The morning after the brutal labyrinth trial dawned quiet and solemn over Saint Academy. For the first time in weeks, the dormitory halls were void of chatter, laughter, or heated boasts. Only five teams remained, and each was licking their wounds in silence.
Team 11 sat scattered across the training yard grass, nursing injuries and their pride. Zeke had a wrapped shoulder, Amara wore a patch over one eye from minor retinal stress, and Damien—well, Damien had his fists wrapped again, stained faintly with blood, skin bruised but healing.
They were alive. Barely.
Damien stared up at the holographic leaderboard hovering above the yard. Five glowing tiles. Five team names. Their team, dead last. Above them, teams with shining reputations and ranks. Especially Team 12. Theo Shaw's team.
"People think we fluked our way in," Zeke muttered beside him.
Amara clicked her holowatch, reviewing data feeds from the labyrinth. "Because statistically, we did."
Zeke rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the pep talk."
Damien stayed quiet. He didn't care what they said. Not really. But something inside him was...off. Like his thoughts echoed when they shouldn't. Like there was another version of him watching silently from a dark corner of his mind.
Later that afternoon, the remaining five teams were summoned to the main Strategy Dome.
It was a sleek, circular hall with mirrored floors and an augmented-reality ceiling that played past tournament highlights. The surviving teams sat at long, curved tables, instructors stationed behind each one.
Damien couldn't help but glance across the room.
Team 1—Ronan Varell's team—looked like soldiers fresh off a battlefield. Calm. Cold. Focused.
Team 2—Valyn Crowe's team—were draped in high-tech gear, their eyes scanning every movement in the room. One member had an implant glowing faintly across their temple.
Team 7—Korrin Dhal's squad—sat relaxed, laughing among themselves as if the last round had been a casual spar.
Team 12—Theo Shaw and his crew—radiated confidence. Theo caught Damien's gaze and smirked.
And then there was Team 11.
The underdogs.
Instructor Rayne stepped forward, hands clasped behind her back. Her voice was sharp, unwavering.
"Congratulations. You are the five teams who survived the Baptism of Fire. Make no mistake, that was not the main test. That was simply the cut."
A low murmur passed through the room.
"You will have tonight to recover. Tomorrow, you face The Riddlewalk Reforged. And know this—more than one team will be eliminated in the next round. Possibly all but one."
Amara straightened.
"But isn't this a tournament? Aren't there supposed to be progressive rounds?"
Rayne stared at her. "Saint Academy doesn't breed participants. It breeds champions."
The message was clear.
The cafeteria was unusually crowded that evening. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the survivors. Screens replayed footage of the first trial on loop, slow motion captures of students being swallowed by beasts or blown away by traps.
Damien moved through the cafeteria tray in hand, eyes low, until a tray bumped into his side.
"Well if it isn't our miracle mouse," Theo's voice rang, sweetly venomous.
Damien glanced sideways. Theo stood there, arms folded, his two teammates standing just behind.
"Must be nice," Theo said, "knowing you skated in by luck while the real Saints did the work."
Damien didn't respond. He simply walked past.
"What's the matter, Gray? Afraid your fake strength might run out before round two?"
Something shifted.
A cold pulse ran down Damien's spine. For a moment, the lights flickered above. He turned.
"You talk too much."
Theo chuckled. "And you walk like a peasant."
And then it happened.
Theo reached out to shove Damien, but Damien's hand moved faster—far faster than even he realized.
There was a blur, a crack, and Theo's body slammed into the vending machine across the cafeteria, shattering glass and sending soda cans flying.
Gasps erupted. Trays hit the floor.
But what stunned everyone more was what flickered in that moment:
A faint, almost invisible surge of dark purple energy pulsing down Damien's arm—like veins of shadow light.
But only for a blink.
Two instructors appeared instantly, stepping between them.
"Enough!" one roared.
Theo groaned, trying to rise. Damien stood frozen, breathing heavily, his hands trembling.
Zeke and Amara rushed to his side.
"What was that?" Zeke whispered.
"I... don't know," Damien muttered. But deep down, he did. Something had begun to stir. Something old. And it didn't like being quiet anymore.
That night, Damien dreamed.
He stood in a void. No stars. No sky. No floor.
Just...nothing.
Then he heard it.
"You are not made to follow. You are made to erase."
The voice was ancient. Not loud. But it shook the core of him.
"You were not born of light, Damien Gray. You were born to consume it."
A violet eye opened in the distance. Then more. Watching. Waiting.
Damien fell to his knees as the void wrapped around him like a blanket.
He gasped awake, drenched in sweat.
The alarm buzzed.
A new day.
At the morning assembly, the announcement played across the sky via drone hologram.
"Good morning, Saint Academy. And welcome to Round Two of the Team Combat Tournament."
"This next phase is no mere puzzle. It is the evolution of Floor Two. Welcome to… The Riddlewalk Reforged."
Gasps swept across the student body. Even the eliminated teams whispered.
"Lethal illusions, paradoxes, trap sequences, and the first stage of applied Divine Resonance. Only the teams with true synchronicity will advance."
As the message ended, Zeke, Amara, and Damien stood together beneath the academy's central tower.
Zeke looked at Damien. "You good?"
Damien nodded slowly. "Something's coming. I can feel it."
Amara tightened her gloves. "Then let's not get left behind."
High above them, the maze doors began to open.
A final message rang across the air:
"Let the games continue."