The line of F-rank candidates didn't walk so much as drift.
They moved like people who had just realized the ground beneath them had no bottom.
"F–rank candidates, this way."
The instructor's voice was flat, bored. She didn't even bother to project it with sigils this time. If you missed the call, that was your problem.
Caelum stepped out of the general crowd and joined the line.
Eleven students in total.
Bruised, bandaged, hollow-eyed.
A few clung to each other. One boy stared straight ahead with the blank stare of someone whose mind hadn't accepted reality yet.
Eleven pieces, Caelum thought, taking stock.
Some already broken. Some just cracked. All useful, in the right hands.
The instructor turned her back and started walking. Two armored guards flanked the group, one on each side.
Nobody spoke at first.
It wasn't just shame.
It was the way the path itself changed.
The clean marble of the evaluation hall gave way to rougher gray stone. The walls narrowed. The lamps grew fewer and farther between, until only a handful of dim crystals lit their way with a sickly blue glow.
The air grew damp. Heavy. Metallic.
Someone in the back whispered, "This… isn't the main dorm route, is it?"
One of the guards snorted.
"No. Main dorms are north. Congratulations. You're going south."
His armor clinked as he walked. There was a dent in the left pauldron, a patch of dried black on the metal that might have been old monster blood.
Another student swallowed hard. "What's… in the south sector?"
The guard's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"South Housing Sector. Informally?" He shrugged. "Reject Dorms."
The entire line tensed.
A girl near Caelum whispered, "You mean they actually— they really—?"
"Yes," the guard said cheerfully. "They really have an entire dorm for low-performance wastes of academy resources."
The instructor didn't tell him to stop.
She didn't care.
Caelum watched the reactions:
– one boy's breathing went quick and shallow
– a girl bit her lip until it bled
– another tried to stand straighter, clinging to pride already crumbling
He walked at the same calm pace as before.
Labels are useful, he thought. Especially when everyone believes them. A cornered mind is easier to steer.
The corridor stretched on, deeper into a part of Ashthorne that smelled wrong.
Damp stone. Rot. Faint mold. Underneath all that, the thin, metallic tang of old blood.
The academy's polished facade ended here.
This was its underside.
They crossed a short stone bridge, thick fog clinging low to the ground, and stopped in front of a building that looked more like a condemned barrack than housing for students.
Four stories of leaning dark brick.
Warped wooden support beams.
Windows cracked or boarded over.
A tile had fallen from the roof and embedded itself halfway into the ground.
A weathered sign hung crooked above the entrance:
SOUTH HOUSING SECTOR — DORMITORY NINE
Someone had carved words into the wood, crude lines gouged deep:
FAILURE PIT
LOSERS' NEST
And scratched over them, as if by claws:
STAY INSIDE OR DIE
A girl behind Caelum made a small sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
The instructor turned, eyes sweeping across them.
"Dorm Nine houses candidates ranked at the bottom during entrance examinations," she said. "Your living conditions will reflect your status. If you want better, climb."
No reassurance. No sympathy.
"Food is delivered once a day. Curfew begins at ninth bell. Leaving the building after that without authorization is grounds for discipline or expulsion."
One of the boys raised a shaking hand.
"W-What kind of… discipline?"
The guard grinned.
"Depends how much of you we can still gather in a pile afterward."
He laughed at his own joke.
The boy went pale.
Caelum's expression didn't flicker.
Intimidation. Crude, but effective.
The instructor rapped her staff once on the stone steps.
"You are Ashthorne students now. Rank F or not, you have one thing in common with the rest."
Someone muttered, "What's that…?"
Her eyes hardened.
"Survival is not guaranteed."
She turned away.
The guards followed her.
No one unlocked the door.
It was already open.
It creaked inward on its own, swinging wide on rusted hinges.
Dry air sighed out.
Inside was worse.
The first thing Caelum noticed wasn't the smell—though that was bad enough, a mix of stale air, mold, and something sour.
It was the sound.
Or rather, the lack of it.
No bustling.
No chatter.
No footsteps overhead.
The main hall was long and dim, lit by only three hanging lanterns, one of which flickered like it was dying. The walls were scarred—scratches, gouges, stains that might have been wine… or not.
Broken sofas slumped against the walls.
A table lay on its side in a corner, one leg missing.
A bucket in the center of the hall caught a steady drip of water from a crack in the ceiling. Each drop hit with a soft, steady plock.
Plock.
Plock.
Plock.
A few students were already there—thin, tired, with the kind of look usually seen in soldiers after too many campaigns. They paused their eating to stare at the newcomers.
Their bowls contained something gray and wet that might have been porridge.
One of them, a lanky boy with bandaged arms, stood and forced what was probably meant to be a welcoming smile.
"New batch, huh," he said. His voice rasped. "You all lived. Good for you."
Nobody answered.
He scratched the back of his neck.
"Name's Jalen. I'm… dorm lead, unofficially. Means I shout when things break and try to keep people from dying too stupidly." He shrugged. "Doesn't always work."
His gaze landed on Caelum and stayed there for a second too long.
"You're Veylor, right?"
Several heads turned.
Even beaten down, the name meant something.
Caelum dipped his head politely.
"Yes."
"Thought so." Jalen looked him up and down. "Heard House Veylor sent a failure here this year. Guess that's you."
Caelum smiled mildly, letting the insult pass through him like smoke.
"My performance was… lacking."
The words were light. His eyes were not.
Jalen watched him for another beat, then sighed.
"Well. You're in Dorm Nine now. Up there—" He jerked his chin toward the ceiling. "—they say this is where talent comes to die. Down here, we just call it home."
One of the new boys choked. "This is a joke, right?"
Jalen didn't answer.
He turned away.
"Rooms are down the corridor. One each. Don't fight over anything, there's nothing here worth bleeding on. If you hear scratching after lights-out…" He paused. "Lock your door."
"Scratching?" someone whispered.
Jalen's smile was humorless.
"You'll find out."
The corridor was narrow, the floorboards uneven. Doors lined each side, some hanging crooked, others repaired with mismatched nails and scrap wood.
Caelum stopped at door number seven out of habit more than preference.
Seven was a neat number. Balanced. Useful.
He pushed the door open.
The smell hit first—stale fabric and old dust, with a faint undercurrent of mold.
The room was small.
A single narrow bed with a sagging mattress sat against the far wall. A rickety desk leaned against the other. The single window was cracked through the middle, letting in a sliver of gray light and a steady draft.
A dark, irregular stain marred the floorboards under the window.
He didn't need to guess what had caused it.
He stepped in.
The boards creaked under his weight.
He ran his fingers along the wall. The stone felt colder here, as if something on the other side was sucking the warmth away.
This is not just neglect, he observed. The building is wrong. Not fully. Just slightly.
There was a subtle vibration under the surface—like a heartbeat too slow for normal life.
His Proto-Sigil stirred in response.
Threads flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, like cracks in the air around the floor.
He blinked once, and they were gone.
A soft voice spoke from the doorway.
"T-That's your room too?"
Caelum turned.
The girl from the arena—the one whose life he'd saved—stood there, clutching the strap of her bag with white knuckles. Her left arm was cleanly bandaged now. Someone had wiped the blood off her face, but the haunted look in her eyes remained.
She glanced past him into the gloomy room, then quickly away.
"I… I'm across the hall." She swallowed. "The… the walls are really thin. I just… thought I'd say… um…"
He waited patiently.
"Thank you," she blurted out. Her face flushed. "For earlier. In the arena. You didn't have to, but—"
"I wanted to," Caelum said softly.
That was a lie.
He had wanted the debt. Not her life.
But the shape of the truth mattered less than its effect.
Her shoulders eased visibly.
"If you… if you need anything…" she said awkwardly. "My name's Lira."
"Caelum," he replied, though she obviously already knew.
She nodded too fast and stepped back.
"I should… unpack. Before it gets dark."
"Of course."
She hesitated one second longer, then vanished into her own room, closing the door with a tired thump.
Caelum listened as others did the same, the hallway filling with the dull chorus of wood on wood.
Doors closing.
Barriers forming.
Little, fragile fortresses against a world that didn't care.
His lips twitched.
They believe walls will keep them safe. How comforting.
He closed his own door.
He did not lock it.
Night came quickly.
At some unmarked hour, the dim crystals in the hall went from weak blue to weaker yellow, then went out completely.
The building creaked as it cooled.
From somewhere above, water dripped steadily.
Plock.
Plock.
Plock.
Caelum lay on the sagging mattress, hands behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. The blanket barely qualified as cloth. The springs complained if he shifted more than a few centimeters.
His new body ached.
His ribs throbbed with every breath. His shoulder burned from the earlier claw graze. Bruises bloomed wherever the exam beasts had thrown him around.
But his mind was calm.
Data summary:
– F–rank confirmed
– Support division assignment
– South Sector dormitory
– Weak students nearby
– Guards unconcerned about deaths here
Conclusion: this place is designed to be a filter, not a sanctuary.
The academy didn't need every student who passed the entrance exam.
It only needed the ones willing to claw upward from hell.
He let his eyes close.
Not to sleep.
To listen.
The building groaned again.
Wind hissed through the crack in the window.
Someone in a neighboring room sobbed quietly into a pillow.
Somewhere farther down the hall, a boy whispered frantic prayers to a god who was probably not listening.
Then—
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The sound came from under the floor.
Slow. Dragging. Not like the skittering of rats. More rhythmic. Heavier.
Something brushing against the underside of the boards.
Caelum's eyes opened.
Ah. Jalen's scratching.
The noise moved along the hall, under the rooms, toward the far end. It stopped. Resumed. Stopped again. Like something thinking.
A muffled yelp cut through the silence.
A thud. A scrape. Then a door slamming.
Someone hissed, "Shut up! Don't draw it!"
The dorm went quiet again.
Caelum swung his legs off the bed.
He sat there for a moment, bare feet on cold wood, listening.
His Proto-Sigil pulsed once, softly.
He could feel it now—not just the scratch, but a faint… pull.
From below.
From somewhere under the foundations.
From a place where stone shouldn't breathe and wood shouldn't hum.
He stood.
The floor creaked.
He crossed to the center of the room and knelt, pressing his palm flat against the boards.
Cold seeped into his skin.
Then, faintly—
Like something exhaling through a thousand-year crack—
"…thread… bearer…"
The whisper wasn't sound.
It was recognition.
Caelum's mouth curved, slow and thin.
So it wasn't my imagination after all.
The Proto-Sigil flexed, threads tightening, as if bracing against a pressure pushing back.
"Good evening," he murmured quietly, voice barely audible.
"To whoever is listening."
The presence below flickered.
Startled.
Curious.
Then it receded, like a wave rolling back into deeper oceans.
The boards under his palm warmed slightly.
The scratching in the hallway stopped.
Caelum stood and returned to the bed.
He lay down again, the mattress groaning.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes open in the dark.
This dormitory is not just a punishment. It is a probe. The academy drops its weakest here, where something hungry lurks beneath the floor, and watches who disappears and who adapts.
He closed his eyes.
I don't mind.
Let it watch.
I adapt very well.
Outside, wind scraped along the walls.
Inside, eleven F–rank students tried to sleep.
In one small, decaying corner of Dorm Nine, a boy with a trash-tier label on his file rested on a broken bed, calmly planning how to turn a haunted building, a predatory academy, and a sleeping relic beneath the earth into his personal stepping stones.
The Reject Dormitory had claimed many.
Caelum Veylor would not be one of them.
He intended to own it.