The transition from the grand, echo-filled auditorium to the clinical silence of the upper spires was a journey into a different world. While the thousands of other freshmen were being herded into mass lecture halls, the twelve students designated as the Apex Tier were led down a corridor of polished obsidian and white marble. The air here felt different—thicker, saturated with the hum of high-grade mana-suppression fields that kept the raw power of the elite students from vibrating the very walls.
Alaric walked at the front of the small procession. His leather suitcase remained in its steady, silent glide behind him, held aloft by a thread of telekinesis so thin it was effectively invisible. He didn't need to look back to know the mood of the group; he could feel it in the air. There was the sharp, jagged edge of Ignis's ego, the heavy thrum of the other nobles' anxiety, and then there was that strange, suffocating pressure emanating from the two students who seemed to view him as a walking natural disaster.
Classroom 1-A was not a room for lectures; it was a theater of war. The desks were arranged in a tiered semi-circle, centering on a pit where a holographic projector flickered with the blueprint of the known frontier. Alaric took a seat in the exact center of the front row. It was the seat of a commander, yet he sat with a relaxed, open posture that invited conversation rather than demanding subservience.
To his far right, Caspian sat as though he were preparing for an ambush, his heavy Northern claymore leaning against the desk. To Alaric's left, Seraphina occupied the very edge of the semi-circle, her gaze fixed intently on a scratch in the mahogany wood of her desk.
"It feels a bit like we're waiting for an execution, doesn't it?" Alaric said, his voice cutting through the silence with a light, easy laugh. He turned his chair, draping an arm over the backrest to address the room. "My name is Alaric. I know the brochures promised we'd be the 'pinnacle of our generation,' but I'd personally prefer it if we could just be classmates. It's going to be a long four years if we're all this stiff."
The tension didn't vanish, but it shifted. A girl with hair like spun fire and eyes that matched the intensity of her mana-signature let out a sharp, amused breath. This was Ignis, the heiress to the Phoenix Duchy.
"Bold of you to assume we'll all last four years, Thorne," Ignis said, leaning back with a smirk. "I'm Ignis. I've spent my life hearing about the 'Golden Prodigy' of the capital. I suppose I'll have to get used to an SS-Rank taking all the oxygen in the room."
Alaric chuckled, the sound warm and seemingly genuine. "I'm happy to share the air, Ignis. In a Gate, I don't care about rank or family names. I care about who has my back. I hope that can be all of you."
The doors swung open with a heavy thud that silenced the room instantly. A man stepped in, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. He was lean and scarred, dressed in a tattered tactical coat that smelled faintly of ozone and old blood. His left arm was a prosthetic of dark, matte-finished iron, the joints hissing with steam as he moved. This was Professor Silas.
He didn't go to the podium. He stood in the center of the pit, his one organic eye scanning the twelve students like a predator deciding which one to eat first.
"Congratulations," Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You are the best. The Empire has spent a fortune on your potential. That means you get the best food, the best gear, and the most dangerous missions. In three weeks, you will face the first Gate Exam. If you fail, you don't get a bad grade. You get a funeral."
He tapped a control on the central table. The holographic map shifted, displaying three sets of names in stark, white light.
"The faculty has spent months analyzing your compatibilities. These squads are permanent. You will eat together, train together, and bleed together. If one member of a squad fails, the whole squad is penalized. There is no individual glory in a Gate. There is only the team, or the grave."
Alaric looked at the list.
SQUAD ONE: Alaric Thorne, Caspian of the North, Seraphina of the Lunar Cathedral, Leo of the Ironwood.
The names of the other two squads flickered below, but Alaric's focus remained on his own. He felt the atmosphere around him curdle. To his right, Caspian's hand gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood groaned. To his left, Seraphina looked as though she might faint.
Leo, the fourth member, was a boy Alaric had noticed earlier—a sturdy, broad-shouldered commoner who held a shield larger than his own torso. He looked caught between a state of religious awe and the overwhelming urge to bolt for the exit.
"Squad One," Silas said, his gaze lingering on Alaric for a beat too long. "You are the highest-ranked group in the history of this institution. The expectations for you are not merely high; they are absolute. You have thirty minutes to discuss your roles before we move to the training grounds for your first synchronization drill. Don't waste them."
Silas turned and walked out, his prosthetic arm clicking in the silence.
Alaric took a slow, deep breath and turned his chair toward his new teammates. He didn't look at them as a commander looks at soldiers; he looked at them with the eyes of someone trying to understand a difficult, but beautiful, piece of music.
"Well," Alaric said, his voice dropping to a warm, conspiratorial tone that seemed to create a bubble of privacy around the four of them. "It looks like we're stuck with each other. Caspian, you look like you were born to lead a charge—the kind of strength that makes a vanguard feel like an unbreakable wall. I'd feel a lot safer with you at the front."
Caspian stood up, his chair clattering against the stone floor. "I don't need you to tell me where I belong, Thorne."
"I know you don't," Alaric said, his violet eyes meeting the boy's gaze with a calm, respectful steadiness. "I'm just saying that I've studied your family's combat style. It's legendary for its tenacity. If you're willing to hold the front, I'll make sure the mid-line stays clear so you never have to worry about your blind spots. And Seraphina..."
He turned to the priestess, his voice softening even further.
"If you can keep an eye on us from the rear, I'll make sure nothing gets past Leo and me to reach you. We're a team, Seraphina. I want us to be the squad that everyone else looks up to—not because of our ranks, but because we actually look out for one another."
Seraphina looked at him, her eyes wide and haunted. She seemed to be searching his face for a shadow, but Alaric only offered her a smile of genuine, unburdened kindness.
"Leo," Alaric said, nodding to the shield-bearer. "That's a magnificent piece of work. Ironwood reinforcement? I'd be honored to stand behind a shield like that."
Leo blinked, his face flushing a deep red. "Oh—uh, yes, Lord Thorne. My father made it. It... it won't break. I promise."
Caspian spat on the floor, a blatant act of disrespect. He grabbed his claymore, the heavy steel scraping against the stone. "Thirty minutes. Don't expect me to play nice just because you have a silver tongue, Alaric. In a Gate, words don't kill monsters."
"You're right," Alaric replied, his smile widening just a fraction. "That's why I'm glad I have you for the heavy lifting."
As the group began to filter out toward the training grounds, Alaric noticed a small, blue light flicker on the edge of his vision.
[Notice: Team 'Vanguard of Ruin' has been formed.]
[Synchronization in progress...]
Alaric's smile faltered for a micro-second. Vanguard of Ruin. It was a remarkably dark name for a group of teenagers meant to be the empire's shining hope. He watched the backs of his teammates—the brooding warrior, the trembling priestess, and the nervous boy.
He was genuinely perplexed. He had never met these people, yet the visceral hostility from Caspian and the paralyzing dread from Seraphina were undeniable. It wasn't simple noble rivalry or commoner resentment. It was deeper, a bone-deep avoidance that felt as though they were reacting to a version of him that didn't exist.
Something is fundamentally wrong with the social chemistry of this group, Alaric mused, his mind already beginning to map out a hundred different ways to win their trust. They aren't just nervous about the Academy. For some reason, they're terrified of me. If I'm going to lead them, I can't just be the strongest. I have to find out what it is about my presence that causes such a reaction—and fix it.
He stepped out into the sunlight of the training grounds, his telekinesis swirling invisibly around him like a cloak. The first drill was about to begin, and Alaric Thorne was ready to show his teammates that he was a man they could rely on, regardless of whatever rumors they had heard.