Long ago, a meteor carved open the land, leaving behind a vast pit whose depths defied measure. From its bottom crawled creatures known as Meteors, born from warped energy and shadow. It was said that time and space themselves bent within that abyss, and the deeper one descended, the more distorted reality became.
This was the site of the infamous Hole Test.
On this day, the students of Trinity Academy gathered before that gaping mouth of darkness. Rows of young cultivators, armored and armed, stood with tense anticipation. At the front, Instructor Merog addressed them.
Beside him shimmered the Hall Gate, a glowing portal of azure light that bypassed the unstable terrain and carried participants directly into the pit's depths.
Merog's voice carried solemn weight as he explained the trial. Each student received a mana cylinder—a glass vessel capped in metal, designed to store concentrated magical energy. The task was simple in words, but deadly in practice: descend, fill the cylinder, and return alive.
Two paths lay open. One could siphon energy from cracks in the stone, where mana fountains leaked raw power. Or, one could harvest it from the corpses of fallen Meteors. Both methods were used by true adventurers and mercenaries who braved the abyss for profit.
But the exam judged more than success. Speed, resourcefulness, and endurance would determine one's score. Injuries carried weight in the evaluation, and discretion was as valuable as bravery.
The students listened, armored in steel and silk alike. Some wore the full regalia of knights, while others donned enchanted garments, light yet resilient. Connor McCloud stood among them, clad in chainmail over his academy uniform, a blend of mercenary habit and academic formality.
He noticed familiar faces in the crowd:
Lanius, weighed down with heavy armaments.
Anastasia, veiled in her black dress, smiling with unsettling confidence.
Zephyrus of the Allima Union, lightly dressed yet unshaken.
Myael Astaroth, her hair tied neatly back, radiating sharp elegance even in simplicity.
Eyes followed Connor openly. Whispers circled—the Highlander's reputation preceded him.
With final words of warning, Merog wished them luck. Then, one by one, they stepped through the Hall Gate into darkness.
The passage beyond was a cave lined with crystal veins that glowed faintly, casting eerie illumination across jagged stone. The air was heavy, thick with mana, and Connor inhaled deeply. By its density and taste, he judged their depth—no more than seven floors beneath the surface. Shallow, by mercenary standards, but fitting for an academy's first real test.
He checked his equipment: a substitute longsword, disposable magic scrolls, the mana cylinder, and a return bracelet inscribed with teleportation runes. Along with rations and water, it was enough for days of survival.
Kyle's voice whispered within him, fragments of memory surfacing. Stone doors. Danger. Three people. The warnings were vague, more like omens than instructions. Connor dismissed them. This was no mercenary contract—it was a school exam.
But unease lingered.
Frustration from the morning's nightmare still burned in Connor's chest, so he chose recklessness over caution. His shout echoed through the cavern, taunting the abyss. The sound stirred movement. Dozens of Meteors—scaled, lizard-like beasts—swarmed from the shadows, answering his challenge.
Blades clashed against scaled hide. Each strike painted his weapon with gore, until cutting gave way to battering under sheer weight of numbers. Purple blood slicked his armor, his breath came ragged, and still the Meteors pressed on.
At last, silence.
Bodies lay piled in heaps, over fifty in number. Connor leaned against the wall, exhausted but triumphant. Kyle scolded him for his wasted stamina, yet Connor grinned at the carnage.
He opened the mana cylinder, holding it over the corpses. Purple energy seeped from broken bodies, threads of corrupted light drawn into the glass. It filled slowly, steadily, until faint runes pulsed upon its surface.
But then—movement.
From the edge of his vision, another student approached. At first, Connor paid little mind, until he saw the boy kneel and press his own cylinder against the pile of corpses Connor had slain.
Fury surged. Connor stormed forward, shouting like a berserker. The thief froze in terror, too shocked to flee. His armor bore the crest of a noble house, marking him as a student of rank.
The boy stammered apologies. He confessed envy from the first day of class, admitting resentment toward a commoner who had drawn such attention at the entrance ceremony. Yet his voice trembled, his body shrank as if before a monster.
Only then did Connor notice his own reflection in a puddle nearby.
Drenched in purple blood, wild-eyed, sword still dripping, he looked less like a student and more like a marauder from the battlefield. To anyone watching, his approach must have seemed like death itself descending.
The noble fled in haste, leaving Connor alone once more.
Connor exhaled heavily, watching his reflection ripple. Perhaps Kyle was right—this was not the battlefield. But old habits died hard, and in this pit, the line between mercenary and student blurred with every step.
The Hole Test had only begun.