The walk toward the complex of gray buildings was interrupted before it even began.
The crowd of mediocre rookies following the Order's guide suddenly changed direction.
They were all led to a massive structure that resembled a brutal coliseum made of concrete and iron.
Neale felt his stomach twist, as if warning him that something about this place wasn't right.
It looked nothing like a classroom.
"Sir, is this really Room Zero?" one of the older youths asked.
"Room Zero? You're pretty optimistic, aren't you, kid?" An amplified voice echoed across the arena walls, coming from a raised platform where two hooded figures stood watching.
"You're not even students yet, don't fool yourselves. You thought you'd rest and study at comfortable desks in Room Zero? You're just statistics until you prove otherwise."
The man wearing the red uniform representing the House of Leonidas stepped forward, his crossed arms like tree trunks.
Beside him stood a member of the House of Plato, holding a clipboard that looked neither modern nor ancient.
He observed the rookies with analytical indifference. His white uniform with black and gold details marked the house he belonged to within the Order.
"Welcome to the gates of Kidernia Academy," the man from Leonidas roared.
"Entrance into the Academy is not your right. You earn it. If you thought you'd arrive and enjoy a good life, you were wrong. Here, we forge warriors, and steel must be struck while it's still hot."
The arena floor began to split with lines of light projected from the ground, forming several squares that were clearly combat arenas.
"The rules are simple, rookies—just like in war," the instructor continued. "You've been randomly divided into twenty groups of ten. Look at the numbers projected on your chests. Now."
As the man in red snapped his fingers, the numbers began to burn through the youths' shirts.
Neale looked down, feeling heat but seeing no flames. The number twelve formed, still glowing like embers beneath his gray shirt.
He glanced to the side. Lira, the girl with watery eyes, bore the same number. A brief flicker of relief crossed him, followed by immediate tension when he noticed the mix of different numbers around them.
"I'll give you a short time to find your group members. After that, we begin," the Leonidas lion said in a loud, firm tone that left no room for doubt about his authority.
"Don't you think this is a bit extreme, sir? They just arrived. Why do this this year?" the man from Plato asked, his face still expressionless.
"The world is changing, boy. I wish our enemies were only gods and the king of hell. But there are human factions that have turned against humanity itself, and they grow stronger by the day. Things out there have been one problem after another. We're running out of time. If we want to forge strong warriors for this war, we can't go easy on them. And this year's training directives came straight from the Head of the Order. There's no questioning it."
He sounded calm—until he mentioned the Head.
"I understand. If the orders came from the Head, there's nothing to be done," the Plato member replied, returning to his clipboard as more rookies arrived.
The rookies ran back and forth until they finally formed their numbered groups, already looking exhausted.
"Well, it seems they're ready, sir. They were quick," the Plato member remarked.
"Then let's begin. The first stage starts now," the voice thundered. "Group versus group. Ten against ten. The group with members still standing advances. The group that falls… is eliminated and expelled from the Academy and from the city of Kirden. Kirden will not waste resources on losing trash."
Panic erupted among the rookies. Expulsion meant being thrown back into the world—abandoned to their fate until they found another city near Kirden, surrounded by dominant races, without protection, without weapons, without a chance.
Neale clenched his fists. He would not go back. Never.
"You've got to be kidding! We just got here! We're not ready! We left everything behind to come here and this is what you tell us?" one of the girls shouted, supported by others in the background.
"They're challenging you, sir. Brave," the Plato member said with a faint smile.
"Silence."
The man's shout felt like it would tear the air apart. Without even using Justa Ira, he silenced them with sheer presence.
"If you think you're weak, get out of my sight. I don't need crybabies who think they know something," he said in a deep voice, his Justa Ira unwavering.
"Lira," Neale whispered, pulling her close. "Stay behind me. We'll cover each other's backs. Don't attack first. Let them tire themselves out."
Suddenly, six groups were randomly selected. Group Twelve was called into one of the combat squares. Opposite them stood Group Thirteen—bigger boys with visible scars, likely refugees hardened by survival. They cracked their fingers, smiling.
Neale's attention briefly shifted to Group One—the students who had arrived with V-Zero. They were massacring Group Ten. It wasn't a fight; it was an execution. Their techniques were far beyond the other rookies. They moved with frightening synchronization, using training weapons they had brought themselves, faintly glowing—a sign they had been exposed to Justa Ira or high-level equipment. Elite. Children of great soldiers.
"Focus, Neale," he muttered to himself.
The instructor raised his hand. "Group Twelve versus Group Thirteen—begin!"
Group Thirteen charged with animalistic battle cries, a chaotic surge of violence. Neale's teammates, driven by fear, rushed forward into a mess of fists and kicks.
Neale didn't move. Neither did a young man in loose black clothes from his group.
Neale was "colorless"—a regular human with no Justa Ira ability. He couldn't rely on brute strength against those who might already be at Light White level.
One of the boys from Group Thirteen broke through the front line and went straight for Lira, grinning as he pulled an iron pipe from his sleeve.
"Move more! This is too easy!" the attacker shouted.
Lira dodged.
Neale acted—not with strength, but precision. He slid left. Lira struck the enemy's ribs twice from the right, using his own momentum against him. When the pipe swung down toward Neale, he was already gone. He kicked the back of the attacker's knee, throwing him off balance, then struck his temple with the handle of his knife—without drawing the blade. He didn't want to risk disqualification for killing, if there were rules against it. And he didn't want to kill anyone.
The boy collapsed, unconscious.
"Looks like the spoiled V-Zero brats weren't the only ones who came armed," the Plato member commented.
"Nice one," Neale told Lira as they repositioned back to back.
"If too many come at us, we'll throw sand in their eyes," Neale said. "Once they're blinded, we take them down."
"Will knocking them out be enough for us to advance?" Lira asked.
"It better be…" Neale trailed off.
"We just have to win and move forward," he said, lifting his gaze.
Three members of Group Twelve were already down, beaten even while unconscious. They were losing numbers.
"Hey!" Neale shouted at the remaining seven still standing, though fighting individually—except for the boy in black, whom no one seemed willing to approach.
"Stop fighting alone! Form a wall! Defend each other or we're going to lose!"
The desperation in his voice forged authority. They hesitated, shocked. Neale wasn't strong. He hadn't even awakened. But he stepped forward anyway.
"Form up," he ordered. "Protect each other. We win if they can't stand anymore."
Reluctantly, they obeyed.
The real chaos of battle was about to begin when one of Group Thirteen's members pulled out kitchen knives.
"I'm tired of beating trash," he sneered. "Now I want to cut a little. Should I start with your necks?"