The corridor between divisions was shorter than Quinn expected.
That bothered him.
The facility had a habit of lying with space—stretching hallways when it wanted you to feel small, compressing them when it wanted you compliant. This one did neither. It was just a straight, narrow passage of dark metal and low light, utilitarian to the point of rudeness. No twists. No delay.
Efficient.
The dividing line behind them sealed shut with a soft, seamless hiss, like it had never existed.
Like Riley had never been standing there.
Quinn didn't turn around.
If he did, he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't keep walking. Wouldn't let the distance settle quietly between them the way the facility clearly intended.
So he faced forward and kept moving.
The mana-sensitive wing announced itself subtly. Not with pressure or weight—but with attention. The air felt… observant. As if something old and patient had lifted its head and was now watching them file past.
The walls were darker here, layered with metal and composite plating etched so faintly you might miss it if you weren't looking for it. Quinn was looking. He felt the inscriptions more than he saw them—mana sunk deep into the structure, fossilized into place. This wasn't decorative. This wasn't experimental.
This wing had been built with intention.
Around him, the others moved quietly. No jokes. No bravado. Whatever confidence they'd worn back in the arena had been sanded down by the line they'd crossed. Fear didn't shout here—it whispered.
Tight shoulders. Shallow breathing. Hands flexing unconsciously, like they were reaching for something that wasn't there yet.
Quinn counted them as they walked.
Twenty-five.
That was it.
Out of the dozens who'd stood in that arena. Only twenty-five who could actually hear the world humming underneath itself.
The thought sat wrong in his chest.
Not pride. Not relief.
Something closer to responsibility.
The chamber they entered was wide and circular, its floor smooth and faintly reflective under the low lighting, like liquid glass held in place by stubborn physics. No machines. No weapons. No obstacles.
Just space.
And at its center stood Lyra Voss.
She hadn't moved since Agent Vale left. Not shifted her weight. Not adjusted her stance. She stood perfectly still, hands loosely folded behind her back, eyes closed as if she'd been waiting for them long before they arrived.
She didn't open her eyes when she spoke.
"Stand anywhere."
Her voice didn't echo. The room absorbed it, swallowing the sound like a held breath.
They spread out instinctively, distance blooming between them like invisible boundaries. Not organized. Not instructed.
Just… human. Animals unsure whether they were predators or prey.
Lyra waited.
Seconds stretched. Long enough for nerves to itch. Long enough for Quinn to wonder if this was already part of the test.
Then—
"Close your eyes."
No countdown. No warning.
They all obeyed.
Darkness swallowed the room, but the mana didn't disappear.
If anything, it sharpened.
Without sight, sensation rushed in—pressure gradients brushing Quinn's skin, faint currents curling past like invisible rivers. Overlapping densities stacked atop one another, some thin and fleeting, others heavy enough to feel like weather systems pressing against his ribs.
His pulse spiked.
He felt the system stir
"Do not reach," Lyra said calmly.
"Do not pull."
"Do not shape."
A pause.
"Let mana notice you."
That was when it went wrong.
Someone gasped sharply.
Another trainee staggered, choking like the air had thickened around their throat. Quinn felt the shift immediately—mana reacting unevenly, turbulence rippling outward as panic spiked.
A girl screamed.
Not in pain.
In overload.
The sensation hit Quinn like a wave breaking over his head. Heat. Cold. Pressure. All at once. His knees buckled and he dropped to one knee, palms pressed to the floor as his head rang and his teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw ache.
[System Stabilization Active
Sensory Load Regulated]
The pressure eased just enough for him to breathe.
Across the room, Lyra moved.
One step.
That was all it took.
She crossed the space with unhurried precision and placed two fingers against the screaming trainee's temple.
The mana snapped back into order like a scolded animal.
Silence fell hard.
The girl slumped unconscious—not injured, just overwhelmed. Lyra caught her easily and lowered her to the floor with a care that felt almost out of place in a room like this.
"Mana is not passive," Lyra said as she straightened. "It does not wait for permission. It responds to presence, emotion, and intent—whether you understand it or not."
Her gaze swept the room now, eyes open and sharp.
"Those of you who felt nothing will panic."
A beat.
"Those of you who felt everything will break."
Her eyes stopped on Quinn.
"And those of you who felt just enough," she said quietly, "will make the worst mistakes of all."
Something cold slid down his spine.
They tried again.
This time, Quinn focused on stillness. Not forcing calm—allowing it. Letting his breath slow naturally. Letting the hum settle into something like background noise instead of trying to analyze every ripple.
"Think of it like flowing water Quinn..." He whispered to himself " let it carry you in it's direction without resistance "
The mana responded differently now.
Less curious.
More… reserved.
Like it was deciding what he was worth.
Someone to his left stabilized faster than him.
Quinn noticed instantly.
A guy about his age—sharp eyes, controlled breathing, posture loose but intentional. The mana around him wasn't stronger.
It was cleaner.
Smooth flow. Minimal turbulence. Like he'd learned how to stop splashing without even realizing he was in water.
Lyra noticed too.
Her gaze lingered there half a second longer than it did on anyone else.
Rivalry bloomed quiet and sharp in Quinn's chest.
Not jealousy.
Awareness.
Miles away—though the facility pretended otherwise—Riley Hayes was learning a very different lesson.
"Run."
That was all Garrick Hale said.
The floor tilted violently.
Gravity punched down like it had personal beef.
Riley's knees buckled instantly, lungs screaming as if the air had turned to sludge.
Around him, bodies hit the ground hard—some groaning, some silent, some not moving at all.
Riley staggered forward.
One step.
Then another.
His muscles burned. His vision tunneled.
Every instinct begged him to stop.
He didn't.
Garrick watched with a grin that promised absolutely nothing good.
"Good," he said. "You're stubborn."
The gravity increased.
Back in the mana chamber, Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor, hands shaking slightly as sweat beaded at his temples. His head throbbed—not from pain, but from effort.
Lyra stopped beside him.
"Do you hear it?" she asked quietly.
"Hear… what?"
"The difference," she said. "Between flow and intent."
Quinn opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Puzzled by Lyra's words he sat silent
Lyra nodded once and moved on.
No praise.
No correction.
Just silence.
Quinn stayed there long after the exercise ended, mana still whispering at the edges of his awareness—close enough to promise power, distant enough to demand respect.
"Huh " Riley Said as the system chimed
[Skill acquired: Mana control]
He blinked twice then it disappeared
Somewhere else in the facility, Riley lay flat on his back, chest heaving, limbs trembling, staring up at a ceiling that didn't care if he lived or died.
"That was a rough first day..." Riley said gasping for air " I wonder how Quinn is holding up"
Different rooms.
Different pain.
Same realization.