Dawn on the day of the Gate-Selection Melee saw the Celestial Ascent Academy transformed. The scars of the negation event were hidden beneath grandstands draped in the colors of the Arcane Dynasties and holographic banners depicting heroic crests. The coliseum, now christened the Starfall Proving Grounds, thrummed with the energy of a hundred thousand spectators and the continent-wide broadcast spell. The air crackled with anticipation and the ozone smell of immense mana gathering.
Arlan and Selene watched from a concealed vantage point atop a nearby communications spire, kilometers away but with a crystal-clear view magnified by Dorian's military-grade spy-scope. They were in their final, most critical disguises. Their features and auras were perfectly mimicked by Dorian's forgeries, now intricately woven with the stolen biological samples—Lian's hair and Jax's button—creating a sympathetic resonance that should fool even deep scans.
On the colossal central display hovering above the Proving Grounds, they saw the fighters assemble. Hundreds of young cultivators, the absolute elite of a generation, stood in proud, tense groups. Lian Emberheart stood tall with his family's contingent, the token visible on his wrist. Jax Swiftwind looked focused, grim, his jacket sleeve neatly repaired. Enya was a small, determined figure among the other Wind Dancers, her face a mask of concentration.
And there, on the highest dais, overseeing everything, was the interim leadership. Proctor Magnus, a mountain of a man with a thundercloud for an aura. And beside him, seated in a reinforced wheelchair, swathed in silks but with eyes like glacial chips, was Iliana Vance. She was "convalescing," but her presence was a stark, cold reminder of who still pulled the strings. Her psionic aura, though diminished, was a palpable weight even at this distance.
Status Check - Iliana Vance (Convalescent)
Order: 6th (Monarch)
Rank: 7 (Late) - Injured, Core Damage Detected
Mana Capacity: Estimated 22,000/68,000
Domain Seed: Garden of Subjugation - Cracked, Inert.
Emotional State: Patient/Vengeful/Calculating.
Note: Psionic pressure reduced but present. Focus is entirely on the Gate. Scanning the crowd intermittently.
"She's waiting," Selene murmured, her disguised face set in a frown. "Not just for the Melee. For the Gate to open. She's looking for something… or someone."
"The Oblivion Core fragment is still down there," Arlan said, his own eyes narrowed. "Buried under tons of rubble and stabilization wards. The Gate… it might be a distraction. Or a new vector for their plan."
The Melee began with a thunderous blast of ceremonial mana. It was a breathtaking, brutal spectacle on a scale Arlan had never seen. The Proving Grounds shifted, terrain morphing from frozen tundras to volcanic fields to floating archipelagos. Teams formed and shattered in minutes. Elemental cataclysms lit up the multi-layered barrier shields. Heirs of the Arcane Dynasties demonstrated terrifying power and exquisite, refined technique that spoke of a lifetime of elite training.
Lian Emberheart fought with controlled, ruthless efficiency, his flames a precise tool rather than Borin's wildfire. Jax was a hurricane of silent, cutting wind, moving with lethal grace. Enya was a blur, her Wind Dancer class allowing her to use kinetic energy from opponents' attacks against them, taking down larger, stronger foes with clever, decisive strikes.
Arlan watched with a cold, analytical eye, his mind cataloging techniques, strengths, weaknesses, and affinities. These would be his competition in the Labyrinth. His Umbral Sight provided a constant stream of data.
Status Check - Valerius Goldwood
Age: 19
Order: 4th (Aura)
Rank: 9 (Peak)
Class: Sun-Lord Aspirant
Aura: Dawn's Radiance - passive healing, light-based empowerment, minor holy damage to dark/unholy affinities.
Mana: 6800/7000
Emotional State: Arrogant/Benevolent/Untouchable.
Valerius fought with a contemptuous, beautiful ease. His golden light seemed to purify attacks before they reached him, dissolving shadows, quenching flames, and hardening air. He defeated opponents with a single, blinding lance of condensed sunlight, always offering a condescending nod of respect afterwards. The crowd adored him, his every move cheered.
"He's strong," Selene noted, her voice neutral. "And his affinity is a natural counter to both of ours."
"He's a variable in our plans," Arlan replied, his voice devoid of emotion but with a sharp edge. "We better watch out for him. The radiant, untouchable heir. The 'rightful' order." He made a mental note: Valerius Goldwood was priority target number one inside the Labyrinth.
As the twin suns climbed and began their descent, the field whittled down through successive, increasingly deadly elimination rounds. The true monsters emerged. A girl from the Frostweaver line flash-froze an entire sector, immobilizing twenty competitors at once. A boy from the Stonefist clan shrugged off a direct lightning strike that would have vaporized stone. The battles grew more desperate, more spectacular.
Finally, as the suns painted the sky in hues of blood and gold, the top fifty were decided. Valerius stood victorious at the absolute center, bathed in a pillar of artificial sunlight, pristine and unblemished. The crowd's roar was deafening even from their distant spire. The losers were carried away—some gravely injured, some sobbing in frustration, their dreams shattered.
The victors were presented with their official, finalized Gate Tokens—gleaming medallions that pulsed with internal starlight, now irreversibly attuned to their souls (or so the ceremony claimed).
Then came the speeches. Proctor Magnus boomed platitudes about strength and legacy. Then Vance spoke. Her voice, amplified, was thin, strained, but carried a needle-like sharpness. She spoke of "hope in the next generation," of "upholding order in chaotic times," and of the "grave responsibility" of those chosen to enter the "sacred Labyrinth." Her eyes, on the huge screen, scanned the crowd of victors, and for a moment, Arlan could have sworn they paused, as if searching.
As full night fell, the real event began.
The massive Starfall Gate in the center of the plaza was activated. Ancient mechanisms ground with sounds felt in the bones. The star-metal arch filled with a swirling, beautiful vortex of silver and indigo light—a tunnel through reality to the Aethelian Labyrinth.
One by one, the winners stepped forward to a verification archway of glowing crystals and complex spell arrays. They presented their tokens and submitted to a final scan. The scans were intense; Arlan could see the mana probing deep into each heir's core, checking life-force, soul-print, and token resonance. Some heirs hesitated nervously. All passed, their tokens chiming, and they walked into the vortex, vanishing.
Enya went through, giving a last, barely perceptible glance towards their spire before stepping into the light and disappearing.
"It's time," Dorian's voice crackled in their concealed, bone-conduction earpieces. He sounded tense. "The security peak is during the winner's procession. It'll dip slightly for the final attendants, family observers, and maintenance crews entering for setup. That's your window. Your forged signatures, boosted by the samples, have an 88% chance of passing the deep scan. It's the best I can do."
"An 88% chance of walking into a deathtrap, or a 100% chance of failing if we don't go," Selene said, her voice steady. She adjusted the glamour charm at her throat, her disguised face a mask of cool resolve.
"Better odds than we've had in a while," Arlan replied, checking the straps on Aethelbrand's sheath under his observer's robe. The grey sword felt eager, humming with a silent frequency. "Let's go."
They descended from the spire via a maintenance lift, joining a stream of late-coming minor nobles, sanctioned scholars, and approved observers heading towards the Gate plaza. The atmosphere was electric, a festival celebrating the apex of Dynastic power and privilege.
They queued at a secondary, heavily guarded checkpoint, far from the main winner's stage. The scan here was less intense than for the victors, but still thorough—a deep-spectrum life-force verification. Arlan watched the guards, the sensitive crystals, the psionic adept standing by with a focused expression.
He saw Corvus Vale standing off to the side, observing everything, his Shadow-Sergeant aura a void of calm absorption. His eyes swept over the line, passed over Arlan and Selene, then snapped back. He frowned slightly, a micro-expression of confusion, and took a step toward the control console manned by the psionic adept.
He senses the forgery. The resonance isn't perfect. He has a predator's instinct.
They were four people from the scanner.
Arlan made a decision. He couldn't afford a deeper inspection or a psionic deep-dive. He focused his will, pushing a tiny, targeted pulse of his Negation Zone not outward, but inward, towards the biological sample from Lian Emberheart sewn into his robe lining.
He didn't negate the sample. He negated the concept of "foreignness" or "discrepancy" between the sample's resonance and his own forged signature for a fleeting three seconds. It was like using his power to paste a perfect mask over a hairline crack. He felt a wave of dizziness, a sharp drain on his core and a strange, hollowing sensation in his soul—the cost of manipulating such a precise concept.
The guard waved him forward. Heart steady, face blank, Arlan placed his hand on the verification crystal and presented his forged token.
The scan washed over him. He felt it like a cold, intelligent liquid, probing his mana channels, brushing his core, comparing his life-force signature to the one embedded in the token. It lingered on the resonance link. He held his breath, his will an iron rod, the "negated discrepancy" creating a flawless, if temporary, illusion.
The crystal chimed green.
"Pass," the guard said, already looking past him to the next in line.
Selene followed. He saw the faintest violet flicker deep in her glamoured eyes as she touched her sample and the crystal. Her scan chimed green a heartbeat later.
They were through the checkpoint, into the inner plaza, mere yards from the swirling, roaring vortex of the Gate. The sound of it was a physical pressure, a call to adventure and power.
Corvus Vale was still watching them, his frown deepening. He had reached the console and was speaking urgently to the psionic adept, who was now focusing on Arlan and Selene's retreating backs.
No time.
"Now," Arlan hissed.
They broke from the observer line and sprinted towards the Gate, pushing past startled latecomers.
"Hey! You can't—" a guard yelled, reaching for them.
Corvus Vale's voice cut through the ambient noise, cold and absolute. "Stop those two! Intruders! False signatures!"
Alarms blared—a different, sharper tone than before. Guards converged from all sides. The psionic adept raised her hands, a visible wave of mental force lancing toward them.
Arlan and Selene were fifteen meters from the vortex. Ten.
A Null-Suit operative—not in grey, but in black, with golden accents—materialized from a shadow cast by the Gate itself, barring their path. A null-blade, humming with void-energy, snapped to life in his hand.
Status Check - Null-Overwatch Operative
Order: 5th (General)
Rank: 1 (Early)
Class: Void-Stalker
Note: Accord elite. Direct counter to anomaly manifestations.
Arlan didn't break stride. He drew Aethelbrand. The dull grey blade made no sound as it cleared the sheath. He didn't swing at the operative. He slashed at the space between them, at the conceptual connection of the operative's balance, stance, and confidence to the "ground" and "reality."
The Severing Edge passed through empty air.
The Null-Overwatch operative's feet suddenly had no purchase on the concept of "stable footing." He didn't slip; he simply faltered, his body betraying him as if the floor had become an abstract idea. His perfect stance broke, his attack went wide, and he stumbled with a grunt of shock.
Arlan and Selene shot past him.
Five meters. The vortex's energy pulled at them, a roaring wind of distorted space and time that tugged at their clothes, their hair, their very souls.
Arlan looked back. Corvus Vale was at the main control console, his hand slamming down on a large, pulsating red rune. The Gate Shutdown and Purge command.
He looked at Selene. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the vortex, her hand reaching out. "Jump!"
They leaped together into the swirling, devouring light of the Starfall Gate.
Behind them, Corvus Vale's command took effect.
The vortex shuddered violently. The beautiful silver and indigo light fractured into jagged, chaotic colors. The tunnel destabilized. A sound like a dying star's scream tore through the plaza.
Arlan felt reality twist and tear around them. He grabbed Selene's reaching hand, their fingers locking with desperate strength. He poured his remaining mana into his Negation Zone, trying to envelop them both in a bubble of stable non-reality, to negate the spatial shearing forces of the collapsing gateway.
The world became a maelstrom of wrong colors, tearing forces, and psychic static. He felt Selene's hand tighten in his, a lifeline in the chaos. He saw her face, etched with pain and determination, her free hand clutching her pendant as she chanted something, a witch-ward flaring around them, reinforcing his negation.
There was a final, soundless SNAP of cosmic scale.
Then, absolute, deafening silence.