The dining hall gradually emptied as the night deepened, yet the weight of the day refused to leave Shiddharth's shoulders. Even after the plates were cleared and the murmurs softened into distant echoes, his mind remained restless, replaying moments he would rather forget—and some he could not afford to.
The insults from earlier had not angered him.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Once, words like those would have sparked something sharp inside him—an instinct to respond, to prove, to fight. But now, they passed through him like wind through a hollow space. Not because they lacked meaning, but because he had learned that reacting cost more than enduring.
Abhi walked beside him as they left the hall, the corridors illuminated by the pale blue glow of Urza crystals embedded into the stone walls. The light cast elongated shadows that shifted as they moved, making the Academy feel less like a school and more like a living entity watching its guests carefully.
"You didn't even look at them," Abhi said quietly after a moment.
"There was no reason to," Shiddharth replied.
Abhi glanced at him again, this time more openly. "Most people would've at least said something."
Shiddharth slowed his pace slightly. "Words don't change what they already believe."
That answer lingered between them.
They reached a junction where the corridors split toward the sleeping quarters. Groups of students branched off in silence, exhaustion written plainly on their faces. Some limped. Some leaned on friends. A few stared ahead blankly, as if the cave had taken more than just their strength.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Abhi said. "Fourth round won't be simple."
"None of them are," Shiddharth replied.
As Abhi walked away, Shiddharth continued alone toward his assigned room.
Inside, the space was modest but clean—stone walls, a simple bed, a desk, and a narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard of the Academy. He closed the door softly behind him and stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle.
Only then did he sit on the edge of the bed.
The exhaustion came crashing down all at once.
His right arm trembled faintly as he loosened his grip, the muscles finally giving in after being pushed beyond comfort. The phantom sensation of his left arm surfaced again, as it often did when he was tired—an echo of balance his body still expected.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back.
The third round had revealed something important.
He wasn't weak.
But he wasn't whole either.
And the Academy had noticed.
Elsewhere within Yejaeta Academy, the night was far from quiet.
High above the guest quarters, in a chamber reserved for senior instructors, several figures sat around a circular stone table etched with complex Urza formations. A translucent projection hovered at its center, replaying moments from the day's trials.
The image paused on Shiddharth standing before the stone.
"Ten minutes," one instructor said calmly. "Not strength. Endurance. Adaptation."
"Or an anomaly," another replied. "He failed the pressure field yet surpassed the stone. That contradiction alone makes him unpredictable."
An older man seated at the far end remained silent, his eyes fixed on the projection. His gaze sharpened as the image shifted to the maze trial.
"He summoned a dragon," one instructor noted. "Unsealed stats."
"A loophole," someone scoffed.
"No," the old man finally spoke. "A choice."
The room quieted.
"He chose efficiency over pride," the old man continued. "And paid for it with injuries. That tells me more than raw talent ever could."
"Should we monitor him more closely?" another asked.
The old man nodded slowly. "Yes. Especially tomorrow."
Morning arrived with a muted calm.
The Academy grounds stirred early, students rising before dawn to prepare for the fourth round. Word had already spread about the remaining trials—whispers of combat simulations, resonance tests, and mental projections filled the air.
Shiddharth woke quietly, his body stiff but functional. He performed slow, deliberate movements, stretching what he could without aggravating old wounds. His missing arm still complicated even the simplest routines, but he adapted as he always did—methodically, without complaint.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with restrained tension.
Clusters of students gathered, some confident, others anxious. Noble factions stood together, their conversations sharp and calculated. Commoners lingered at the edges, careful not to draw attention.
Shiddharth noticed how eyes followed him now.
Not openly.
But deliberately.
He ignored them and focused forward.
The fourth round awaited.
The fourth round began without ceremony.
No grand announcement echoed across the Academy grounds, no dramatic countdown to stir the blood. Instead, the students were guided in silence toward a vast open platform carved into the mountain itself. The stone beneath their feet was smooth and dark, etched with faint Urza lines that pulsed slowly, as if breathing.
Shiddharth stepped onto the platform with measured calm, his gaze scanning the surroundings.
There were fewer faces now.
Barely half of those who had entered the cave remained. Some wore bandages. Others carried themselves with forced confidence, hiding injuries beneath rigid posture. A few stood apart entirely, eyes sharp, expressions unreadable—those were the ones who understood that survival, not pride, was the Academy's true lesson.
Abhi stood several paces away, raising a hand briefly in greeting.
Shiddharth nodded once in return.
The old man from the earlier rounds appeared at the center of the platform, his presence commanding silence without effort. He rested one hand on a staff formed of condensed Urza, the crystal at its tip glowing faintly.
"Round Four," he announced, his voice steady. "Resonance Evaluation."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"This round," the old man continued, "will not test how strong you are."
The Urza lines beneath the platform flared brighter.
"It will test how well you understand yourself."
The ground shifted.
Stone rose in segmented arcs, forming individual circular arenas that separated each participant from the others. The transition was seamless, practiced—this was not the first generation Yejaeta Academy had tested this way.
Shiddharth found himself standing alone within a ring roughly ten meters wide.
The air grew heavier.
A faint pressure pressed against his chest, not physical, but internal—an intrusion that brushed against his thoughts rather than his body.
A voice echoed, not from outside, but from within.
[Resonance Field Activated]
Shiddharth's breath slowed.
He had felt this sensation before.
Not during the trials.
But during the CREATOR Battlefield.
Images flickered at the edges of his vision—fragmented, unstable. His sword. The severed arm. The moment his stats were sealed. The countless eyes watching as he was reduced from anomaly to liability.
His jaw tightened.
The field reacted instantly.
The stone beneath his feet darkened, the Urza lines shifting shape.
From the ground ahead of him, something began to form.
A silhouette.
Humanoid.
Familiar.
Shiddharth's eyes narrowed as the figure solidified.
It was him.
Not as he was now—but as he had been.
Two arms. Balanced stance. Eyes burning with reckless certainty.
The version of himself that believed power alone was enough.
"So this is what you see," the reflection spoke, its voice carrying the same tone Shiddharth remembered using once. "Weak. Hesitant. Afraid to act."
Shiddharth did not respond.
He adjusted his grip on the sword instead.
The reflection smirked. "You hesitate because you know it's true."
The resonance field intensified.
Pressure mounted inside his chest, forcing old instincts to surface—the urge to strike first, to overwhelm, to silence doubt with violence.
His right arm twitched.
Then stilled.
"No," Shiddharth said quietly.
The reflection paused.
"I hesitate," he continued, "because I know the cost."
The field reacted again, this time violently. The reflection lunged.
Steel met steel.
The impact rang sharp and loud, sending vibrations through Shiddharth's arm. The reflection moved exactly as he expected—fast, aggressive, relentless.
Because it was everything he used to be.
Every strike aimed for dominance.
Every movement wasted nothing on defense.
Shiddharth stepped back, parrying carefully, letting the assault flow past him rather than meeting it head-on.
"You're slower," the reflection sneered. "You lost more than an arm."
"I gained restraint," Shiddharth replied.
He shifted his footing, using angles rather than force, redirecting the reflection's momentum until it overextended.
Then he struck—not with power, but precision.
The blade stopped just short of the reflection's throat.
The arena trembled.
The reflection froze, its expression twisting—not in pain, but confusion.
"You didn't finish it," it whispered.
"I didn't need to," Shiddharth answered.
The reflection shattered like glass, dissolving into fragments of light that sank into the stone.
The pressure vanished.