Awakened in a Realm of Magic and Blood

The Second Phase Begins

The courtyard did not empty when the names were finished.

That was the first sign.

The caretakers ordered everyone else away—those whose names had not been called. No explanations were given. No comfort offered. The unselected were herded back toward the dormitories in small groups, watched closely until they disappeared through the gates.

Some of them looked back.

Others didn’t.

Andrew noticed how quickly they were forgotten.

The fifty who remained were kept standing under the open sky. No one told them to sit. No one dismissed them. Time passed in silence, broken only by the scrape of boots and the low murmurs of caretakers conferring among themselves.

Eli stood a few steps away from Andrew, shoulders tense, hands clenched at his sides.

Neither of them spoke.

Hunger settled in slowly, deliberate and intentional. It wasn’t sharp yet, but it was noticeable. Andrew recognized it immediately for what it was.

Pressure.

A man Andrew had not seen before stepped into the courtyard.

He wore clean clothes. Not caretaker gray, not the patched fabric of Ashwake. His boots were polished. His posture was relaxed in a way that suggested authority without effort.

This, Andrew understood, was a representative.

“Attention,” the man said, voice calm but carrying easily.

The group straightened instinctively.

“You have been selected to proceed,” the man continued. “That does not mean you have passed.”

No one spoke.

“This process is not charity. It is not rescue. It is assessment.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“You are here because something about you was noted. That is all.”

Andrew listened carefully.

“From this point forward,” the man said, “progress is not guaranteed. Cooperation is expected. Obedience is required.”

Someone shifted.

The man’s eyes flicked briefly in that direction.

“Failure,” he continued, “results in removal.”

A hand rose hesitantly.

“What does removal mean?” a girl asked.

The representative didn’t answer.

He simply turned away.

Andrew felt the meaning settle in his chest.

They were not here to be saved.

They were here to be filtered.

“Separate them,” the representative said.

The command came without warning.

Caretakers moved immediately, stepping into the group and dividing them based on criteria that were never explained. Height. Build. Reaction speed. Who hesitated. Who didn’t.

Andrew was pulled gently but firmly to the left.

Eli was guided to the right.

Their eyes met across the growing space between them.

Eli opened his mouth.

A caretaker stepped between them.

“Move.”

No goodbyes.

No reassurance.

Just distance.

Andrew felt the weight of it immediately—not panic, not fear, but awareness.

This was deliberate.

The system was designed to isolate.

Andrew’s group numbered twelve.

They were led to the far side of the compound, near a storage area Andrew had never been allowed near before. The doors were old, reinforced with iron bands. Crates were stacked unevenly nearby.

A caretaker gestured sharply.

“Stand there.”

They did.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Finally, instructions came.

“You will move the contents of this storage area to the marked boundary,” the caretaker said. “You have one hour.”

A boy raised his hand. “What are we moving?”

The caretaker stared at him.

“Everything.”

Another pause.

“What counts as success?” someone else asked.

The caretaker didn’t respond.

Andrew understood immediately.

This was not about finishing.

It was about how they handled uncertainty.

“Begin.”

They moved.

The crates were heavy. Some were sealed. Others were falling apart. Tools were limited—two handcarts, one length of rope, nothing else.

Arguments broke out quickly.

“We should stack them first—”

“No, carry the light ones—”

“You’re wasting time—”

Andrew said nothing.

He watched.

He adjusted.

He lifted where needed, positioned himself where effort mattered most. He redirected without commanding. When someone struggled, he shifted weight, changed angles, made the task easier without announcing it.

He avoided eye contact with the caretakers.

But he knew they were watching.

Midway through the task, one boy faltered.

He was thin, smaller than the rest, breathing hard. His hands shook as he tried to lift a crate that was clearly too heavy for him.

“Leave it,” someone snapped. “We don’t have time.”

The boy tried again.

His knees buckled.

He hit the ground hard.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then a caretaker stepped forward.

“Out.”

The boy looked up, confused. “I can still—”

Two caretakers lifted him without ceremony and dragged him away.

No one protested.

Andrew felt the shift immediately.

This was not a test of teamwork.

It was a test of judgment.

The group worked faster after that.

When the hour ended, no announcement came. No confirmation.

Instead, they were ordered to stand aside.

Another group passed nearby, engaged in a completely different task. Andrew caught brief glimpses—balancing exercises, timed problem-solving, silent coordination drills.

No consistency.

Only observation.

Later, as they were led back toward the central yard, a caretaker spoke quietly to another, not meant to be heard.

“Strength is easy to find,” he said. “Suitability isn’t.”

Andrew memorized the words.

The groups were reunited briefly in the courtyard.

Andrew spotted Eli across the space.

He was dirty, sweat-soaked, but upright.

Still standing.

That mattered.

No one was allowed to speak.

A representative made notes on a slate as he walked past Andrew. He paused briefly, eyes flicking over him, then marked something beside his name.

Andrew did not react.

Inside, he adjusted his understanding again.

This was no longer about passing.

It was about placement.

When they were finally dismissed for food, it was minimal. Intentional.

As they ate in silence, Andrew glanced once more at Eli.

Their promise still existed.

But the system was already working to break it.

And Andrew understood something clearly now.

Survival was not the goal.

Selection was.

And selection meant becoming something they wanted—or something they could use.

The second phase had begun.