The afternoon light poured through the high windows of the training deck, casting long shadows across the platform. The air felt sharper than usual—charged with tension and unspoken expectation. The students gathered around a circular platform lined with pressure-sensitive tiles and flickering blue lights. Nervous glances darted between clusters, whispered speculations fizzled in the air, and a few cracked knuckles or bounced on their heels—each trying to mask tension with bravado. Today marked the start of Combat Lab Rotation, and the energy was electric.
"Alright, listen up," Instructor Venn barked. "This session is about trust. Combat doesn't wait for friendships—it waits for no one. You move, you adapt, or you fall."
She gestured behind her. "You'll be working with Instructor Eli Ward. Some of you already met him earlier. Let's see if you remember anything."
Eli—still carrying that easy grin—stepped forward. "Surprise drills, team formations, controlled chaos—that's just the framework. What we're really doing is drawing something out of you. Each challenge today is tailored to provoke instinct, emotion, or clarity. We're not looking for perfection. We're watching for reaction—the kind that tells us where your core discipline is hiding.
"You'll go through three trials today. First is the Sensory Disruption Gauntlet—a disorienting path where you'll have to fight or navigate while blindfolded, muffled, or physically offset. We want to see what breaks through when your normal inputs are gone. That'll tell us how you function under pressure and where your instincts lie.
"Second is the Trust Link Relay. You'll be paired with a random student, chained at the wrist, and dropped into a maze that requires collaboration to escape. The goal is to see if you lead, follow, compromise, or dominate—and how your instincts adapt in shared responsibility.
"Third is the Isolation Chamber. A direct combat engagement. One student versus a simulated opponent in a controlled arena. No partners. No instructions. Just instinct, adaptation, and response under pressure. We want to see how you fight when there's no one to follow or lead—only you and the challenge in front of you."
"Each trial is meant to strip you back to your raw form. What rises up when nothing else can help—that's your spark. And from that spark, your core discipline begins to surface."
Xilo blinked. Was it his imagination, or did Eli glance right at him again?
The students were divided into small groups, their faces shifting between excitement and apprehension. Nervous murmurs rippled through the ranks as some fidgeted with their gear or glanced anxiously at the instructors. A few shared tense laughs, trying to lighten the mood, while others stood rigid, every muscle tight with anticipation. The charged atmosphere wrapped around them like static before a storm, amplifying the weight of what was to come. Some whispered nervously to each other, while others glanced around, eyes darting as if measuring their peers. One student bounced slightly on their heels, another cracked their knuckles—each small motion a silent admission of nerves. The atmosphere was tense but buzzing, the anticipation sharp enough to taste. and guided to the first trial: the Sensory Disruption Gauntlet. The training deck shifted, panels folding and extending until a twisting corridor of sound-scrambling walls, flashing lights, and blindfold stations emerged. Students had to fight against moving targets while blindfolded, navigate unstable ground with muffled hearing, or respond to unpredictable tactile shifts that threw off their balance. Among the first to stand out was Lena, the broad-shouldered girl marked with angular tattoos, surged ahead with raw momentum—her steps unrefined but forceful, channeling a kind of primal clarity that reflected her direct, no-nonsense attitude. Another was Kess, lean and limber with a rhythm to his movements that felt more like a well-rehearsed sequence than improvised reaction, who navigated the course with patient fluidity—his precise, graceful movements echoing a quiet analytical mind always two steps ahead. The purpose of the trial was clear—strip away their comfort zone and see what instincts remained. Those attuned to reactionary movement or internal rhythm often stumbled into signs of Flow or Phase.
Next came the Trust Link Relay. Paired at random, students found their wrists linked with energy binds and were dropped into a modular maze that shifted as they moved. Echo chambers confused communication. Only trust, physical synchronicity, and shared instinct would lead to escape. Lena was paired with a quiet tech student whose nervous glances betrayed a mind already analyzing their surroundings. Though hesitant at first, his quick calculations began to sync with Lena's direct approach, creating an unexpectedly effective duo., and though she initially dragged him through brute force, they found rhythm mid-way that impressed even Venn. Kess, meanwhile, adapted his quiet grace to mirror his partner's movements perfectly, almost gliding through the maze. Many students argued, others froze—but a few pairs moved like they'd known each other for years. These moments revealed who leaned toward Pulse, Forge, or Cadence disciplines—where unity or confrontation determined progression.
Finally, the Isolation Chamber. Unlike the other two trials, this was a direct, physical confrontation—one student versus a simulated combatant in a contained arena. The goal wasn't victory, but clarity. Students had to react without guidance, relying purely on instinct and adaptation.
Xilo waited his turn on the edge of the staging area, watching as others entered and exited—some grinning, others pale. A burly girl with geometric tattoos on her arms, called Lena, had made quick work of her opponent with brute force. Another, a wiry boy named Kess, weaved through his simulation with a dancer's grace, never once throwing a punch. Each encounter was different, tailored to pull something out.
When Xilo's turn came, the door sealed behind him. The walls shimmered, and a faceless figure emerged, mirroring his stance. There was no time to think.
The fight began.
He ducked, blocked, countered. Not with elegance—but with grit. The more he fought, the more he felt something humming just beneath his skin. Not power. Not rage. Pattern. He wasn't reacting randomly—he was adapting.
By the end, Xilo stood panting, a faint pulse in his fingertips, the simulation paused with his hand near his opponent's core. He hadn't won decisively, but he hadn't lost himself either.
Instructor Venn and Eli exchanged a brief look as his results uploaded.
From the observation room, Venn tapped her slate. "Lena's brute persistence—Forge potential. Kess is textbook Flow."
Eli nodded, pulling up the data. "Xilo… something in-between. He doesn't force it. He syncs with it."
They continued logging observations into the academy's system. The results wouldn't be finalized or shared with students yet—further analysis was needed. But already, a general picture was forming, giving instructors a better idea of how to shape training schedules moving forward.
Meanwhile, out on the training deck, the atmosphere had shifted. Groups began to solidify—students gravitating toward those who mirrored their instincts or complemented their gaps. Lena stood at the center of a knot of bold, outspoken peers who joked and shadowboxed as if they'd known each other for years. Kess moved quietly with a trio who shared his quiet focus, already analyzing footage and reworking drills among themselves. Even those still unsure found themselves nudged into corners and circles, tentative alliances forming like threads waiting to tighten with time. The battlefield had ended, but the lines of camaraderie—and competition—were just beginning to draw themselves in.
The combat trials concluded just as the sun began to slip lower in the sky, casting golden streaks across the academy's walkways. The students were granted a brief thirty-minute break—enough time to grab water, rest sore limbs, and wind down from the intensity of the trials. Some huddled in groups, quietly recapping the chaos they'd just endured and speculating about what came next. Others sat alone, staring quietly at the horizon.
Xilo lingered on a bench near one of the outer decks, the weight of the combat trials still pressing against his shoulders. The recent sparring had left his body aching, but it was the aftermath that sat heaviest—an unsettled rhythm in his chest that wouldn't quiet. The wind tugged at his sleeves, and the muffled laughter of students in the distance only made the silence around him feel deeper. He couldn't shake the sensation of something awakening inside him, something just beyond his grasp. Was it adrenaline still tapering off? Or was it the edge of something more permanent forming? Either way, the echo of the battlefield hadn't left him—it had only changed form, from motion to stillness, and now lived beneath his skin. His breath came slow, deliberate, and though his limbs throbbed from exertion, his mind raced even faster. He wasn't just exhausted—he was unsettled. The distant hum of student chatter faded as he stared past the training dome's edge, the sunset casting fractured gold across the sky. Beneath the physical fatigue, something else tugged at him: a sensation like a thread pulled too tight, vibrating just below his awareness. It mirrored the quiet unrest building in his chest—the kind that didn't fade with time, only deepened in stillness. The battlefield might have gone silent, but inside him, the echoes still rang.
When the bell chimed, students began drifting toward their next course: Meditation and Internal Regulation.
The hallway leading to his meditation class was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the trials. Xilo's muscles still hummed from the strain, but it was the question in his chest—the echo of something awakened—that lingered most, lined with dark fiber stone walls humming faintly beneath the surface. Inside, low energy-frequency pads pulsed with a soothing resonance. The instructor stepped to the front of the room and bowed lightly. "My name is Instructor Reeva," she said. "I'll be guiding you through the method of Resonant Grounding—an internal regulation technique passed down and refined since the first integrations."
She paced slowly, voice calm but firm, as she continued: "This practice is about controlling more than just movement—controlling your rhythm." "After today's trials, some of you might feel off balance. That's normal. The discipline you touched on—it's raw, unstable, still shaping itself. Meditation is how we ground it. Resonant Grounding allows you to sync breath, intention, and emotional feedback into one rhythm. When you align your breathing and thought with the rhythm of your body, you stabilize the imprint your core discipline is starting to leave behind. You quiet the noise and give your instincts space to speak. The more often you do this, the more clearly you'll begin to hear it—and control it. Especially after a high-output situation like the combat trials, this technique restores balance and helps prevent overload or burnout."
They were told to pair up. Instructor Reeva explained that Resonant Grounding was easier to learn when practiced with another. The differing energies of two students could help stabilize the process, acting as a mirror and a counterbalance. "Sometimes," she said, "your energy alone is too turbulent to read clearly. But when paired, your rhythm can settle, find contrast, and reflect clarity." Xilo hesitated.
Then someone approached.
"Want to partner?"
A student he hadn't noticed before—a calm presence, sharp-eyed but quiet—extended a hand. "I'm Tyren."
Xilo nodded. "Xilo."
They began the breathing exercises, mirroring each other's posture. For a while, it felt normal.
Then—
A pulse.
Sharp and sudden, like a memory too vivid to ignore. The space between their hands thrummed with unspoken weight, and in that charged second, the meditation room felt like it had shifted—a current stirring beneath the silence.
His chest tensed. A flicker of energy passed between them—not visual, not sound. Just a feeling. A familiarity. Like the moment with his brother in the museum. It jolted through him, sending a wave of cold and warmth up his spine, like being dunked into two memories at once visual, not sound. Just a feeling. A familiarity. Like the moment with his brother in the museum. It jolted through him.
He yanked his hands away.
The student blinked. "Did you feel that?"
His eyes lit up, curiosity overtaking caution. "That was... something. Let's try again. Maybe we can figure out what triggered it."
Xilo hesitated. The sensation had been too close—too familiar. His pulse quickened.
"I... I have to go."
Tyren stepped forward. "Hey, wait—it could mean something. Don't you want to know?"
But Xilo was already backing away. "Not right now."
He didn't wait for permission. He turned and moved quickly, his steps echoing.
Outside, on one of the mid-tier walkways, he paused to catch his breath.
"Rough day already?"
Xilo turned. Eli Ward leaned against a pillar like he'd been there all along. The sight of him sent a ripple through Xilo's chest—subtle, but there. Every time Eli was near, something in the air seemed to tilt slightly. Not heavy or hostile—just charged, like the static before a storm.
"I'm fine."
"Sure. Totally fine. Everyone bolts from class because of how relaxed they feel."
Xilo exhaled through his nose. "Something weird happened. And... I don't know, when I saw you just now—it felt like you were already expecting me. Like you were waiting."
Eli tilted his head. "It does that. Some people call it intuition, others say it's energy recognition. Doesn't matter what you name it—what matters is you noticed it. That kind of pull, that sensation? It means something's trying to reach you. That's not a mistake. It's the process."
There was a pause. Xilo didn't move.
Eli added, more gently, "Just know you're not the only one feeling like something's waking up inside. Doesn't make you broken. Might mean you're just ahead of the curve."
Xilo glanced away. "If I was really ahead of the curve, wouldn't I be up there with the advanced students or something? Ascent or whatever?"
Eli smiled. "Nah. Sometimes the ones who shine too early burn out fast. I'm more interested in the ones who start buried but still rise. Diamonds in the rough, remember?"
That hung in the air.
"Anyway," Eli said, brushing it off, "whenever you're ready to face it, I'll be around."
Back in his dorm, the quiet wasn't comforting—it was necessary. The echo of simulated combat still thudded in his bones, but here, the silence offered something he hadn't realized he needed—a chance to process. The stillness after chaos allowed every thought, doubt, and revelation to surface like dust settling in light. Bren was gone, probably in one of his electives. Xilo sank onto the bunk.
He closed his eyes and began the meditation technique again, slower this time.
Focus.
Breathe.
Then the room faded.
The cold returned—not from the dorm, but that same unnatural chill from the museum. From the moment everything began to shift.
Only this time, it was threaded with something unfamiliar—an undercurrent of warmth that pulsed low and steady, like distant thunder beneath frozen skin. The contrast unsettled him, triggering a feeling somewhere between awe and dread. His breath hitched as the weight of both sensations pressed into his chest, signaling the threshold of something irreversibly new.
Warmth.
It coiled around him like starlight bending through water, weaving his thoughts into something deeper. He felt seen—not watched, but known. The presence was vast, ancient, familiar. A current tugged at his thoughts—not demanding, but inviting.
Then, from the depths of that silence:
Solstices.
His name.
The scroll didn't just whisper it—it imprinted it. Energy flared behind his ribs, a hidden thread pulled taut and vibrating with purpose. Something had awoken.
Xilo gasped as he snapped back to the real world, drenched in sweat. But he wasn't scared.
He felt... reborn. Every breath carried a strange clarity, as if something dormant inside him had finally stirred awake. He didn't yet know what it meant, but his body remembered—his movements felt aligned, like something unseen had settled into place.
He was alive—his lungs filled with crisp air, the phantom tension of battle slowly unwinding in his chest.
The lingering rhythm of combat still reverberated through his body, but now there was silence—clarifying, not empty. In that stillness, something inside him clicked into place. He knew who he was.
Elsewhere, NGN was already moving.
Boomslang's boots clacked against the hangar floor as she made final adjustments to her gauntlets, Glitch crouched beside her, calibrating energy feedback loops with quiet precision. "You sure this is the mission?" he asked, not looking up.
Boomslang smirked, locking one gauntlet into place. "I don't do warm-ups, Glitch."
This wasn't just another deployment. This mission into the Redline Territories—specifically the volatile Embervault Reach—was her next milestone. The underground arena rumored to exist there wasn't just dangerous; it was a crucible. Winning meant claiming one of the rare entry tickets to the Intergalactic Tournament. And she didn't intend to just find it. She intended to own it.
For her, this was more than reconnaissance—it was a trial by fire, a personal challenge that could unlock the middle stage of her Scroll-given abilities. If she succeeded, it wouldn't be luck. It would be proof. Proof that she deserved the next step, the fight, the stage.
"Track me close," she said, flexing her hands as the gauntlets hissed with energy. "I'll make noise. Just make sure it's the right kind."
Glitch grunted his agreement, gaze flicking to her vitals as they stabilized. Boomslang swung a leg over her matte-black combat bike, its engine growling low like a beast leashed. She slid on her helmet, visor pulsing faintly with tactical readouts. With a sharp nod to Glitch, she revved the engine and launched off the platform—every movement precise, controlled, and chasing the promise of destiny at full throttle.
Solin moved with silent purpose, her assignment rooted in the alien-infused districts surrounding their base. Disguised as a local liaison, she was tasked with identifying integrated species whose peaceful presence might mask deeper threats. These were enclaves where off-worlders and humans coexisted uneasily—places with unspoken rules and shifting loyalties. Her job was to gather a list of potential hostiles, profile their strengths, and track their movements. Every datapoint she recorded streamed back to Glitch's network, forming a web of early warnings. Solin understood this wasn't just intelligence gathering—it was blueprinting the groundwork for Xilo's eventual involvement. Quiet now, surgical later. Her mission laid the foundation for the battles yet to come, built quietly in the spaces where light never reached.
Veil trusted his team and understood that if he was going to lead, he needed to be capable of handling any unforeseen situation that came his way. Before heading into isolation, he spoke with Solin, his voice even but weighed with gravity.
"I have to go dark for a while," he said. "If I want to evolve further—reach the next tier—I need time alone, uninterrupted. Boomslang will secure the ticket, but I plan to carry us through that tournament."
Solin frowned, worry flickering in her eyes.
"This mission—it's different," Veil continued. "You won't have backup right away. Everyone's deployed. If something happens, you need to act. Don't hesitate. If you sense a threat—eliminate it."
She nodded, but he saw the hesitance.
"I know you want to believe in people. That empathy—it's part of your strength. But out there, it can get you killed. Just promise me you'll watch your own back."
Solin looked down, then met his eyes. "I promise."
Veil gave a rare smile before turning away. "Good. Because this path we're on? That's how legacies are built."
Veil had chosen the jagged cliffs of the nearby mountain range—an area just outside the academy's operational boundaries, known for its thin air and energy-dampening winds. Few ventured there without cause, and that was exactly what he needed: a place untouched, unmonitored. He pitched a temporary shelter near the summit, laid out scroll-inscribed stones in a precise formation, and began the ritual that tied directly into his Scroll.
With each breath, the chaos of the outside world fell away, replaced by the pulsing stillness of intention. Here, there was no Glitch running diagnostics, no Echo cracking jokes, no Solin's steady presence—just the silence between his heartbeat and the mountain's breath. Though he trusted Boomslang to secure the tournament entry, Veil's mind was fixed on the final arena. This solitude wasn't retreat—it was preparation. The kind that sharpened resolve like blade to whetstone.
And this mountaintop? It would become the crucible for his next breakthrough—a place where the Scroll's path, unique to his name, might finally reveal its next step. Veil cycled through the techniques he had already mastered, revisiting stances, energy flows, and meditative postures not to repeat them, but to understand what he had missed. At his level, the challenges weren't about learning something new—they were about overcoming the plateau where growth dulled and instinct clashed with progress. Something was holding him back. And until he found it, he couldn't move forward.
While the rest of NGN set out across different regions, Glitch remained stationed at their covert command hub beneath the academy. The room buzzed with soft hums and flickering screens, displaying pulse data, heat readings, and motion alerts. His eyes darted between maps—Boomslang's route to Embervault Reach, Solin's careful entry into alien-blended territories, and Echo's fabricated identity embedded in the academy.
Each operation ran through Glitch's watchful system, which monitored life signs, resonance shifts, and location markers in real time. When readings fluctuated or signals dipped, he adjusted quietly—dispatching contingency plans and fail-safes with barely a sound. He didn't shout orders or grab headlines. He just kept them all alive. One line of code at a time.
Suddenly, a quiet alert pulsed across his main screen—a new resonance signature emerging within academy bounds. The label auto-tagged: Solstices.
The moment the name "Solstices" was etched into the Scroll, each NGN member felt it.
Boomslang leaned forward over the handlebars of her motorcycle, the engine's growl rumbling beneath her. Her visor flickered with telemetry data, but a sudden pulse caught her attention—faint but familiar.
She grinned under her helmet. "Heh. Someone else just got branded. Hope he's got grit."
Solin adjusted the straps of her travel pack, standing in the open-air hangar as final checks ran across her slate. Just as she reached for her visor, a faint ripple passed through her chest—subtle, but undeniable.
She froze, eyes narrowing slightly. "That pulse… new resonance. He's awakening."
Atop the jagged cliffs where thin air whispered between crags, Veil opened one eye mid-meditation. "So the Scroll calls again. Another step."
At his station, Glitch raised an eyebrow as the name pulsed across his screen. "Solstices, huh?" he muttered, fingers already flying across his keyboard. His eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Wonder what kind of weapons could pair with that signature... Might be time to sketch some upgrades."
And Eli Ward—Echo—felt the shift the moment it happened. Standing alone on the academy's upper deck, his expression softened. "Took you long enough," he murmured. "Let's see if you burn bright or steady."
Each of them had felt something stir—subtle, resonant, unmistakable. But with everyone deployed across the map, none could act immediately. So they did what they trusted most: left the next move to Echo.
Echo—Eli Ward—remained at the academy. Eyes open. Watching.
He remained at the academy, eyes calm beneath the surface. The others had gone. Now, it was just him and the weight of something new forming. Echo wouldn't push—he never did. Instead, he lingered in the background, watching with quiet faith as Solstices stood at the threshold, waiting to take the next step on his own terms.