The beacon pulsed faintly in Aston's hand, its fractured casing flickering with residual core light. Cold sweat clung to his back as he scanned the jungle ahead.

[Beacon secured. Extraction route: Recalibrated.]

Rowan's voice crackled in low. "Verdy spotted a clearing—northeast quadrant. It's thinned out. Fewer disturbances."

"Let's go," Aston said, voice steady. "Keep tight. No solo movement."

They moved.

Mirage soared overhead, her translucent wings blending with the mist, shedding frozen pinions to blur pursuit trails. Gray slipped through brush as an extension of shadow. Lumine pulsed quietly, emitting low shimmers to veil their trail. Verdy leapt across vines above, scouting silently. Chill prowled just ahead, his steps soundless even through broken terrain. Shelldon clanked softly behind Kai, his limbs radiating slow pulses of barrier readiness.

It almost felt manageable.

Until it wasn't.

Verdy suddenly screeched—a rare, sharp cry of distress.

"Left flank—drop!" Rowan yelled.

A ghost emerged from the ground—twitching, faceless, its aura rippling with distorted remnants of a student's former presence. It struck at Lyra, claws extended in silence.

Chill lunged from the side, intercepting the phantom's blow mid-air. The impact sent both spiraling sideways.

"Chill!" Lyra shouted.

Another ghost emerged—this one above.

Aston reacted instantly. "Gray—now!"

The Obsidian Claw Tiger launched from behind him, claws gleaming with metallic sheen. Surgical Claw sliced through the phantom's arm before it could land its strike. The ghost recoiled and dissolved into mist.

But more flickers lit up through the fog.

They were being surrounded.

"We're cut off," Seria whispered, her hands glowing with butterfly scales. "They waited. They're herding us."

Kai's jaw clenched. "Shelldon can hold the rear. But not forever."

"No time for clean retreat," Aston said. "Rowan—mark a vertical path."

A beat passed. Rowan inhaled sharply. "Verdy sees a ledge we can climb. Forty meters."

"Then that's our exit. We break, now."

Aston turned, grabbing a smoke capsule from his belt. "Lyra, cover with Chill's volley. Seria, scatter the illusion field."

"Lustrous Shroud!" Seria called out. Lumine spiraled skyward and released her radiant wing-scales. Phantoms flickered and hesitated, caught between projections.

"Ice Dart Volley!" Lyra countered, and Chill fired a rapid barrage into the rising mist, striking some ghosts mid-form.

"Shellforge Wall—rear defense!" Kai shouted.

Shelldon slammed down and anchored. A glowing hex-grid dome bloomed behind them, sealing the rear from ghost encroachment.

"Go!" Aston barked.

They sprinted.

Roots snagged their boots. Fog thickened, voices—eerie voices—whispered from the trees.

Ghosts spoke in mimicry.

"Help me—"

"Over here—"

"You left me behind—"

"Don't listen," Rowan hissed. "It's just data."

Gray snarled beside Aston, ears flat, tail low.

They reached the ledge—a broken ridge embedded with moss and decayed spirit glyphs.

"Verdy—vines," Rowan gasped.

The moss lemur called out, and vines unraveled from the treetop, dropping into the group's hands.

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One by one, they climbed—Mirage circling above, Chill retreating last.

As they reached the top, Seria collapsed beside the beacon, panting.

Then the jungle blinked.

Everything vanished—phosphor light dimming. The ridge crumbled into blackness.

They were standing once again in the simulation chamber.

The beacon floated mid-air before them, now whole.

The door ahead slid open with a hiss.

Drexen Veil stood beyond, his skeletal vulture ruffling its wind-bone feathers.

The elder's cloudy eyes looked at each of them in turn.

A beat.

"You hesitated… only once."

Another pause.

"You adapted. You saw. You misjudged one flank."

Then—

"You learned."

He turned away.

"Sit. Watch the others. You carry your beacon now—let's see how many return with theirs."

Team Nine filed out slowly. None spoke.

They didn't need to.

For the first time, they had earned not just survival—but respect.

—

Team Nine filed into the observation tier, sweat clinging to their uniforms, boots scraping lightly against the aged stone floor. No one spoke—not even Rowan. The silence wasn't awkward.

It was earned.

Below, Elder Drexen motioned once more.

"Team Ten."

The next group disappeared into the simulation gate.

The jungle reshaped itself—this time, into a canyon filled with wind tunnels and broken ruins. It looked deceptively open. The team moved well—initially—but one mistake spiraled into another.

A poorly timed dash broke their formation. A ghost intercepted their lead runner mid-transition.

[Signal lost.]

Then another. And another.

They retrieved the beacon, but only one returned with it in hand. A pyrrhic victory.

The elder didn't comment. He merely gestured again.

"Team Eleven."

Aston sat forward slightly. So did Seria and Lyra.

Ren stepped into the projection chamber alongside four other students—an agile-looking spear-user, a lanky beast tamer with a serpent, a shield specialist, and a quiet girl wielding a longbow. None were exceptional on their own—but they moved with surprising calm.

The simulation unfolded into a sloped valley of foggy rock platforms and scattered debris.

A perfect ambush zone.

Aston's gaze sharpened.

But Team Eleven didn't rush.

Ren crouched early, drawing sigils in the dirt with his finger. Tracking glyphs. A spirit tag pulsed briefly at his hip, then dimmed.

He wasn't just leading—he was anticipating.

"Ghost movement right flank—phantom mimic types," Kai murmured.

Sure enough, the map shimmered with echo-trails. But Ren adjusted. He called for a wide arc sweep instead of direct movement, wrapping their approach around the edge of the slope. His team didn't break formation once.

At the beacon, two phantoms appeared—but the longbow girl dropped one with a precision spectral shot, and the serpent-user sealed the other in a barrier field.

No flourish. No panic.

They retrieved the beacon and made it to the extraction ridge without triggering a single fail-state.

Five in. Five out.

"Damn," Rowan said softly, watching Ren tap the beacon into the receiver like a quiet footnote.

"He was sharp," Lyra murmured.

"Not flashy," Seria agreed, "but methodical."

Aston allowed a small nod.

Ren didn't look for them. He simply returned to the benches beside his new team, calm and unreadable.

—

The final teams trickled in.

Some passed. Most failed.

Few returned with beacons.

Once the final simulation flickered and died, Elder Drexen rose from his seat. His Whisperbone Vulture stretched its bone-laced wings once—noiselessly—and settled again.

He looked over the room.

"You entered thinking you were hunters," he said. "Most of you now understand the truth."

A pause.

"In the field… you are always being watched."

He stepped down from the platform, boots tapping against the stone floor.

"You mistake your beast for power. You mistake your gear for safety. But neither will save you when the enemy is already behind your eyes."

He turned back toward the projection pit.

"The shadows you faced today were not real. But the ones waiting out there are."

Then—

"Class dismissed."

The silence broke. Students stood, murmuring, exchanging wide-eyed glances or dazed nods. Some looked as if they had woken from a bad dream. Others walked quietly—changed, somehow.

Team Nine didn't speak on the way out.

They didn't need to.

But as they passed Ren in the corridor, Aston gave him a glance.

Ren returned it with a slight nod.

Respect—silent and mutual.

And then the doors closed behind them.

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