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The bell tolled like thunder.
Aster flinched as the deep, resonant chime rolled through the stone corridors of the dormitory, vibrating in his chest like the growl of something ancient. One chime. Two. Three. Each louder than the last.
Valebourne didn't believe in gentle wake-up calls, apparently.
By the time he stepped out of his room, the hallway was already alive with footsteps and murmured curses. Students—new, like him—moved in the same direction, drawn like insects to fire. Some looked sharp and ready. Others looked half-asleep or halfway to throwing up.
Aster fell in line without a word.
He expected noise when they reached the Central Hall. Chaos. Chatter. Maybe even some panicked yelling. But what greeted him was silence.
And awe.
The Central Hall was vast. Vaulted ceilings curved overhead like the inside of a cathedral, every inch carved with ancient runes that glowed faintly in shifting hues—silver, blue, then red, like breathing light. Giant banners hung from invisible supports, each bearing a different symbol: a dragon coiled around a quill, a sword plunged into the moon, a spiral of eyes. None made sense. All were unsettling.
And at the far end, a stage.
A figure stood there, waiting.
Aster squinted. Tall. Lean. White uniform trimmed with crimson. Eyes like frostbitten glass and a face carved out of quiet judgment. Not the Headmaster, but—
The room darkened.
Every student froze as the lights dimmed, leaving only a focused glow around the stage.
The figure stepped forward.
"I am Vice Principal Virelan."
The voice was smooth and cold, like ice over steel.
"Congratulations on surviving your first day. You've proven that you can endure pain, pressure, and fear. That's good."
A pause.
"But I must correct a common misconception."
The Vice Principal's eyes swept across the crowd like a blade.
"You are not students."
Silence.
"You are contenders."
Aster felt it—an invisible weight pressing down.
"This is not a place of learning. This is a crucible. Valebourne will not teach you. It will test you. Break you. Mold what remains into something useful—or remove you entirely. This academy does not tolerate weakness. It does not reward effort. It rewards survival."
The words hit harder than any spell.
"Look around you. These are not your classmates. They are your competition."
Aster's gaze shifted. Eyes met eyes. Some hostile. Some wary. Some hollow.
"And by the end of this year," Virelan continued, "many of these faces will be gone. Some will fail quietly. Others… loudly."
He smiled, and it was a terrible thing.
"Welcome to Valebourne."
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Great! Here's the continuation and expansion of Chapter 2, starting from where your last excerpt left off and weaving in the rest of the plan:
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A moment of silence followed the Vice Principal's last words, the kind that didn't invite applause. Then, without warning, the lights surged back to full brightness, and the oppressive air seemed to thin—just slightly.
Aster released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Well," he muttered, voice dry, "guess I won't be needing a study group."
As if on cue, figures in dark robes moved through the hall like shadows spilling across stone. Staff, probably. Each carried a narrow black case—sleek, marked with a glowing crest—and began distributing them one by one. When one reached him, it paused, glanced at a shimmering list that hovered beside it, then handed over the case without a word.
Aster took it and stepped aside.
The case was warm to the touch. Locked. A symbol etched into the surface pulsed faintly: a flame curled around an eye. Not ominous at all.
With a soft hiss, it clicked open.
Inside:
– A sword, sleek and wicked, its edge gleaming faintly with runic script.
– A metal card, black with red trim: Valebourne Student ID. His name floated over the surface—just Aster, no last name. Beneath it, a small blinking mana tag pulsed like a heartbeat.
– A dorm key, old-fashioned and oddly heavy. The teeth were jagged, and the head was shaped like a wolf's mouth.
– A folded parchment: "Initial Equipment Protocol and Campus Navigation Overview."
He stared at the weapon for a beat.
"...Well. At least they're not pretending anymore."
Aster tucked everything away, except the map. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a sprawling blueprint of the academy grounds. It was… massive.
Dormitory Wings: North, East, West.
Central Hall (You Are Here).
Arcane Chambers.
Combat Arenas.
Spire of Mind.
Library of Pale Records.
Restricted Zones – Access Denied.
Each building glowed faintly on the parchment, the routes between them shifting like veins in a living thing.
Of course, the dorms were on the opposite end from the training fields. Of course.
As students examined their kits, a new projection appeared above the stage. Virelan had vanished. In his place was a circular crest turning slowly—four rings nested within each other.
A message bloomed beside it:
> MENTOR SYSTEM ACTIVE
Assignment pending: Trial results under evaluation.
Provisional Guides may observe you during early weeks.
Be prepared. You are always being watched.
Aster raised a brow.
"Well, that's not creepy at all."
He was turning to leave when someone brushed past him—too close, on purpose.
A tall boy. Sharp eyes. Pale silver hair. Calm, deliberate movements.
Aster glanced sideways—and for a split second, their gazes met.
The boy looked… confused.
Not surprised. Not hostile. Just the faintest flicker of recognition—and then, wariness.
Then he walked away without a word.
Aster stood there, frowning.
"Okay. That was weird."
Someone else might've dismissed it. But he'd seen that look before. Not on this face, but in that expression—the one that said you're not supposed to exist.
The crowd was beginning to thin. Some students broke into clusters, others wandered toward their assigned dorms. A few stayed frozen, as if trying to absorb the weight of everything they'd just heard.
Aster walked toward the exit, his steps slow, his brain sprinting.
Contenders. Not students. Trials, not tests. Mentors watching from the shadows. And someone who looked at him like he was a glitch in the system.
Oh—and the map helpfully marked something called The Field of Attrition.
"Charming."
He stopped just before stepping outside and looked up at the ceiling one last time. The runes glowed blue now, cool and unreadable.
He clutched the sword in his case a little tighter.
"Contender," huh?
Fine. He'd play along.
But someone better explain what the hell was going on before he stabbed a question into them.
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