Orientation

Lucas slipped through the front door as quietly as possible, the creak of the hinges loud in the dead silence of the house. A single hallway light buzzed faintly overhead. It was his mother's habit, leaving it on whenever someone was out late.

He paused for a moment at the threshold of his room, still damp with sweat, the cold catching on his skin. His limbs were heavy, his joints aching, but underneath it all was something new, a strange flicker of satisfaction.

Not pride. Not yet. But something similar to it.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and he collapsed onto the mattress without even bothering to change. The sheets were cold. The pain dulled to a low throb, and his eyes, heavy from exhaustion, drifted shut.

The week passed in a blur.

Training became routine. Not because it got easier, but because Lucas forced it to. Wake up, stretch, run, push, break, repeat. His muscles screamed, his joints protested, but his mind, his will, stayed locked in.

The original Lucas would have given up by day two. But he wasn't the original Lucas.

Each night, he'd collapse in bed soaked in sweat, muscles on fire, but one glance at the upgrade screen and the countdown to the next quest would pull him back on his feet the next day. He didn't get stronger overnight. But bit by bit, the numbers began to change.

Seven days later, Lucas stood at the edge of the curb outside his house, dressed in a plain black jacket and worn sneakers. The backpack on his shoulder was heavier than it looked, filled with essentials and uncertainty.

The street was quiet, too quiet. Morning mist curled low across the pavement. The neighborhood, though secure inside the safe zone, always felt one bad siren away from collapse.

He checked the time. 6:03 AM.

Then, right on cue, a low rumble echoed down the street.

The car that pulled up was matte-black, sleek but armored, the kind of vehicle you'd expect to see in an escort convoy rather than a school pickup.

The window rolled down, revealing a face that looked carved from stone. The driver was gruff, maybe late forties, with a scar running down the side of his cheek and tired eyes that said he'd seen more than one veil crack open.

"You Hollow?"

Lucas nodded.

"Get in. Don't touch anything."

The inside of the car smelled like smoke and old leather. Lucas slid into the backseat and shut the door. No words were exchanged for several minutes.

"You always this quiet?" the man asked eventually, not turning around.

"Only when I'm nervous."

The man let out something between a grunt and a chuckle. "You should be."

Lucas leaned forward, peering at the man through the rearview. "You a Delver?"

"Was. Rank 2. Retired early. Lost a few friends too many."

Lucas swallowed. "That's... pretty high, right?"

"It's high enough that most people don't get there, and low enough that you still die fast if you mess up."

The rest of the ride was quiet. No music. Just the hum of tires over asphalt and the occasional murmur of static from the car's radio, scanning emergency frequencies.

Delver Academy didn't look like a school.

The outer wall was massive, reinforced concrete interwoven with a gleaming alloy Lucas didn't recognize. Defensive turrets perched on the corners, tracking movement lazily. It looked more like a military compound than a place of learning.

But once they passed through the security gate and the scanning grid, everything changed.

The inner campus opened up into wide courtyards and tall glass buildings. Training fields stretched across the grounds. Sword fights clashed steel on steel under supervision. Others practiced spells in open-air casting ranges, fire, wind, water, energy. One girl floated three feet above the ground as a rune circle shimmered beneath her feet.

Students, some no older than him, moved with purpose. Some were laughing. Others were sparring hard enough to draw blood.

"This place is insane," Lucas muttered.

The driver nodded. "That's one word for it."

He dropped Lucas at a large stone plaza near the center of the academy and drove off without another word.

Lucas stood there, alone in a sea of people, shouldering a bag heavier with nerves than supplies. Around him, other new students were gathering. Some looked confident, others terrified. All of them were being watched.

A whistle cut through the chatter.

A tall man in a dark overcoat stepped onto the platform at the plaza's center. His presence silenced the crowd instantly. It wasn't his size, it was his posture, his control. He had the look of a man who could kill without lifting his voice.

"I am Headmaster Graye," he said, eyes scanning the crowd like he was memorizing every face. "If you are standing here, you have been given one chance. You will not get a second."

No one dared respond.

"This academy exists to create Delvers. Survivors. Not soldiers. Not heroes. We do not train you to be symbols, we train you to live through hell and come back with something to show for it."

A moment passed. Then the headmaster raised a single hand, gesturing toward a series of thick blast doors built into the courtyard floor.

With a groan of metal and the hiss of escaping pressure, the doors began to open.

Heat rolled out of the pit beneath. A stench followed, wet, coppery, wrong.

A low growl echoed from the depths. It wasn't animal. It wasn't human.

Some students took a step back. Others froze.

"This is your orientation," Graye said. "You survive, or you don't. This is the world now. No more illusions. No more protection."

Lucas's hands clenched involuntarily.

Ding.

[Quest: Survive the Orientation]

[Time Limit: Until Dawn]

[Warning: Lethal failure possible]

He stared at the message, heart pounding. The letters pulsed faintly, cold and unforgiving.

Welcome to Delver Academy.