The night after the announcement was short.
No one really spoke on the way back to the dormitories. The corridors were crowded, yet silent — as if every student carried the same words lodged in their throat.
Ranking. Expulsion. Death.
The duel had opened a crack.
The announcement had turned it into an abyss.
When dawn came, the Academy looked unchanged. The walls were the same. The rules were the same.
But something fundamental had shifted.
We were no longer students learning to control power.
We were names on a list that could shrink at any moment.
The next day.
The advanced theory classroom is smaller than the others.
Narrower. Colder.
The benches sit closer together. The walls are carved with diagrams etched directly into the stone: mana circles, directional flows, human silhouettes crossed by glowing lines.
Here, they don't talk about fire or lightning.
They talk about what comes before.
I take my seat. Brask is already there, a book open in front of him. He looks focused.
More than usual.
Kaïros arrives seconds later and sits two rows ahead of us. Class 1A. Same section. His gaze flicks briefly toward us, then returns to the platform.
The professor enters without introduction.
"Today," he says, "we will cover elemental flows and advanced mana management."
He draws a circle on the ground.
"Mana does not circulate freely through the body. It follows pathways. Directed currents. Poorly managed, they weaken you. Broken…"
A pause.
"…they kill you."
A murmur spreads.
"Most combat failures do not stem from insufficient power, but from flawed flow control."
He gestures toward a carved diagram.
"Channel too quickly, and you deplete your reserves. Too slowly, and you are overwhelmed. Control is not a matter of strength…"
"…but understanding."
I memorize every word.
"An evaluation will take place in one week," he continues. "Theoretical and analytical. Flow. Circulation. Rupture. Adaptation under pressure."
Brask exhales quietly.
"One week…" he mutters. "Seriously?"
"Those who fail," the professor adds calmly, "will understand why this course is indispensable."
A pause.
"Class dismissed."
No one stands immediately.
The benches finally creak as students rise in small groups, drained — as if crushed by something heavier than the lesson itself.
Understanding mana flows is one thing.
Understanding that mistakes are no longer permitted is another.
Without speaking, we all move in the same direction.
Where noise is forbidden.
Where time slows.
The library becomes our refuge.
For an entire week.
Days blur together in an almost unreal routine. Tables covered in open books. Diagrams sketched in haste. Whispered debates. Controlled breathing exercises.
The outside world feels distant.
Too distant.
Morning: classes.Noon: tense silence.Evening: pages, calculations, repetition.
The library becomes a sanctuary.
But also a voluntary prison.
Every page turned is one more step toward remaining on the list.
No one studies to shine.
We study not to disappear.
Brask slumps in his chair.
"I swear, these secondary flows are torture."
"Because you try to force them," I reply. "Read the diagram. Breathe. Visualize."
"Easy for you to say."
One evening, Kaïros approaches without a sound. He places a book between us.
"Inverted flows under stress," he says. "That's where most students collapse."
Brask eyes him cautiously.
"You help people often?"
"No."
A slight pause.
"But group survival is statistically more efficient."
I look at him.
"You're already thinking about the practical."
A faint smile.
"Always."
He leaves without waiting for a response.
The evaluation day arrives too quickly.
The room is silent.
Papers are distributed. The questions are precise.
Brutal.
No room for approximation.
I focus.
Primary flows. Secondary flows. Compression. Diversion. Controlled rupture.
Time passes.
When I submit my paper, I feel dull fatigue — but no panic.
Brask exits shortly after, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I thought I was going to die on question five."
"You made it through."
"I hope so."
The results appear the next day.
Projected onto a stone panel.
Names scroll down the surface.
Aydan Arin — 16/20
A subtle murmur.
Brask Helor — 15/20
He clenches his fist. A brief, tight smile. Pride — mixed with tension.
Then the full ranking appears.
There were twenty-four of us.
One name is missing.
"They expelled him," someone whispers.
Last place.
No warning.
No second chance.
Twenty-three remain.
And in the other classes, it's the same.
Rumors spread immediately.
"Did you hear?""They're talking about a practical test.""Not graded.""Yeah… but eliminatory."
No one truly knows.
And that's worse.
The official announcement comes two days later.
Same gathering.
Same silence.
Our homeroom teacher steps forward.
"You have demonstrated your theoretical abilities," he begins. "It is time to evaluate your capacity to survive."
The word lands heavily.
"A survival test will take place soon."
A ripple runs through the crowd.
"An island. Total isolation. One week."
Whispers erupt.
"Participation is mandatory. Any refusal will result in immediate expulsion."
Brask's jaw tightens.
"The island is inhabited by wild fauna."
Silence.
"Each student will receive a bag containing basic survival equipment and two rations. Nothing more."
Someone calls out.
"And the injured?"
The professor doesn't blink.
"Deaths occurring during this test will not be the responsibility of the Academy."
Again.
Always that sentence.
"This test will not be graded," he concludes. "It exists to evaluate adaptation, decision-making, and survival under real conditions."
His gaze moves across us.
"Those who return will understand why they are still here."
That evening, the library is quieter than ever.
Brask sits across from me.
"An island…" he mutters. "A week. Beasts. No grades."
"No protection either."
"What do you think they want?"
I close my book.
"To turn us into warriors."
Silence.
Kaïros appears between the shelves.
"Or," he adds calmly, "into emotionless weapons."
He sits with us.
"This test is not meant to teach you survival," he says. "It is meant to reveal what you are willing to sacrifice to continue."
Brask swallows.
"And if we refuse?"
Kaïros tilts his head slightly.
"Then you leave alive."
A pause.
"But outside."
He stands.
"Choose carefully."
He disappears between the shelves.
I look at Brask.
"One week," I say. "On an island. No rules."
He nods.
"Yeah."
I clench my fists.
This is no longer an Academy.
This is no longer a test.
It's a selection.
And I know one thing:
From now on,
it won't be about grades.
It will be about survival.