CHAPTER 51: VEYRIC OF THE SURVIVAL TRIAL

The silence that followed Serenya’s last words was suffocating.Tens of thousands of students stood frozen, their hearts still rattled from the roar that had nearly split their skulls. The only sound was the low, guttural growl of the beast beside Serenya, a steady, threatening rumble that vibrated in the marble and in their bones.

Avin’s throat was dry. Nobody dared to speak, cough, or even breathe too loudly. Nobody wanted to be the next to draw that monster’s attention.

Finally, Serenya’s soft, melodic voice returned, slicing through the tension.

"Your first test," she said, "will be survival. Those who endure will then participate in the written and practical sections. We acknowledge that strength wears many faces—some of you are skilled in diplomacy, others in battle, others still in art or knowledge. But before all of that, you must demonstrate at least the instinct to stay alive. Without survival, there can be nothing else."

Her words rolled like silk, but Avin felt the pit open in his stomach.

"So, you don’t have to be a fighting freak to get in..." he thought, a hollow sigh echoing in his mind. "But I’m lacking in everything. Fighting, brains, charm—hell, even luck. This... this is bad."

Eira tilted her head toward him. "But you’re still here, aren’t you?"

Avin blinked, startled. He hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud, but his thoughts were slipping through his lips again, as though this world itself was loosening his grip. Eira smirked knowingly, while Sylas stood stone-still, his eyes locked on the platform, unreadable.

Serenya raised her hand.

The golden hall trembled. At first, a faint vibration, like the hum of some buried engine. Then stronger. The chandeliers above swayed. The massive statues decorating the chamber rattled and cracked. Screams broke out as students pointed upward—marble guardians toppling from their pedestals, chandeliers tearing free from chains, the ceiling itself threatening collapse.

The panic spread like wildfire. Students shoved, tripped, stampeded. Avin froze, eyes wide as a statue came crashing toward a cluster of people. He clenched his jaw and turned his head away, bracing himself for the sickening crunch of stone on flesh.

But the sound never came.

When Avin opened his eyes again, the golden hall was gone.

He stood in a void of pure white. Endless, seamless, blindingly bright, like the inside of a cloud stretched to infinity. The oppressive grandeur of the hall was gone—replaced by something far stranger, far more unnerving.

And there were fewer people.

Avin’s heart pounded as his head whipped left and right. "Where are they? Where are they?!" His eyes darted frantically through the crowd, searching for the only two familiar faces—Eira and Sylas. But no matter where he looked, they were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh no, oh no..." His breath quickened. "Did they fail? Did I lose them already?"

Around him, chaos brewed again. Students shouted names into the void, calling for friends, for siblings, for anyone they recognized. They stumbled through the white mist as if movement itself might force the world to give them answers.

The din built higher and higher until—

"You should all relax yourselves."

The voice was everywhere. Not booming, not echoing, but threaded directly into their ears, commanding attention. Instinctively, every head turned toward its source.

A figure stood at the center of the crowd, tall and composed. A man with raven-black hair slicked neatly back, his sharp jawline clean and angular, his eyes like shards of steel. He wore a perfectly fitted black suit, tailored to his broad shoulders and slim waist, exuding effortless refinement. Despite his leaner frame, muscle corded visibly beneath his shirt, speaking of a strength both honed and restrained.

And between two fingers, he held a smoldering cigarette, its ember glowing a lazy orange. He brought it to his lips, inhaled, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled in the strange, airless white void.

"Hello, children." His voice was calm, casual, almost mocking.

The chaos stopped dead. Whether out of awe, fear, or instinct, no one dared speak when his eyes swept across them.

"My name," he said, plucking the cigarette away to gesture idly with it, "is Veyric Lokraith. I am one of your teachers, and more importantly, I am the administrator of this portion of the survival examination."

The words fell like weights into the silence.

Avin swallowed hard. "Another crazy person..." he muttered.

"Let’s hope not," came Eira’s voice in his memory, and though she wasn’t here, he could almost hear her chuckle.

Veyric took another drag from his cigarette, then began walking toward the crowd, his polished shoes clicking faintly against the white nothing beneath them.

"And before you panic further—your friends are not gone. They are in other sections, overseen by my colleagues."

A collective gasp rippled through the students. Shoulders dropped. Cries of despair turned into sighs of relief. The noise of voices began to rise again, alive with nervous excitement.

Avin almost laughed aloud from the release of tension. "Phew. Of course they’re fine. Why would they be eliminated now? They’re better than me in every possible way." He chuckled bitterly under his breath.

But the relief was short-lived.

Because as soon as the murmur of voices swelled again, the atmosphere changed.

The air thickened.

Avin blinked, his lungs tightening. Each breath became heavier, like trying to inhale through wet cloth. Around him, students dropped to their knees, clutching their throats. Panic returned in an instant, more desperate than before, as if the very air was being stolen from their lungs.

And at the center of it all stood Veyric.

He did nothing but watch them. Watch them choke, watch them writhe, his eyes cold and unblinking. The ember of his cigarette glowed brighter as he inhaled, and the smoke curled lazily upward, as though unaffected by the crushing density of the space.

His gaze swept across the crowd like a blade. Avin felt it slice through him, pinning him in place. Every instinct screamed to kneel, to collapse, to surrender.

But he stood. Shaking, gasping, fighting for air that refused to come—he stood.

And Veyric’s lips curved, just barely, into a smile.