The crowd moved as one—an uncertain, murmuring mass funneling behind Uncle Barns through the wide steel doors that separated the station from the Keep's lower compound.
The echo of boots and low chatter swallowed the last sounds of the departing train.
There were about a hundred of them—fresh recruits, hopefuls, wanderers from different cities—all carrying the same exhausted spark in their eyes. Ambition mixed with fear. The kind of fear that only came from knowing how fragile dreams could be.
Barns didn't wait for anyone to catch their breath. His voice carried over the group—calm but commanding, honed by decades of leading too many of these batches.
"As you all may know," he began, walking ahead without glancing back, "the Keep is home to some of the finest cultivators and Vanguards on the planet."
The words rolled easily off his tongue. He'd said them many times before, probably to crowds larger and smaller, each time with the same measured certainty. "We pride ourselves on recruiting and training the best of the best," he continued, "and that means our acceptance rate is exceptionally low. Only the exceptional will remain."
He stopped walking. The group slowed, attention drawn as his boots turned slightly on the polished floor.
When Barns turned around, his expression was still polite, but his eyes carried weight. They swept across the group, pausing just long enough for the meaning to sink in.
Everyone knew what that look meant.
Several of the new arrivals—especially those who knew they had low resonance—shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The Keep had no use for mediocrity, and everyone here knew it.
They walked on.
The outer area stretched wide, built in layered levels of pale stone and matte alloy. There wasn't much to see yet. This was just the shell—the waiting chamber of the ambitious.
Uncle Barns filled the silence again as they moved through a long, ascending corridor, talking about the Keep's founding and its mission. The air grew cooler the deeper they went. A faint hum ran through the metal walls—the vibration of hidden systems powered by condensed Eon.
Then a corridor opened up.
The room was massive, sterile white, and almost blindingly bright. The floor gleamed like polished ice, reflecting the recessed lights overhead. In the center sat a single chair—ordinary in shape, yet placed with such deliberate emptiness that it demanded attention.
Barns gestured for them to line up along the far wall.
"One by one," he said. "State your name and your Resonance Rank. You'll be tested immediately."
The hundred filed into a loose line, tension rippling like static through the air.
This was the Keep's first lesson, disguised as generosity: give them a taste of opportunity before showing them how far below true power they really were.
The method was simple, efficient—and cruelly elegant.
Each recruit would be given an Art. For most of them, it would be the first time they had ever touched something so sacred. Arts weren't just rare—they were priceless. Families could go bankrupt trying to buy even a single fragment of a low-grade one.
So when the Keep "gifted" one to everyone, it felt divine.
They didn't even mind that most of them would never be accepted afterward.
It was a psychological chain disguised as a blessing. Gratitude bound tighter than fear, and even the ones who were rejected would carry that feeling long after they'd been cast aside.
But the real purpose of the test was precision.
The Keep's recruiters didn't care about flattery or potential—they wanted truth. Your Resonance Rank determined how efficiently your body and soul could absorb and refine Eon. If you lied about your rank, the Art would expose you immediately. It wasn't just a book—it was a mirror to the soul.
Those with Resonance below C-rank were typically dismissed early, though few left bitterly. They'd still received an Art, and that alone could secure them a future outside the Keep—perhaps with private clans, or independent organisation seeking raw talent.
The only flaw in the process would be if someone lied downward—pretending to be weaker than they were.
But who in their right mind would do that?
Hugo smiled faintly at the thought. Only someone insane… or someone hiding something.
Uncle Barns sat on the chair now, posture erect, a smooth tablet resting on his thigh. Beside him lay a small obsidian box filled with sealed scrolls. When he spoke again, his tone softened—almost kind.
"Next."
A young woman stepped forward. Her hands trembled slightly as she said, "Lina Vorth. C-rank Resonance."
Barns entered the details, drew a glowing scroll from the box, and handed it to her. "You may attempt to learn it."
She bowed slightly and activated the seal. The moment she did, faint lines of light crawled across her arms—symbols blooming like veins of molten gold. The scroll dissolved into particles that rushed into her body. A pulse of energy shimmered briefly around her before fading.
Barns nodded once. "Accepted. Step aside."
The next few went similarly. Some radiated faint Eon light, some flickered weakly before extinguishing altogether. Then came a boy who couldn't activate anything at all. Panic crept into his eyes as Barns' gaze found him.
"You said C-rank?" Barns asked mildly.
"Y-yes, sir," the boy stammered.
"Try again."
He did. Still nothing.
Barns' tone stayed even, but his eyes grew cold. "Last chance. If you lied, I suggest you correct it now."
The boy's lips quivered. "It—It's D-rank, sir."
Barns sighed softly and made a note. "Step aside."
No one needed to ask what would have happened if he'd lied again.
The testing continued. A rhythm of hope, failure, and quiet triumph filled the hall. Each activation of an Eon Art illuminated faces, dreams, and delusions in equal measure.