I didn’t sleep well.

  When I woke up, it was with a jolt that sent me crashing out of bed and face-first into the hardwood floor of Room 219. Great start to Evaluation Day.

  For a second, I just lay there, trying to convince myself to stay still, maybe fake a cold or pretend to be unconscious. But I already knew it wouldn’t work. Instructor Baek would probably just kick in the door, drag me to the courtyard by the ankle, and evaluate me while I drooled on the pavement.

  So I got up. Threw on my standard black uniform. Tightened my boots. Ignored the earthquake going off in my stomach. This was it.

  Today was when they decided whether I was a Slayer in training—or another washout waiting to be sent home.

  The early morning sky over KISA was the color of steel wool, faint rays of sun barely cutting through the cloud cover. I joined the mass of students shuffling into the main plaza, where the obsidian Marker towered behind the stage like a silent judge. Everyone looked tense. Eyes darting, mouths tight. Some had already started muttering about which test they dreaded most. A few looked like they hadn’t slept at all.

  I felt like I was floating. Detached. Like I was watching it all happen from behind my own eyes. Then Instructor Baek appeared on the stage, and just like that, everything snapped back into brutal, fluorescent reality.

  “Good morning, larvae.”

  That’s how she greeted us.

  “Today’s Evaluation Day. This is the moment you find out what you’re made of—and whether you’ll live long enough to matter.”

  She strode across the platform, her voice slicing through the morning air like a blade. Her tactical armor glinted silver beneath her coat, and she carried a data slate in one hand like it was a weapon.

  “There are three phases. Fail one? You’re on probation. Fail two? You’re gone. Fail all three?”

  She gave a thin smile.

  “We let you clean the summoning cages in the Rift Labs. Spoiler: some of the things we summon don’t believe in plumbing.”

  I swallowed hard. So much for a gentle intro.

  Baek raised her hand and flicked through the holographic interface of her slate.

  “Phase One: Combat Aptitude.

  Phase Two: Essentia Endurance.

  Phase Three: Mental Acuity.”

  She let that hang in the air for a moment.

  “Get through today, and tomorrow, you’ll enter The Gauntlet: a five-day combat tournament designed to push every limit you think you have. That’s when the real training begins.”

  Well, at least she was honest.

  They took us down beneath the academy—to the Underdome.

  It was huge. A battle coliseum wrapped in glowing sigil lines and projected barriers, with more than a dozen rings spaced apart by forcefields. The place buzzed with tension. Observers filled the upper seats: instructors, admin staff, maybe a few automated watchers.

  When they called my name, my pulse nearly exploded.

  “Student Lynn Kurosaki. Arena Six.”

  I stepped into the ring.

  It was cold. Sterile. Lit by bright overhead lamps that cast sharp shadows across the polished floor. In front of me stood my opponent: a humanoid automaton over six feet tall, its alloy plating matte black with faint red streaks where the welds met. Its hands morphed fluidly into blades.

  “Of course,” I muttered. “I get the sword arms.”

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  The speaker above crackled.

  “Begin.”

  No countdown. No prep. Just GO.

  The automaton came in fast. I barely managed to dodge the first strike—a horizontal slash that would’ve taken my head off. I threw myself to the side and rolled, my heart in my throat.

  My shadow followed me.

  Now, I thought. Move!

  I flung my hand out and yanked on the tendril of my own shadow. It responded instantly—lashing out like a whip and wrapping around the automaton’s arm. It tried to slice through the shadow, but I twisted and sent a second strand up its leg.

  The shadows listened to me. Not just like tools, but like trained beasts. Living things.

  I pulled hard, yanking the golem’s feet out from under it.

  It crashed down, metal on stone.

  I didn’t waste time.

  Two more spikes of shadow burst from the floor—one through its shoulder joint, the other through the back of its leg. I locked its limbs and backed off, breathing hard.

  “Time: Two minutes, fourteen seconds. Target incapacitated.”

  A green light flashed above the arena. I stepped back, adrenaline still spiking. My knees threatened to buckle, but I held it together.

  Baek’s voice echoed overhead:

  “Kurosaki. Not bad. You actually made that look stylish.”

  That might’ve been the closest thing to a compliment I’d ever get.

  I wasn’t prepared for the next test.

  They called it the Drain Chamber.

  Imagine a massive dark stone room, circular, with lines of glowing blue script spiraling up the walls. We each stood in our own ring—sigils beneath our feet glowing brighter by the second.

  “The longer you remain standing,” a technician said, “the higher your grade. When your essentia drops below the survivability threshold, the system will auto-release you.”

  Survivability threshold? That was comforting.

  The moment the runes activated, I felt it. Like something inside me was unraveling. The core of my body—where my essentia lived—was being siphoned. Slowly. Constantly.

  I grit my teeth and focused. My instinct was to push outward, to resist. But brute force wouldn’t work. I had to be smarter.

  I imagined a funnel in reverse. Instead of letting the flow escape, I redirected it—looping it through my shadow, creating a cycle. It wasn’t perfect, but it slowed the drain. A little.

  To my left, someone collapsed. Then another.

  Sweat dripped down my face. My muscles twitched involuntarily. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

  That’s when the whispering started.

  Not from the room. From within the shadow.

  “We see you…”

  “You could be more…”

  I ground my heel into the floor and grunted. “Shut up.”

  My shadow pulsed. The voices retreated.

  I didn’t break.

  When they pulled me out, I was barely conscious. My whole body felt like jelly. But the technician looked almost impressed.

  “Twenty-seven minutes. Longest duration in your group.”

  Cool. I was the most durable piece of meat in the grinder.

  I thought it’d be easy.

  After all, I’d studied rift theory. I knew the difference between a core rupture and a mana bleed. I’d read case files of failed raids and counter-strategies for dungeon mutations.

  What I didn’t expect was the psychology questions.

  The scenarios were brutal.

  One had you choosing between saving a teammate or sealing a rift. Another forced you to prioritize between children and mission-critical data. Some questions didn’t even have clear right answers. It wasn’t a test. It was a mirror.

  One scenario asked:

  A rift opens in a residential sector. You and your squad are the only ones nearby. You can stabilize the rift, but only by using up your last healing amp. Your teammate is dying from poison damage. What do you do?

  I stared at that one for a long time.

  In the end, I chose the rift.

  Not because I wanted to.

  But because more people would die if I didn’t.

  We were brought back to the plaza that evening.

  The sky had turned orange. The Marker pulsed behind the stage like a heartbeat.

  Instructor Baek stepped up again. No jokes this time. No explosions.

  Just names.

  “If your name is listed under Tier One, congratulations—you’ve passed with high marks. You’ll be placed into Tournament Group Alpha.”

  My name lit up.

  Tier One.

  I exhaled slowly. My fingers actually stopped shaking.

  “Tomorrow,” Baek said, “The Gauntlet begins. Five days of combat trials. Solo fights. Team battles. Field exercises. You’ll be pushed, broken, and measured.”

  “This is not about who’s strongest. It’s about who adapts. Who thinks. Who leads.”

  She glanced at me.

  “Rest. You’ll need it.”

  That night, I sat on the roof of the dorm and stared at the moon.

  Evaluation Day was over.

  But something told me the real test hadn’t even started yet