After what felt like an eternity, Hugo's turn finally came.
He moved through the thinning line with steady, unhurried steps, the hum of whispers following him like an echo.
Each recruit before him had either left glowing with relief or pale with quiet dread. Now, all eyes subtly turned his way, curiosity rippling through the crowd like a low current of electricity.
Uncle Barns waited at the front, seated with the casual authority of a man long used to judging others.
When Hugo reached the front, Barns looked up from his tablet, expression unreadable. The man's gaze carried that peculiar weight only veteran workers had — the kind that could strip a person bare without needing to say a word.
"Resonance Rank," Barns said, his tone flat but expectant.
The familiar question.
Hugo drew a slow breath, steadying the faint pulse of energy beneath his skin. His voice came quiet, steady. "B-rank."
A few murmurs scattered through the recruits behind him.
A B-rank Resonance wasn't something you saw every day — especially from someone who looked as ordinary as Hugo. His plain features and unassuming demeanor didn't fit the title.
Without comment, Barns reached beneath the table — into the obsidian compartment built into its underside. When his hand emerged, it carried a small Art Scroll, bound in faintly glowing azure script. The surface pulsed like a heartbeat.
Hugo couldn't help but glance at the desk again. The storage compartment wasn't just a drawer — it was linked to a Spatial Core, one of the Keep's many luxuries. High-tier dimensional storage technology. Something that ordinary people could only dream of affording.
Barns set the scroll gently before him, his tone calm but almost ceremonious.
"Here you go. B-rank Art — Current Shift."
The title glowed softly against the transparent casing.
Beneath it, golden symbols reformed until a readable inscription appeared:
[Current Shift — B]
Harness the movement of flowing Eon to merge the body with fluid motion.
Grants rapid short-range evasion and rapid traversal.
It was elegant. Controlled. A perfectly balanced art — something a cultivator lacking a movement art would dream of learning.
Most people in his place would have accepted it instantly, bowing and thanking the heavens.
But Hugo didn't move.
He studied the Art for a long moment, expression thoughtful but calm.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a quiet conviction that made several nearby cultivators turn their heads.
"Thank you," he said softly, "but I don't want it."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap.
Every sound stopped. The faint hum of the testing chamber, the shuffle of boots, even the steady breathing of the recruits — all of it seemed to pause for a heartbeat.
He didn't want it?
A B-rank Art?
Had he gone insane?
Even the low-ranked recruits, those who would have killed for a glimpse of that scroll, stared at him in disbelief.
Someone near the back stifled a nervous laugh. Another whispered, "Is he serious?" A third just shook his head in pity. Refusing a gifted Art from the Keep was like spitting in the face of opportunity. It wasn't just foolish — it was dangerous.
But Hugo didn't waver.
His expression stayed calm, his breathing slow, eyes fixed steadily on Barns.
Barns' face remained unreadable for a moment, though something flickered behind his eyes — not anger, but curiosity. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his tone deceptively mild.
"May I know the reason why?"
Hugo hesitated briefly, then spoke, voice even.
"I already have an art i want to focus on."
It wasn't entirely true, but not a lie either. Randalf's subspace was an art — though one far beyond the Keep's understanding.
He made sure to phrase it carefully, letting them assume his cultivation base was already occupied by lesser techniques.
The lie wasn't for arrogance. It was instinct — survival wrapped in strategy.
He knew what the Keep really was.
Behind the benevolent speeches and the polished white halls, the Domains and their Keeps were less sanctuaries and more systems of ownership.
They called it service, but it was servitude.
They called it training, but it was conditioning.
Power, given freely, always carried a price. The higher you rose under their banner, the tighter the invisible chain around your neck became.
He'd seen it firsthand — how gifts turned to debts, how favors became contracts, how a person's destiny slowly ceased to belong to them.
No, he wouldn't let them decide his path.
Before Randalf's arrival, he might've accepted it. Might've given himself willingly to the system, just for the chance to climb one rung higher.
But not now.
Now, he had something far rarer than opportunity — freedom.
Barns studied him for a few seconds longer. His eyes, though calm, carried a trace of something Hugo couldn't quite name.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Understood."
A faint ripple of energy stirred as Barns tapped the table, and the Art disappeared in a shimmer of light — sealed once more into the spatial core beneath the surface.
"Stand aside," he said after a pause, his tone still neutral. "Alone."
It shocked some of the onlookers more than Hugo's refusal had. A few exchanged uneasy glances — half expecting the man to drag Hugo away for questioning. But Barns simply turned back to his tablet and called, "Next."
Hugo moved without a word, walking toward the far edge of the room.
He stood apart from everyone — not with the chosen recruits, nor the dismissed ones. Just a solitary figure against the pale wall.
The chatter resumed, louder this time, no longer held back.
He could hear them — the snickers, the pitying sighs, the judgment wrapped in confusion.
"Probably lying."
"B-rank? Yeah, right."
"Who refuses a gift from the Keep?"
He ignored them all.
He'd already made his choice long before he stepped through the Keep's gates.
The next few recruits went through the motions. More Arts flared into light, more hopeful faces trembled between joy and disappointment. Some succeeded; others failed to resonate at all and left the hall shaking.
Time stretched. The rhythmic call of Barns' voice filled the room:"Name. Rank. Step forward."
A brief flicker of power. Another test completed. Another dream judged.
By the time the last recruit finished, the air felt heavier somehow. The hopeful buzz had dimmed, leaving behind a strange, hollow silence.
Barns stood, the chair scraping lightly against the floor.
Two attendants entered through the side doors, both dressed in gray uniforms marked with the Keep's insignia.
The first attendant addressed the group of successful recruits — those whose resonance had harmonized with their Arts.
"You will proceed to orientation and contract briefing," she said crisply. "Afterward, you will be assigned dormitories, cultivation pods, and your training cycles."
The second attendant gestured toward the bigger group — the ones who had failed or shown too weak a resonance to continue.
"Those below D-rank will be processed for discharge. You will receive compensation vouchers and limited supplements before departure."
Her voice carried no malice, only efficiency. But for those dismissed, it might as well have been a sentence.
Some looked down, trying to mask their shame.
Others forced smiles, clinging to the consolation of having touched an Art — even if they'd failed to make it. That experience alone was something most mortals could only dream of.
One by one, they began filing out.