fitted clothing tensed as she gathered all the strength she could summon.
Then she sprinted.
There was no elegance in her movement—her posture awkward, her steps uneven—but she ran like a desperate predator chasing the last glimmer of hope before it vanished.
Her lungs burned.
Her legs screamed.
She ignored it all.
At the very edge of the path, she leapt.
For a fleeting instant, she hung in the air, eyes locked on the platform ahead.
Too late, she realized her mistake.
Her feet angled downward, her focus fixed solely on the landing point—neglecting her hands, her balance, her center of gravity.
Boom.
A harsh impact thundered across the platform.
Pain shot through her legs as the force of the landing was redirected upward, her weight thrown backward by the poor footing. Her torso tilted, momentum working against her.
No! I have to make it!
Panic surged, clouding her awareness.
She didn't notice Clayton stepping forward, arm outstretched, barely a meter away.
Before he could catch her, Hana reacted on instinct—flinging her arms forward, contracting her abdomen, forcing her chest down to counterbalance the fall.
Everything happened too fast.
Clayton's hand brushed air.
Hana pitched forward.
Bam.
She hit the platform hard—hands slamming down first, absorbing the worst of the impact.
Her breath knocked from her lungs, she lay there for a second, stunned.
…Good. I used my hands, she thought hazily. That could've been worse.
Slowly, realization set in.
She was alive.
She had made it.
"I… did it," she whispered.
A crooked smile tugged at her lips—bitter, self-deprecating—soft features marred by a few shallow scrapes across her cheek.
"How ridiculous…" she murmured. "Feeling proud over something younger people just did."
Yet the smile stayed.
Because despite everything—
She had crossed.
Slowly, Hana pushed herself upright.
Only then did she notice Clayton standing beside her—closer than she had expected. The tension in his shoulders eased the moment their eyes met, a visible relief crossing his rugged features.
"I didn't expect that kind of drive from you, Hana," he admitted honestly. "Impressive."
He paused, then added more bluntly, "I'll be straight with you—I wasn't entirely confident you'd make it. That's why I stayed close. In case I had to pull you back."
The words struck her harder than the fall.
Embarrassment rushed to her face, sharp and unfamiliar. For a fleeting second, she wished she could disappear into the stone beneath her feet.
They use first names so easily… she thought. I should do the same, or they'll find it strange.
She still wasn't used to it—people addressing one another so casually, so quickly, despite their shared fate. It felt intimate in a way she hadn't yet learned how to navigate.
But she was learning.
After a moment, the awkwardness faded. Hana stepped closer to Clayton and bowed her head slightly.
"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Rumray. Truly. I wasn't confident either."
They moved together toward Adam and Sophia.
"And you as well," Hana added, turning to the two younger ones. "Your encouragement helped me push past my hesitation."
She realized, then, that lingering on gratitude would only slow them down. What mattered wasn't the thanks—it was what she had accepted about herself.
She could move forward as she was.
"No need for that, Hana," Sophia said with a gentle smile. "We're… almost like a team now, wouldn't you say?"
She glanced toward Adam.
Adam nodded. "Yeah. No need for thanks between us. It's not a big deal."
He wasn't fond of unnecessary politeness—especially when something felt natural. Gratitude mattered to him only when it truly carried weight.
Clayton watched them quietly, a trace of sympathy softening his expression. He knew what lay ahead wouldn't be easy—but it was necessary. Strength alone wouldn't be enough where they were going.
"Alright," he said at last. "Let's not forget—we're not here to chat."
The four of them turned as one.
Tamiel stood nearby, silent, watching.
He observed the four mortals for a moment longer, his gaze moving from one to the next without pause or emphasis.
There was nothing in his expression that could be mistaken for approval—or its absence.
Only recognition.
"Well," he said evenly,
"shall we enter the heart of the matter?"
For a brief moment, no one answered.
Then Clayton stepped forward.
"Alright," the veteran said, rolling his shoulders once.
"I'll set the example."
A faint smile touched Tamiel's lips.
"Good," he replied.
"I expected nothing less from a leader."
At the far edge of the hall, Astéria lifted her gaze once more.
The pale book resting on the table beside her pulsed faintly, slow rhythms traveling across its surface, as though something within had stirred. The crescent-shaped symbol shimmered briefly—then stilled.
For the first time since their entry into this place, the goddess's attention returned fully to them.
_______
Author's Note
Thank you for reading this chapter.
As always, your thoughts, comments, and critiques are more than welcome—they help this journey grow and improve. If you enjoyed the chapter, your votes and feedback are truly appreciated.
May the next step of Astra's journey be even stronger.