The Orientation Hall wasn't just a chamber. It was a coliseum masquerading as a cathedral.
A vast, circular arena-like dome, its vaulted ceilings glowing with intricate constellations—each star pulsing in time with the ambient mana in the air.
Runes crawled along the ivory stone pillars, humming with magic too old to name.
The floor beneath was polished obsidian-veined marble, etched faintly with sigils from every known continent and house.
They shimmered now and then, reacting to the presence of the students.
Nearly a thousand students filled the amphitheater in ascending rows, each seated in stone chairs carved with ancient Fyorian craftsmanship and cushioned by enchantment.
The seating was wide and generous—meant for more than just humans.
From winged Feylings to horned Demari/Goru, clawed Wulfgarns to stunning Lunarians, all sat together, arranged not by blood, race, class, or origin…
…but by nothing.
No divide. No tiered sections. No special rows for nobility.
Just students.
They had entered as nobles, exiles, savages, heirs, and streetborn—but here, beneath the dome of Silver Mist, they were equal.
And the silence that hovered above them was alive.
Like the calm breath before a hurricane.
A massive projected screen floated above the stage, displaying rotating images of scenes from the Battle Royale.
The screen stretched nearly wall to wall, flickering softly as new clips appeared every time a name was called.
Faces appeared. Gasps followed. Cheers. Laughter. And sometimes… stunned silence.
At the front of the hall stood a curved stone stage—arcane spotlights glowing dimly above it.
Upon that stage stood six class instructors, arranged with deliberate spacing like a pantheon of gods awaiting judgment.
Letharion Virelle stood at the center—tall, regal, and still as a statue carved in grief.
His crimson eyes were deep and unreadable, set in skin pale as polished marble.
An elegant cloak of black and garnet swept behind him, the hem stitched with blood-thread sigils that only vampires could read.
In his hand he held a staff of pure obsidian wood, sleek and twisted, tipped with a single blood gem that pulsed faintly with every heartbeat in the room.
He spoke, and when he did, the magic in the air seemed to still.
"You were born with many things," he said.
His voice was low, smooth as silk over iron.
"Status. Wealth. Class. Talent. Legacy. Power."
He let the silence hang for three beats.
"None of it matters here."
All eyes turned to him. The fluttering conversations vanished.
"In Silver Mist Academy… we acknowledge only two things. Strength. And will."
The giant projector behind him lit up with a new set of scenes: two students—one winged, the other on fire—crashing into each other mid-air.
"This hall is your first test. Not of combat. Not of mana. But of understanding."
His gaze swept over the thousand gathered below.
"You are not divided here. There are no noble seats. No monster row.
No favored bloodlines. Sit beside your rival. Sit beside your fear. Sit beside your future."
"You all start together."
"Whether you are the daughter of a king—"
"—or the son of a traitor."
The room didn't even breathe.
Beside him stood the other instructors:
Kaelvar Rhend, the Wulfgarn. Massive. Amber-eyed.
Muscles like coiled steel beneath a dark, fur-trimmed coat.
His sharp jaw and neck-length silver hair gave him the air of a warlord trying not to break the floorboards.
His golden cuffs bore claw-shaped etchings, one of which flexed faintly in sync with his knuckles.
He said nothing, but his gaze scanned the crowd like he was choosing which soul to test first.
Aeval, the Fairy instructor, glowed faintly—literally.
Her copper-gold hair shimmered like molten starlight, cascading down her shoulders in braided waves.
Her wings were folded neatly behind her, translucent but edged in iridescent flame.
Despite her graceful smile, there was a weight behind her eyes—one that suggested she'd buried more than flowers in her life.
Augustin Grimestone, the oldest among them, radiated calm strength.
His rugged face bore the lines of battle and wisdom, softened slightly by the gray streaks that curled through his deep brown hair and thick stubble.
His steel-blue eyes were sharp but kind, the eyes of a man who had seen death and offered it tea.
His posture was loose, comfortable—like a knight who had long ago stopped pretending to be anyone but himself.
Archon Elara Vex—now she was something else entirely.
Half-human, half-vampire, and all chilling precision, Elara stood with arms crossed and face utterly unreadable.
Her skin was alabaster-pale, tinged with an unnatural coolness.
Hair midnight black, cut into a sharp, asymmetrical bob that brushed the edge of her jaw like a blade.
Her uniform was altered—sleek, high-collared, matte silver over black.
Her eyes, mismatched—one steel-grey, the other a muted violet—scanned the crowd with cold disapproval.
Even the shadows around her seemed quieter.
"She looks like she bites people just for blinking wrong," someone whispered from the third row.
The screen flashed again.
"Rank 50," Letharion announced.
A name appeared on the floating screen.
The student sat up straighter.
The hall dimmed slightly, and their Battle Royale footage played—brief, intense, and cinematic.
It continued from there. Rank 49. Rank 48.
Every time a name was called, that student's highlight reel played overhead—some filled with flashes of brilliance and raw power, others with awkward moments that had the room bursting into laughter.
A boy accidentally catching fire from his own spell.
A girl teleporting directly into a tree branch.
Another student mid-battle who paused to scream "WHERE'S MY SWORD?!" before getting tackled by a fairy half his size.
Even some of the instructors smirked.
Then came the more serious clips—scenes of duels so vicious and strategic, the crowd quieted to hushed murmurs.
A Wulfgarn boy baring his fangs as he leapt through lightning.
A Necrozi class girl who turned her opponents into living shadows.
"She's terrifying…"
"He tore through four at once…"
"Is that poison magic or blood?"
"Don't look at me, I'm just a baker's daughter—"
The screen flickered again.
The ranks kept climbing toward the top.
And names were being called.
"Rank 27 — Varun Drexil, Human. Class: Kaleeki."
A figure stood from the crowd, his projection already flickering into motion overhead.
He charged through the tall grass in a corner of the battlefield, screaming as a fairy chased him with an explosive mushroom in her hands.
The crowd howled with laughter.
"He ran like he owed her money—"
"Did you hear him yell 'I regret nothing!' right before she tackled him?"
Even the instructors—lined up on stage behind the projection—shared brief glances and smirks.
Still, Varun's clip ended on a clever reversal, where he used a mirrored illusion to blindside his pursuer and swipe both her orbs in one dizzying maneuver.
Respectful claps followed.
And then the hall pulsed again as the projection moved on.
"Rank 26 — Eleni Duskwatch, Elf. Class: Aquari."
Her footage was elegant, almost theatrical.
Shooting stars of compressed mana fired from her hands like arrows, the screen shimmering with her constellations forming mid-air before collapsing in bursts of light.
"Okay… I feel poor just watching that."
"That was graceful murder, right there."
A handful of students up front leaned in closer, awed.
And the top ten, sitting in the spotlight near the stage, watched with varying degrees of interest.
At the far edge of the row sat Selene Vaelthorn, her long black hair streaked with silver and braided loosely over one shoulder.
She sat with her back straight, fingers laced together over her knee, and eyes of gleaming violet that moved with quiet precision from screen to screen.
She didn't comment. She didn't blink. Her silence did all the talking.
Beside her sat Glory Prairie, her arms crossed neatly, her legs pinned at the ankles.
Her snow-white hair, soft and glinting beneath the mana lights, was tucked behind her ear as she leaned slightly to the side, gaze flicking every now and then toward the still-empty seat beside her.
Her bright blue eyes, usually warm and expressive, were dulled just a little—not with fear, but with familiar frustration.
He was late.
Of course he was late.
She didn't look worried. Not exactly.
But the soft tapping of her index finger against her forearm betrayed it.
A rhythmic, irritated beat of someone who knew this was just typical Eden behavior—showing up when he pleased, dragging the world behind him like a cloak.
Selene, seated beside her, gave the smallest sideways glance, her violet eyes sharp as razors.
"He always this punctual?"
"Oh, you have no idea," Glory sighed.
Still, she couldn't help it.
Every flicker of movement at the hall's entrance made her eyes twitch toward it.
A few seats down, Justin Bridge leaned toward Thalia Renwild, nudging her with a subtle elbow.
"They're playing the dramatic music again. Means another edgy student's coming up."
Thalia chuckled softly, her bright green eyes flicking toward the projection.
Her long, curly brown hair had been pinned back for the occasion with a golden ivy clip, but a few strands kept falling free near her jawline. She let them.
"Bet this one's going to overdo it."
"Bet this one explodes."
"Loser pays for lunch."
"Rank 25 — Kaerin Tollwright, Orc. Class: Terrakai."
A hulking boy with arms like tree trunks stood from the middle row and tried to wave shyly, only for the hall to collectively gasp-laugh as the projection began—with Kaerin charging headfirst into three spellcasters, shrugging off a fireball, and yelling "YOUR MOTHER WAS A SCROLL!"
It devolved from there.
One of the fairy girls further back whispered:
"Was that an insult or a compliment?"
"Depends on the scroll."
In the crowd, side conversations bloomed like wildfire.
Two beastfolk girls were loudly arguing over which instructor was secretly married.
A Wulfgarn was chewing aggressively on mana jerky, ignoring everyone.
One student stared blankly into the air, unaware that he was sitting backwards in his seat.
Meanwhile, an elf near the middle row leaned toward his friend.
"You see that girl with the sugar petals floating around her? She's in the top ten."
"Which one?"
"Floating. Literally. Fairy. Purple sparkle around her head."
At the front, Liora Evermist hovered cross-legged just above her chair, softly glowing, sipping from a conjured sugar petal as if this was a cozy tavern meeting.
She looked half-dreamy, half-bored, but anyone who knew how she fought wouldn't dare say it to her face.
Next to her, Cassia Virelle Duskmoor twirled a strand of her long platinum-blonde hair around her finger, crimson eyes following the clips with lazy amusement.
She hadn't stopped smiling since she walked in.
Her legs were crossed in that cocky, half-casual way, and more than a few students had stared, whispered, and then looked away quickly when she caught them watching.
Nyra Rehend, seated nearby, had said nothing for nearly ten minutes.
Her silver hair was tied into a clean twist behind her head, and her steel-gray eyes followed every student on screen as if measuring them for their funeral robes.
She was silent, poised, and impossible to ignore.
"Is she always like that?" someone whispered nearby.
"Yeah," another muttered. "And that's her friendly look._"_
Sitting close to Liora, Marco
Gravesbane leaned forward so far he was practically hanging off the edge of his seat.
His wild blonde curls bounced as he turned to the students beside him.
"What rank do you think they'll call me at?"
"You're already in the top ten, idiot," Liora said, not looking.
"I mean the dramatic part. I want the drums.
If they don't give me drums, I swear—"
"You slid down a hill with an icedisk, screaming," Nyra muttered.
"You'll get drums. And cymbals. Probably a laugh track too."
Marco grinned proudly.
Behind them, more names echoed into the air, more battle reels spinning, and the soft murmurs of students rose and fell like waves.
Finally, it got to the top 10.
The Orientation Hall dimmed slightly as the next name echoed across the space like a chime struck in the belly of a cathedral.
"Rank 10 — Marco Theron Gravesbane."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
Laughter exploded across the hall.
The projection burst to life, replaying one of Marco's most absurd scenes: the werewolf boy paddling furiously on a floating wooden door across a flooded basin, his "paddle" a magically conjured soup spoon of questionable dignity.
"Where did he even get a door?" someone whispered in disbelief.
Another voice chimed in, laughing, "Was he cooking his enemies?"
The laughter got louder.
Selene, seated near the front, rolled her eyes and muttered without emotion:
"This was your top ten."
But even she blinked at what came next.
The final scene began—the one that had already become infamous.
On the screen, Marco blinked as Selene Vaelthorn materialized beside him.
Her violet eyes glinted like frozen stars.
Her long black hair streaked with silver whipped gently in the wind as she hovered above the water—utterly unimpressed.
"You amuse me," she said flatly.
"And you intrigue me, dark princess of vengeance," Marco replied grandly.
"But alas, this is where our love story ends."
Even the professors couldn't help it.
Kaelvar Rhend, the Wulfgarn instructor, actually barked a short laugh and muttered,
"The boy's insane."
Aeval, the fairy professor, was giggling with both hands covering her mouth.
Augustin Grimestone gave a low chuckle and added dryly,
"And deeply committed to the bit."
Cassia was already cackling in her seat like someone had been set on fire for fun.
Onscreen, the moment of impact arrived.
Selene's blood-red lance grazed Marco, who screamed, was launched skyward like a glorified skipping stone, and crashed across three floating rocks.
"Tell my fans I loved them!" his voice rang out.
"Tell my story! Let the world know I almost won!"
The entire hall was in chaos now. Even Vaolis was smirking faintly in his seat.
Glory, for her part, just sighed and closed her eyes for a second.
"By the gods," she muttered.
"That idiot's going to make the Top 10 a comedy club."
Marco, meanwhile, had already stood from the front row and was casually striding toward the platform, one hand raised in a theatrical wave, as if soaking up the applause he definitely didn't earn—but somehow deserved anyway.
"Thank you, thank you," he called, spinning in place.
"I'd like to thank gravity, questionable life choices, and my dramatic flair."
"Boo," someone shouted from the back.
"Marry me," shouted someone else.
He gave them both finger guns.
Selene didn't even look up.
But her lips twitched.
Just once.
And that was worse than a full laugh.
Marco climbed up onto the raised platform, grinning wildly as he stood with the instructors.
he flashed a two-finger salute toward Selene, who sat expressionless nearby.
"You're welcome," he mouthed dramatically.
She didn't react.
Glory was already resting her chin in her palm, eyes half-lidded.
"He's lucky he's not my brother."
Cassia, two seats down, stifled a snort.
"Well," she whispered to Nyra. "At least he's good with the flair."
Nyra rolled her silver eyes. "He's like a walking comedy sketch."
"But he made it to top 10," Liora chimed in with a shrug.
"That's impressive enough."
Meanwhile, among the instructors, Augustin shook his head with a smile.
"Every year has a clown," he said.
Letharion Virelle's lip curled ever so slightly in amusement.
"Yes. But this one juggles ice knives."