"Good day, ladies and wicked men."
The radio host's voice crackled through the armored vehicle's speakers, theatrical and well-practiced.
"Good day? Really? Can we even call this a good day, when the fate of so many will once again be decided? It's a blessing and a curse, guys. We dread this day as much as we praise it."
Static hissed beneath the words. The vehicle shuddered over broken ground, and I felt the vibration travel up through the seat and settle into my bones.
"On the bright side of things, today marks the hundredth year since the Fracturing. A hundred years since the fabric of reality tore, since our world lost what we came to know as Definition." The host's voice dropped to a performative grief. "Humanity has suffered, hasn't it? We have lost billions, and The Undefined continues to hunt what remains. The Axiom, our only protection, isn't exactly what you'd call reliable. We've cried out to the gods, but they're either dead or they've abandoned us."
The host paused for dramatic effect.
"Even some of our own kind abandoned us. Abandoned our entire dimension."
He made another pause.
"But here we are. February 14th, 2127. The second Dimensional Day of Definition since the Academy was founded. We found Sanctuaries. We built homes in the ruins. We survived." The theatrical grief shifted to forced optimism. "Humanity, we Earthlings have come a long way, haven't we, Mr. Whitestorm?"
Another voice joined the broadcast. This one was calmer and more measured.
"Indeed we have. With Sake Wintertide's recent achievement, humanity has claimed three Sanctuaries in a hundred years, even our neighbor dimensions cannot boast of that. We've lost billions as you said... and only hundreds of thousands have awakened so far. When you weigh what we've achieved against what it cost us..." He paused, carrying the weight of contemplation. "Yes. We've come far."
"Hmm-mm." The host latched onto the sentiment. "And speaking of achievement, you're the Headmaster of Definition Academy. What do you have to say about today's Definition event?"
Whitestorm's voice roughened slightly. "We have promising candidates this year. Mikail, Whisper's son. Esmer, Huntsman's son. Ysoriel and Rinchen, the Wintertide twins."
The host made an encouraging noise.
"And of course," Whitestorm continued, "the best of them all is the traitor's son."
The words hung in the static. The vehicle's engine droned on, indifferent.
"Axel… I'm almost sorry to say it, but the boy has the greatest potential we've seen. Top of his class, moves his body well and is untouchable just like his father, a monstrous existence. If the theories are right, we may be looking at another Sovereign today..."
I let the voice fade into background noise and turned to the window.
Ruins scrolled past outside, the skeletal remains of a world that had died a century ago. Collapsed overpasses, gutted storefronts with faded signs in languages no one remembered. The armored transport ground forward, crushing debris beneath its treads.
'Traitor's son.'
I had heard it so many times the words had worn smooth, like river stones. They didn't cut anymore. They were just... there.
So it didn't matter.
Fifteen years since my father supposedly fled. Fifteen years since the strongest Defined in the dimension looked at some invader from beyond and decided to run rather than fight.
Earth had been paying for that decision ever since, and somehow the bill always landed on my doorstep. The silent stares in the Academy halls. The whispered blame whenever another catastrophe struck. If his father hadn't run away, this wouldn't have happened.
The government played the same game, just quieter. They'd seized my parents' properties, put me on a tight allowance, sponsored my Academy fees with money that felt more like a leash than generosity. And now they were transporting me to the first Sanctuary humanity had ever claimed, where the awakening would happen.
All of it was a scheme to have a Sovereign in their hands.
Because if I awakened a Sovereign-rank Class, I'd have nowhere else to go. No resources, no allies, no options. Just grateful dependence on the people who'd spent eight years making sure I knew exactly what I owed them.
The theories had proven it over the years: high-rank Defineds tended to produce children who awakened high-rank Classes, sometimes higher. So today, a lot of people were watching, expecting and hoping.
Myself included, I supposed.
'I just want to get it over with.'
The vehicle rolled forward through the silence, the dark interior pressing in around me. The radio had gone quiet. Or maybe someone had switched it off. Either way, the only sound now was the grind of treads over broken asphalt and the low thrum of the engine.
The Academy drew closer with every passing second.
We rolled past the skeletal remains of cities: towers gutted by time and violence, streets choked with debris that had been accumulating for a century. Weeds pushed through cracked concrete. A rusted vehicle sat overturned at an intersection, its windows long shattered, its interior colonized by something that had woven dark threads through the seats.
Then the structure appeared on the horizon.
It grew larger as we approached, revealing itself to be a coliseum.
The ancient arena rose in massive stone tiers, its walls weathered and cracked but somehow still standing after everything. Wide arches stacked upon one another formed its curved facade, casting deep shadows into the interior. A hundred years ago, this place had hosted entertainment. Crowds cheering. Blood on sand, perhaps, or athletes competing for glory.
Now it hosted something else entirely.
A reinforced gate had been built into the base, all steel plating and heavy hinges. Other structures clustered around the coliseum's perimeter: newer construction, hastily assembled from salvaged materials. Prefab barracks, Guard towers, and Communication arrays bristling with antennae. The Definition Academy had claimed this ruin and made it functional.
The armored transport rolled past the outer buildings and finally came to rest near the vomitoria, the arched entrances that had once funneled crowds into the arena. Dozens of other vehicles were already parked there, each one armored in its own way. Some shaped like predatory beasts, all sleek lines and reinforced plating. Others like fortified transports, bristling with weapon mounts.
I opened the door and stepped out into cold air carrying the faint mineral smell of old stone and something metallic beneath it.
The low murmur of hundreds of voices reached me, echoing from within the arena's bowl. Anticipation and dread, blended together into a single hum.
Other candidates were arriving through the vomitoria: children of prestigious families, each accompanied by their own guards, their own servants. None of them were smiling. Their faces held the same expression I had seen in mirrors: controlled blankness hiding something else underneath.
We all knew what today meant.
We all knew what failure meant.
The interior of the coliseum had been transformed. What had once been the hypogeum, the underground chambers where gladiators and animals had waited, was now a network of classrooms, dormitories, and passages. The Definition Academy lived beneath the arena floor, carved into the ancient stone.
I followed the others down into the reconstructed depths. Students filled the corridors, all of us moving through passages lit by harsh artificial light. The ancient architecture clashed with modern fixtures bolted to the walls. Cables ran along the ceiling and the harmony of old and new ventilation flowed together with brutal pragmatism.
I emerged into the main hall.
More students filled the space: my "mates," the other candidates who would ascend to the arena floor today. Some sat rigidly in chairs, backs straight, hands folded, as if proper posture might save them. Others paced and a few prayed to gods who had never answered.
A massive holographic screen dominated one wall, broadcasting a live feed from the arena above. The seating bowl was already packed. Thousands of spectators arranged in tiers, the highest seats reserved for those with Master and Champion ranked Classes. The powerful watching the powerless.
Everyone had gathered to witness the fate of the new generation.
As I searched for a chair, someone poked me from behind.
I turned, unsurprised, and found Ysoriel standing there.
"I found a chair for us at the back," she said. A smile spread across her face, warm and unbothered, as if this were any other day. "It's best to stay away from those guys, don't you think?"
I managed a thin smile, "Yea…"
I didn't know how she managed it. Smiling like that, here, now, with everything that waited above us. But she did and looking at her, I found myself wanting to keep that smile intact at all costs.
We settled into chairs behind the crowd, side by side. Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing. Neither of us said anything. We just looked up at the screen together.
Armored guards surrounded the arena floor, shields raised, weapons drawn. They faced inward, toward the candidates waiting to awaken their Classes today. Particularly, the ones that will fail.
That was the celebration. That was the hope in the spectators' eyes. Not hope for the candidates, not prayers for our success, hope that today's culling would strengthen humanity's chances, and that the failures would die clean.
Ysoriel's fingers tightened around mine. Just slightly.
On the holographic screen, the Academy Headmaster stepped onto the central stage.
Ivan Whitestorm raised his hands for silence.