The Ministry of Education building was never meant to hold a crowd this large—neither physically nor emotionally.Parents, guardians, relatives, even siblings of students spilled across the plaza before the great marble steps. The air was heavy with shouting, pleading, anger, and grief. Holosigns flickered with bold protest scripts:“Bring them back!”“They are children, not soldiers!”“Stop the massacre!”Some held framed photos—smiling student faces now silenced forever. Some cried openly. Others screamed until their voices broke. Many simply stood, trembling, in desperate hope.Inside, Minister of Education Dorrian Blackthorne stood behind reinforced glass, listening to the roar outside. His expression was steady—but there was tension in the way his fingers tapped the desk. His eyes weren’t indifferent; they were pained.Behind him, aides argued in urgent tones.“The pressure is overwhelming— we have to respond—”“If we give in, the credibility of the examination collapses—”“We’ve

The night was deeper now over the Thandor wilderness, and the world outside the shelters had turned deathly still. The earlier attack had drained nerves and rattled spirits, leaving most students huddled in silence. The air smelled faintly of scorched soil and dissipated beast-essence. Even those who had slept—did so with half-open eyes and trembling breath. It would be a long night.But far from the blood-soaked camp, in the Ministry of Education in Thalara city, another kind of battle was underway—a battle of information, evidence, and truth.Minister Dorrian Blackthorne stood inside the Strategic Analysis Room — a chamber filled with floating holo-projections, psionic wave maps, and multi-layered tactical overlays that shifted by command of thought rather than hand. The room hummed with quiet neural resonance — like a temple of minds rather than machines.Around him were high-ranking military analysts, senior educators, and two psionic resonance experts whose faces were drawn with

The city of Thalara glowed beneath layers of light and illusion, its towering spires untouched by the blood and chaos unfolding at the Outer Frontier. Inside one of the older estates near the western quarter, Benedric Sable stood alone before a wall of projection screens, his hands clasped behind his back.The live broadcast from the examination zone replayed again and again.Explosions. Beast roars.Soldiers shouting. Students screaming.And at the center of it all—Ronan Crowne.Benedric’s lips slowly curved upward.It was not the smile of joy. Nor the smile of pride.It was the smile of vindication.“So,” he murmured calmly, “you finally became a problem.”The official broadcast was careful. The language was sanitized. The military commentators spoke of unexpected escalation, emergency intervention, and heroic resistance. They praised discipline. They praised bravery. They praised control.But Benedric did not listen to official words.He listened to whispers.And despite House Sab

The announcement came quietly, without ceremony.“Attention all examinees,” the commanding officer’s voice echoed through the camp’s internal channel. “Extraction aircraft will experience a delay of several hours. Remain within shelter zones until further notice.”The reaction was immediate—but muted.Confusion rippled through the shelters. Concern followed. But panic did not. After two brutal days, most students were too exhausted to question logistics. They trusted the military. They trusted the system.What none of them knew, was that the aircraft was not delayed.It hovered less than fifty kilometers away, engines idle, orders locked.Only a handful of officials inside the Ministry of Education knew the truth.This was not delay.It was staging.Within the command tent, senior military officers exchanged restrained glances. No one questioned the directive openly, but the unease was there.The perimeter sensors were stable. No significant rift fluctuations. No mass surge.“Odd timi

The battlefield was still trembling from the impact. Smoke curled from shattered stone, and the smell of ionized earth clung heavily to the air. Soldiers rushed to pull the wounded to safety. Students crouched behind makeshift barriers, eyes still wide from the sight of the golden arc that had descended like judgment.Everyone knew that technique.Everyone had seen Ronan Crowne use it.But Ronan wasn’t here.Inside the command tent, the atmosphere crackled with disbelief.“Rewind it again.”The hologram replayed the moment the Rank 7 beast lunged toward Tristan—only to be blasted off its path by a perfect golden cleave. The arc was unmistakable. Clean. Controlled. A psionic blade made of condensed essence.Exactly like Ronan Crowne’s.The commanding officer clenched his jaw.“This shouldn’t be possible.”One lieutenant answered carefully:“Unless Crowne projected the strike from isolation.”A murmur spread through the room.Long-range psionic projection—kilometers away—was an ability