The training grounds were already crowded when I arrived—wide stone arena, runic barriers humming faintly around the perimeter. Even the air felt heavier here, like the whole place was built to remind you of your limits.
Most first-years stood in groups. Whispering, comparing gear, pretending they weren't afraid of looking weak. I stayed off to the side. Not hiding—just… choosing silence.
A man stepped onto the central platform, and the crowd shut up instantly.
Instructor Varron.
Scarred. Broad-shouldered. The kind of presence that didn't need to shout to be heard. You don't survive in the Outer Realms—with or without a kingdom's banner—by being soft, and he looked like living proof.
"Welcome to Practical Combat," he said. "If you think this will be a warm-up, you're in the wrong Academy—and the wrong continent."
Continent.
Right. Three kingdoms shared Aetheria: Valen, Istrial, Kaelhun. All pretending to cooperate. All sharpening their blades behind the scenes. Resonance users were their currency, and we were the mint.
"You come from different regions. Different kingdoms. Different levels of privilege." Varron's eyes moved over the crowd but didn't linger on anyone. "Doesn't matter. Out there, Resonance is the only language that keeps you alive."
Out there.
The Rifts. The things that swallowed cities, borders, and entire bloodlines.
"Today is simple," Varron continued. "We measure your combat instincts. Not strength. Not talent. Instinct."
A ripple of unease passed through the class.
A gate opened at the far end of the arena, releasing a dull, metallic sound.
Crates. Dozens of them. Each one marked with a glowing sigil.
I didn't like the look of those.
Varron smirked—barely. "Inside each crate is a Simulacrum. A projection beast. Harmless if you're competent. Embarrassing if you're not."
Great.
He started calling names. One by one, students stepped forward, fought the beasts, and got graded. Some did well. Most flailed. A few screamed. The Simulacrums mimicked real Rift creatures—dumbed down, but still fast.
When he finally called, "Aren Vale," I felt twenty pairs of eyes shift my way.
Not all. Just enough to be annoying.
I walked to the center. Calm. Neutral. No reason to stand out.
The crate in front of me rattled.
Too light to be anything big. Good.
The sigils flashed, and the beast formed—lean, low to the ground, like a half-made wolf forged from mana smoke and bone.
It circled. Testing me.
I watched its weight distribution, the angle of its shoulders, the flicker of energy along its claws. Predictable pattern. The Simulacrums weren't designed to think, only to punish hesitation.
It lunged.
I stepped aside—not back, just enough to break its angle—and felt its claws skim the air where my chest had been a second earlier. My Resonance flickered, reacting instinctively. Spatial compression, faint and unrefined, tugged at my surroundings.
Not enough to weaponize.
Enough to notice.
The beast spun for another strike.
This time, I moved first.
Not flashy—just precise. I guided its momentum off-balance, then drove my knee into the base of its skull. The projection burst into shards of pale crystal.
Silence.
Varron's expression didn't change, but he gave a slow nod.
"Efficient," he said. "No wasted movement. Use that mind of yours, Vale. It'll get you further than muscle."
The class returned to their own problems, and I stepped back into the crowd, exactly where I preferred to be:
Unremarkable.
Present.
Invisible enough to breathe.