A distance away from Castle 37 was another fortress.
Unlike Michael’s, this keep was lively. Fifteen candidates had gathered on its ramparts and courtyard.
At first glance, the differences were obvious. Their robes bore crests of different academies.
But this was not enough to stir conflict here.
If it had been in the academies themselves, rivalries might have sparked instantly. But most of these candidates had only pledged themselves to an academy hours ago. There was no deep loyalty, no brotherhood of years to bind them or divide them.
In their eyes, this trial was more like a grand online ga—where foreign players beca teammates for a round, before scattering once the match was over.
For now, the fifteen accepted the circumstance.
They huddled near the central keep, voices overlapping in tense debate.
"We should stay put," one tall boy insisted, his arms crossed. "Build defenses, wait for others to knock themselves out. Conserving energy is smarter."
"Wait?" another scoffed, a slim girl with cropped hair and a smirk. "This isn’t a waiting ga. You saw the panel. Academy Points. A hundred for each castle destroyed. If we don’t move early, the strong ones will rack them up before we even breathe."
A third voice cut in, calr but firm. "Both sides have rit. But before deciding, we need information. How big is this island? Where are the nearest keeps? Charging blind is suicide."
The group split quickly into factions—those who wanted to turtle down and wait, those eager to raid, and those who preferred reconnaissance.
The air grew tight as silence settled between them.
At last, one boy with a sharp jawline and a spear strapped across his back raised his hand. His robe bore the black crescent crest, and his presence was calm, steadying.
"We compromise," he said. "Three groups. Scouts to map the nearest castles, fighters to prepare defenses here, and one strike team ready to move with others if an opportunity presents itself. That way, we don’t waste ti—and we don’t get caught blind."
The idea drew nods, even reluctant ones.
The makeshift team began splitting roles.
A few minutes later, the fifteen reconverged in the courtyard, dust and salt-wind clinging to cloaks. The "scout" band—five figures—landed first, boots thudding against stone. The "defense" crew ca up from the inner ward.
The spear-bearer lifted his chin. "Report."
A wiry girl with a glass monocle snapped it into place as she spoke. "Three keeps within fast-fly range, one more on the far ridge if you’re willing to burn mana."
She ticked them off on her fingers.
"First: east by southeast, two valleys over.
"Second: north—already trading blows with a neighbor. You can hear them if you listen." A distant, muffled boom seed to underline her words.
"Third: west, on a coastal bluff—sparse movent. Maybe five or six. Hard to tell if they’re conserving or just thin."
She hesitated, then added, "Fourth: due south, across the river fork. Abnormally quiet."
"Define quiet," the cropped–hair girl said.
"No patrol circuit. If there’s a team, they’re sitting dead still... or it’s a light garrison."
Murmurs rippled.
The defense lead—broad-shouldered, fingertips still smudged with chalk—gave his side’s update. "Periter is layered. Two alarm webs on the outer walk. Then, then , then...We can hold against a first hit."
The spear-bearer nodded. "Good. Opinions?"
"Hit the south keep," the cropped–hair girl said imdiately. "Bank the hundred points, fall back, play turtle."
"Or it’s a honey pot," soone else countered. "Empty ramparts just ans the teeth are on the inside."
A quiet boy with talon rings spoke up. "We don’t need to commit everyone. Probe. Two teams—one to test, one to shadow. If it’s light, we flood. If it bites, we cut away."
The spear-bearer looked around, weighing the room. Even the reluctant were nodding now.
"Alright," he decided. "We keep eight on defense. Seven move to the river fork."
The spear-bearer rolled his shoulders, settled his grip on the haft, and lifted a hand. "Move."
They rose in staggered bursts, skimming low over pine and stone, slipping into the grain of the island like shadows.
Far to the south, a keep sat pale and still on its hill.
Surprisingly this keep the seven were heading too was Michael’s assigned castle.
Back at Castle 37, Michael was sitting on a staircase when sothing touched the edge of his range.
He stilled, eyes half-lidding. His perception, stretched like a gossar net across the island, caught seven bright threads cutting through the low air.
Ten kiloters was the outer rim of his senses; details fuzzed out there, but motion was motion. Seven figures.
"So soon?" he murmured, more amused than bothered. He’d expected attention—just not this quickly.
Around him, the battlents were empty by design. He’d dispersed his force the mont he arrived.
Michael reached out with his telepathy, mind brushing the tethered minds like a hand against harp strings.
He commanded the closest ten to the seven to approach them.
Then he waited.
None of Michael undead was below level 29.
He wondered who, whether his ten undead or these seven fellow participants would prevail.
He had his confidence though.
There was no need to panic.
They cut across the saddle in a neat V—then the monocled girl threw up a fist.
"Hold."
All seven bled speed at once, hovering just above the scrub. The spear-bearer slid a half-step forward, eyes on her.
"We’ll soon have company."
"How many?"
She tilted her head, glass disc flashing. "At least seven. Sa number as us... maybe a bit more but not more than 10."
The spear-bearer’s grip tightened on his weapon. His thoughts flickered fast, calculating.
He was Level 32. The others trailing behind him were no weaklings either—most sat between 27 and 30. A balanced strike force.
He weighed the risk. Ten opponents... no more than that. If it had been fifteen, he would have called a retreat. If twenty, they’d already be running. But ten? Ten was still a number they could manage.
His jaw fird. "As long as it’s not more than ten, we engage," he said, voice steady, letting it cut through the tension.
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