The first thing I felt was warmth—Salem's warmth—spilling across my back like sunrise through an open window. She had her arm slung over me, claws idly tracing slow circles on my collarbone. Every so often her lips brushed the hinge of my jaw, soft and unhurried.
Last night's noise still hummed behind my eyes, so many new auras, so many raw, brilliant powers colliding in the courtyard. It left an after-image, like sparks dancing on the inside of my skull.
I shifted, letting the sheet slide down to my waist. "I might wear the blindfold today," I murmured. My voice sounded sleepy, small.
Salem's breath stirred my hair. "Too many outlines?"
"Too much everything," I sighed. "Having you next to me… it grounds me." I found her cheek with my palm, sliding my fingers along the smooth edge of her jaw. "Mansion or academy room, doesn't matter."
She answered by kissing the inside of my wrist, then rolled onto her back, stretching. The mattress dipped and creaked. "We should get moving, first squad breakfast."
"Five more seconds." I counted them under my breath, then forced myself upright. Cold morning air licked over bare skin, i stretched and reached for clothes.
By the time we were dressed, me in soft training linen, blindfold tied tight across my eyes, Salem in her usual layers—the dormitory corridor was already buzzing. Without my sight-sense I leaned on sound: boots scuffing stone, doors clacking open, bursts of chatter bouncing off vaulted ceilings. Salem's knuckles brushed mine as we walked. No outlines now, just the gentle tug of her fingers guiding me down the stairs.
The dining hall smelled like a butcher shop caught in a bakery. Salt, grease, fresh yeast, and something sweet under it all. Wooden benches scraped and thumped as squads claimed their long tables.
Rōko was easy to find. She was already demolishing what had to be an entire pan of bacon. "Morning," she mumbled around a mouthful.
Salem and I sat. I felt the bench dip, then spring back under her light weight. Mine followed.
Fay and Lirael arrived next, footsteps soft, voices softer. They settled across from me, Fay's boot knocking lightly against the table leg, Lirael's aura a whisper of cool air when she breathed.
I turned my face toward them. "I agree," I said.
Fay blinked. "We didn't say anything."
"I know." I smiled. "But quiet feels pretty good right now."
The end of the bench emitted a warning squeak, wood fibers protesting. Raphos had arrived. His presence felt like someone had parked a carriage beside us, big, solid, radiating easy confidence.
A platter landed in front of him with a meaty thump, three whole roast chickens and what smelled like half the Academy's potato stores.
Rōko paused mid-chew. "I still don't understand how this guy looks human. Chimera, sure, but this is his normal form. Asked him yesterday. No way that's good for his heart."
Raphos snorted. "Hey, quit worrying about my heart when you're inhaling an entire hog."
"you're the biggest target here," she shot back. "Better not trash-talk the most agile fighter here, Raphos."
Across the table, Salem's chuckle rumbled. "I disagree. I'm quicker than you, Rōko."
Rōko shoved her plate aside, affronted, but her mana was grinning. "Good thing we're training today. 'Test-your-team day,' remember?"
Fay cleared her throat. "Please don't break each other before lunch."
Lirael murmured something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
I leaned in, elbows on the rough wood. "She's right. Save the energy. We prove ourselves out there on the field, not over breakfast."
Raphos tore into a drumstick the size of my forearm. "Fine. After we eat." He spoke around the bone. "But I'm still gonna show you lot why third place isn't far from first."
Salem's fingers brushed my sleeve, just once, quick reassurance. I sat back, listened to the scrape of plates, the low rumble of morning bravado echoing through the hall. No outlines, no colors, just voices like fingerprints and the steady drum of my own heartbeat under the blindfold.
Outside, instructors barked orders. A bell rang twice, sharp, metallic—summoning squads to the practice yard.
I stood. "Time to earn our reputations."
Boots hit stone. Benches slid back. Our little band moved as one through the doorway, the morning air cool against my cheeks. I tasted dew and smelled churned earth where yesterday's rain lingered.
Somewhere ahead, canvas flaps snapped in the wind—training tents, open spar grounds, new challenges waiting.
"Let's go be the best," I said quietly.
Five sets of footsteps answered.
And we walked into the first test together.
Wind pressed against my cheeks as we stepped out of the central keep. Somewhere high overhead, Lincoln's earth-magic rumbled like distant thunder—slabs of stone shifting, fusing, locking into place. Boots scraped, voices echoed upward, and the air felt… layered. Thick. Seven distinct levels, each thrumming with its own heartbeat of power.
Lirael's breath caught beside me. "He could shape an entire continent with output like this. Overnight."
Rōko let out a sharp exhale that sounded too close to a growl. "Great. My own element just made me obsolete. One of those floors would empty my core—he makes seven, then jogs off to kill devils for dessert."
"It's still impressive," I said, lifting my chin. Even behind the blindfold, I felt mana pressing against my skin in slow, tidal waves—like standing in surf that never recedes. "You're not obsolete, Rōko. He's Lincoln."
"Mm-hmm," she muttered, unconvinced.
Raphos's heavy footfall stopped a few paces ahead. "Fifth floor's ours. Stairs are back that way."
I reached out, fingers brushing cool air. "Or we skip the stairs."
With a flick of my wrist the space in front of us split—a soft rip, fabric tearing in reverse. Cool wind rushed through the opening. I stepped until my toes kissed the threshold, felt Salem's steadying palm at my shoulder, then pivoted back.
"Quick hop," I said. "Stay close."
Rōko grumbled something about "show-offs," but everyone shuffled in. Fay's sleeve brushed mine. Lirael's quiet breath came next, Raphos ducked with a grunt of displaced air.
Crossing felt like diving through chilled silk, pressure, then a pop. My boots hit packed earth. The ground was level, massive, and humming with Lincoln's residual power. Canvas rustled somewhere to my right, a tent wall slapped in the wind like a sail finding its line.
Salem's hand slid into mine. "We're up."
I nodded, inhaled the scent of fresh-cracked stone and raw soil, and let the magnitude settle in my bones.
"Our own war tent," Raphos said, satisfaction rumbling through his chest. Wood creaked as he tested support beams I couldn't see. "Reinforced like a fortress."
Fay exhaled an awed whistle. "Okay, maybe breakfast bravado was premature."
"Maybe," I agreed, smiling despite the weight of magic pressing on every nerve. "But first steps matter. Let's claim this floor, and make sure everyone above and below knows Squad Valor isn't just here to watch."
Rōko cracked her knuckles. "You heard the captain."
We spread out, footfalls thumping across the vast space, voices calling measurements, canvas ropes groaning under tension. I couldn't see any of it, but the vibrations told the story well enough:
Steel rings hammered into stone. Benches dragged into place. Training mats unrolled with a leathery slap. Somewhere in all that bustle, I found the center, planted both feet, and let the hum of Lincoln's work settle through my soles.
Fifth floor. Our floor.
Now we make it ours.
The air on our floor tasted like pine and cold water. With the blindfold on, I relied on the way sound bounced: wind weaving through leaves, a low splash where something disturbed a pond, the creak of rope-bridge planks shifting under Raphos's weight.
Salem's voice mapped it out for me.
"There's a stone path that curves around a pond, pretty deep, maybe five meters across. A little wooden bridge angles over it. Trees everywhere, spruce, birch, even a silver maple. Lincoln really went for a 'private valley' vibe. War-tent's dead center, big red target symbol stitched on the roof."
"A target?" Raphos rumbled. "That can't be random."
Lirael's footsteps padded closer. "Whatever this first test is, it's more than friendly sparring. We should look for a clue before we wake up to the floor exploding."
"Comforting," Fay muttered.
We spread out. Boots crunched over gravel; canvas flaps rustled. I slipped off the blindfold—no crowds up here—letting mana outlines and soft blurs bloom across my vision. Lincoln's stonework glowed in faint lattices, pulsing under every footstep.
Minutes passed, Rōko checked under the bridge, Salem circled the treeline, Raphos lifted barrels as if they were feathers. Then Fay's squeak cut through the quiet.
"Found something!"
Inside the war-tent, she held a sealed envelope. Lirael sliced it open with a flick of mana and read:
Welcome, Floor 5.
This terrain was shaped to fit your squad's strengths and weaknesses.
In one month your floor will be attacked by elite mages acting as devils.
Your task: defend yourselves and the terrain.
Remember—every crater here would have been a civilian grave in a real incursion.
Plan accordingly.
—Lincoln.
Silence, then the inevitable commentary.
Salem first—calm, almost bored. "A staged devil raid? Doesn't sound too hard."
"Easy for a rank-one demon to say," Fay huffed. "I only just hit rank two, thank you."
Raphos slapped a palm against the tent pole—wood groaned. "I'm too big to tip-toe around landscaping. One swing and I'll level half this valley."
Rōko laughed, boots scuffing the dirt. "Told you: agility beats bear-size."
"Keep laughing, twig," he shot back.
I raised both hands for quiet, feeling their outlines settle. "We need a plan before any of us break Lincoln's fancy garden. Sit, circle up."
The bench creaked as everyone settled: Salem at my right, Fay and Lirael whisper-quiet across, Rōko kicking one heel against the floorboards, Raphos crouched like a boulder that refused to fit on the seats.
I tied the blindfold back on, shutting out the pulsing outlines so I could think in clean darkness.
"First: map roles. Second: rehearse response patterns that don't wreck the terrain. Third: figure out how to make our growth everyone elses problem."
Feet shuffled. Someone, probably Fay—pushed a slate toward me.
"Let's get to work," I said.
And the war-tent filled with the scratch of chalk, the rustle of paper, and the low, determined hum of a squad learning how to become a wall the devils couldn't break.