The blade cut through the air with quiet whooshes, her breath falling into cadence with the motion. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she ignored it.
For the first time, cultivation wasn’t just a duty pressed on her by family or cousin. It was hers.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile as she tightened her grip and swung harder.
Lily’s rhythm faltered. Out of the corner of her eye, something tall and still stood by the garden hedge—an armored figure washed in moonlight, visor turned her way.
It was one of Michael’s undead.
Her cousin had left several undead to watch over the house with two simple orders: protect family; heed their commands.
Time among people had sanded their edges a little; they moved less like puppets now, responded to tone as well as words, and could hold brief, clipped conversations. Not human—but not mindless, either.
Lily lowered her sword and lifted a hand, beckoning. "You. Come here."
The knight obeyed, metal sabatons whispering across stone. Up close, his armor was clean but scuffed, the kind of wear that spoke of duty rather than show. A longsword rode his hip, sheathed.
"Let’s practice," Lily said, tapping the wooden blade against her shoulder.
From within the helmet came a voice—flat, but not hostile. "For safety, I will require a wooden sword as well."
"Right. Wait here." She jogged to the storage shed, pawed through a barrel, and returned with a second practice blade.
As she handed it over, she couldn’t help a small, private smile. She’d done something Michael rarely bothered with: she’d given most of the manor undead names. Names made them easier to speak to—and easier to like.
"Garnet," she said, decision made. "That’s yours."
The visor dipped a fraction. "Acknowledged."
They took their marks on the lawn—five paces apart, blades raised. Lily exhaled, settled her stance, and stepped in first.
Wood clacked against wood. Garnet absorbed the blow with a neat parry, no wasted motion. Lily circled, tried a feint, then a low cut. He shifted, meeting her strike with the same measured calm. There was no malice in him—only precision.
"Don’t just block," she said between breaths. "Press me."
Garnet obeyed at once. His next touch wasn’t a tap; it was a test of balance. Lily slid back, adjusted her guard, and felt something switch on inside her—a quiet, bright thread of focus. The repetition that had bored her minutes ago sharpened into a game of choices: angle, timing, footwork. She grinned despite herself.
They moved through exchanges: high-line parry, riposte; inside bind, disengage, cut; a brief clinch of crossed wood before both stepped away. Garnet’s strikes were clean and contained, never reckless, but he adapted, edging closer to Lily’s speed as the bout went on.
"Better," she puffed, flicking sweat from her lashes. "Again."
Minutes stretched. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a neighbor’s dog barked and went quiet. Lily’s shoulders burned, her calves hummed. Official source is N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
One last exchange—Lily slipped inside Garnet’s guard and tapped the breastplate over his heart.
"Point," she said, breathing hard.
Garnet lowered his sword. "Point acknowledged."
Lily laughed, short and pleased, and stepped back to reset. As she lifted her blade, two more figures—another knight and a lighter-framed guard materialized at the edge of the yard, drawn by the sound of practice. They stood at ease, helms tilted as if curious.
"You’ll get names too," Lily called to them, chest rising and falling. "After I beat Garnet again."
"Statistical likelihood of repeat outcome decreasing," Garnet intoned.
"We’ll see," Lily said, and launched forward with a spark in her eyes.
Back in the Land of Origin, Michael—unaware of Lily’s sudden fire—waited out the hours without fuss.
He dozed with his eyes half-closed, communed idly with Jester when the mood struck, and let the quiet of the temporary dorm settle into his bones.
Eleven hours crept by.
The wall to the dorm rippled like oil and parted. Arlen stepped through exactly when he’d said he would, the same composed half-smile on his lips.
Arlen swept his gaze once across the room.
"On your feet," Arlen said, tone even.
A hush fell. Cots stilled. Michael rose with the others, eyes clear.
Arlen spoke. "I want to clarify some things for you guys."
"There are roughly thirty Awakener academies recognized by the Federation. They’re grouped into three ranks: First Rank at the top, then Second, then Third."
"This Examination is academy-based in execution but unified in scope. That means all First Rank academies—ours included—run their finals concurrently. The same goes for Second Rank, and for Third. Different sites, same standards, same clock."
"Judging is performance-weighted. You do not need to ’survive to the end’ for consideration. If you burn bright, then the board sees it. Points measure much, but not all. So stop fixating on crawling across some imaginary finish line." His mouth ticked, almost a smile. "Put on your best show, and make it honest."
A few shoulders eased. Someone exhaled too loudly, caught themselves.
Arlen continued, crisp as a metronome. "In one hour I will return and escort you to the exam sit. Between now and then: eat something light, stretch, center. Check your seals. If you intend to leave and re-enter via your Key-route, this is your last moment to do."
His gaze brushed past Michael, paused a beat, then moved on.
"One last thing," Arlen added, "I’ll be back in sixty," he said. "Don’t be late."
Sixty minutes passed like grains slipping through glass.
When the wall rippled open again, Arlen stepped through. This time he wasn’t empty-handed. Over one arm he carried a stack of folded garments, each marked with the Federation’s crest.
He handed the bundles out one by one, precise as a clerk counting coin.
"Change into them now," Arlen instructed. "The robes identify you as candidates and ensure the adjudicators read your performance properly. Without them, you’re invisible to the score matrix. Don’t test it."
Michael unfolded his robe. He slid into it without fuss, the cloth cool against his skin, settling like water poured from a steady jug. For a moment he felt the faintest pressure, as if the robe acknowledged him.