Chapter 65: The Needle

The world outside the dome was a cacophony of destruction.

It was a storm of black fire, crushing gravity, and blinding light. The sound was a physical weight that rattled the bones and liquefied the organs. The three Elites were not holding back. They were pouring their souls into breaking the shell, screaming as they tore at the supernatural ice.

But Vane was silent.

He was a shadow detached from the chaos. He was suspended in the air, his body parallel to the gantry, his spear extended like a silver needle.

He did not aim for the center. He aimed for the flaw.

The crack in the ice was hairline thin. It was a microscopic hesitation in Isaac’s mana, a seam where the repair spell had failed to catch up to the destruction.

Vane’s spear hit the seam.

There was no explosion. The Silver Fang did not detonate on impact. It did not try to overpower the ice.

It severed it.

The silver mana coating the tip acted as a law of rejection. It told the ice that it could not exist in the same space as the spear. The Pale Eternity, dense enough to stop a tank shell, tried to freeze the intrusion. It tried to lock the silver mana in stasis.

But the spear was spinning.

The Spiral Circulation turned the severance effect into a drill. The silver tip rotated at thousands of revolutions per minute, grinding through the mana bonds before the ice could solidify around it.

Vane felt the impact travel up his arms. It felt like punching a solid wall of diamond.

His bones groaned. The mana channels in his right arm flared white-hot, tearing under the strain of maintaining the rotation against such immense resistance. He felt a capillary burst in his nose. Blood filled his mouth.

He didn’t stop. He screamed behind his clenched teeth and pushed.

Crack.

The resistance vanished.

Vane burst through.

He tumbled out of the ice and slammed onto the floor.

He was inside.

The difference was jarring. Outside, it was a hurricane of noise. Inside the dome, it was dead silent. The thick walls of compressed mana muffled the screams of the Elites to a dull, distant thrum.

The air here was cold enough to freeze oxygen. It was a perfect, preserved vacuum of blue light.

In the center of the dome stood Isaac Glacium.

The King of the First Years did not look regal. He looked desperate.

His feet were planted wide. His arms were extended outward, palms pressing against the empty air, trembling violently. Veins bulged on his pale forehead. Sweat ran down his neck, freezing into diamonds before it hit his collar.

He was holding the walls up.

He was pouring every ounce of his concentration, every drop of his mana, into repairing the shell. If he relaxed for even a microsecond, the black fire and gravity bomb raging outside would collapse the dome and crush him instantly.

He was a Titan holding up the sky.

And because his hands were full holding up the sky, he couldn’t swat the rat.

Isaac’s eyes snapped to Vane.

For the first time since the exam began, the look of boredom vanished. His pale blue eyes widened in genuine shock.

“You,” Isaac breathed.

Vane didn’t waste time with a witty retort. He didn’t monologue. He scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping on the pristine ice.

The beacon was right there.

It sat on a small pedestal behind Isaac, glowing with a soft, pulsing red light. It was five feet away.

Isaac couldn’t move his hands. If he dropped the barrier, he died.

But he was still a monster.

“Stop,” Isaac commanded.

He didn’t use a spell. He flared his aura. A wave of pure, concentrated freezing intent washed over Vane.

Vane’s legs stiffened. The moisture in his coat froze instantly, turning the fabric into a rigid cage. The blood running from his nose solidified on his lip. The cold tried to shut down his nervous system, commanding his heart to stop beating.

Vane fell.

He hit the ice hard, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Isaac let out a ragged breath, his eyes flicking back to the walls as a fresh crack appeared under Valerica’s assault. He had stopped the intruder. He just needed to hold on for another minute until the Elites exhausted themselves.

But Vane wasn’t stopped.

He was crawling.

He dug his fingernails into the ice. He didn’t use his legs. He used his chin, his elbows, his will. He dragged himself forward inch by agonizing inch.

’Move,’ Vane screamed internally. ’Move you piece of trash.’

He cycled his mana. He forced it into his muscles, burning it like fuel. The heat of the exertion fought the supernatural cold.

Isaac looked down again. His expression shifted from shock to something else. Something like respect. Or maybe fear.

“Persistent,” Isaac hissed.

He twitched a finger. He couldn’t drop the wall, but he could spare a fraction of mana.

An icicle formed in the air above Vane’s back. It was sharp, lethal, and aimed at his spine.

“Stay down,” Isaac warned.

The icicle dropped.

Vane didn’t try to dodge. He rolled.

He rolled onto his back. He grabbed his spear, which was still clutched in his numb hand, and thrust it upward.

The Silver Fang bit into the falling icicle. It shattered the projectile into harmless snow.

The momentum of the roll carried Vane forward. He slid across the smooth floor.

He slid past Isaac’s legs.

Isaac couldn’t turn. He couldn’t kick. He was anchored by the weight of the assault outside.

Vane came to a stop at the base of the pedestal.

He looked up at the red light. It looked like the sun.

He reached up. His hand was trembling. His fingers were blue.

“Checkmate,” Vane whispered.

He slapped his hand onto the beacon.

BZZZZZZT.

The sound was not loud, but it cut through reality.

The red light turned green.

A mechanical voice echoed through the sub-level, overpowering the roar of the battle outside.

“OBJECTIVE CAPTURED.”

“+900 (OBJECTIVE CAPTURED BONUS)”

“EXERCISE CONCLUDED. CEASE ALL HOSTILITIES.”

The world stopped.

The black fire outside the dome vanished. The gravity well dissipated. The blinding white light of Anastasia’s sword faded.

Isaac Glacium let out a long, shuddering sigh.

He dropped his arms.

The Glacial Fortress dissolved. It didn’t melt; it simply turned into mist, fading away as the mana sustaining it was released.

The sudden absence of the wall revealed the three Elites.

Ashe was mid-swing. She stumbled forward, her sword hitting the grating with a clang. Valerica blinked, the golden light fading from her eyes. Anastasia lowered her rapier, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

They stood there, surrounded by the very real, steaming wreckage of the boiler room, staring at the center of the platform.

Isaac stood tall, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Vane lay on the floor behind him, hugging the beacon like a lifeline, shivering violently.

The silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t the silence of tension. It was the silence of disbelief.

A standard Academy holographic screen materialized in the air above the gantry, projected by the beacon itself. It displayed the raw data of the Sector 4 Practical Exam.

[SECTOR 4: FINAL RESULTS]

1. Isaac Glacium

Total Points: 4,500

2. Anastasia Aurelia

Total Points: 2,100

3. Vane

Total Points: 1,800

4. Ashe Razar

Total Points: 1,500

5. Valerica Sol

Total Points: 1,500

Vane stared at the board through the haze of pain.

Rank 3.

He had beaten two of the monsters. He was on the podium.

He felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, but it turned into a cough. His body ached. His arm felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.

A hand appeared in his vision.

It was pale, elegant, and cold.

Vane looked up.

Isaac Glacium was looking down at him. The arrogance was gone. The boredom was gone. In their place was a cool, professional appraisal.

“You fight like a rat,” Isaac said.

It wasn’t an insult. It was a statement of fact.

Vane grabbed the hand. Isaac pulled him up effortlessly.

“Rats survive,” Vane rasped, steadying himself on his spear.

“Yes,” Isaac agreed. He looked at the hole in his uniform where the Silver Fang had pierced the dome. He touched the fabric thoughtfully. “They do.”

Ashe marched over, shoving her sword into the sheath on her back. She looked furious, but when she saw Vane, she grinned. It was a terrifying expression.

“You stole my kill, provisional,” Ashe barked, slapping Vane on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “I had him on the ropes.”

“You were hitting a wall, Ashe,” Anastasia corrected, stepping onto the platform. She looked impeccable again, though her eyes were tired. She looked at Vane, then at the scoreboard, then back at Vane.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t scowl. She offered him a curt, precise nod.

“Adequate work,” Anastasia said stiffly.

“High praise,” Valerica rumbled, crossing her arms. “Considering you tackled her.”

The heavy blast doors of the sub-level hissed open.

Instructor Rowan walked in, flanked by a medical team carrying stretchers and mana-scanners. He looked around at the destroyed boiler room, the shattered pipes, and the remnants of ice and fire.

He looked at the five students standing on the gantry.

“You broke the boiler,” Rowan noted dryly, stepping over a twisted piece of metal. “And you collapsed the main floor.”

He stopped in front of Vane. He looked at the bruised, bloody, shivering Rank 1 student leaning on a spear that was worth more than the building.

“Not bad,” Rowan said.

Vane took a deep breath of the damp, ruined air.

He looked at his hand. The trembling had stopped.

He had walked into a room with gods. He had been frozen, burned, and crushed.

But he was the one who had grabbed the flag.

’Rank 3,’ Vane thought.

It wasn’t Rank 1. It wasn’t the glory.

But it was enough.

For now.

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