Three hours had passed since Connor McCloud received an unexpected apology from a fellow student. The vastness of the hall swallowed all sound but his own steps. He gnawed on tasteless rations to quiet his stomach, yet found no sign of other examinees.
The only traces of life were corpses of Meteors—slain in every manner imaginable. Some were burned to ash, others torn by claws, pierced by enchanted arrows, or cleanly bisected by blades of wind. Each scar whispered of familiar hands at work. Connor realized he was far from the only one pressing forward with ferocity.
He checked the mana cylinder at his waist. Though he had hunted plenty, it remained only three-quarters full. A reminder that effort alone would not see it complete.
Kyle's voice murmured inside his mind, explaining the hidden logic of such trials: a test designed never to yield too many perfect scores. It was not about victory—it was about measurement.
Accepting this truth, Connor shifted his focus from chasing Meteors to seeking mana fountains, the natural rifts where raw energy gathered. Soon, in a cavern of mushrooms, he found one. Purple magic leaked like mist from a crack in the stone.
He opened the cylinder, watching as energy poured in, compressed until the rift ran dry. Yet the gain was but a fingernail's worth of progress. His mercenary instincts cursed the waste. In the outside world, such a source could have filled five cylinders. But here, the academy's device demanded far more.
Hours stretched. He scoured hidden crevices, monopolizing fountains overlooked by others. Slowly, the cylinder thickened with energy, though still far from full. The question of rest loomed.
Without barrier spells, sleep in the hall was suicide. Yet Kyle, being the Regressor bound to him, offered a solution. Through him, a protective ward could be raised. Through him, vigilance could be maintained.
Relief came with unease. Even with safeguards, the thought of sleeping alone in the abyss chilled Connor. The hall was no place for solitude.
His thoughts turned to cooperation. Though Merog had not spoken of alliances, Kyle reasoned that the test was designed to provoke them. Guardians, after all, were not only warriors but leaders who could improvise and collaborate when the abyss swallowed hope.
So Connor searched for footprints. Soon, he found three trails—one heavy and deep, belonging to someone in full armor. Another light and narrow, likely a girl's step. The third uneven, weighted heavily on one side. An injury.
Connor's mercenary instincts stirred. An injured comrade should retreat, for death was final. Yet these tracks pressed forward.
Kyle warned him against interference. A limp meant danger, and danger meant burden. To help might lower Connor's score. But the past mercenary in him could not look away. The voice of his future self pressed him further:
"There is a limit to the number of lives one man can save."
Connor understood. He had only one body, only two hands, and a heart that could not carry everyone. Yet his steps followed the tracks regardless, as if pulled by conscience carved into his bones.
Kyle's voice softened. Memories surfaced—losses long buried, people who could not be saved. Even names forgotten, yet the weight of their absence lingered, etched into his soul.
At last, Connor's chase led him to a dead end. The footprints turned aside, halting before a massive stone gate embedded in the wall. His forehead burned with a sharp tingle.
A warning.
The future he had been told of—the stone gate, the danger, the three figures—stood before him.
The abyss was about to change.