The march did not stay a march for long.

  Within the first hour, the Academy formation shattered into scattered clusters of exhausted teenagers. Some groups veered left into the thickets, others wandered right toward the ridges, and a few immediately managed to get lost by simply walking in a straight line. The Crucible allowed no fixed paths. It had only one rule: Reach the rendezvous point—a border village named Highpass—and survive until you get there.

  Ray trudged through the underbrush beside his roommates, sweat already stinging his eyes. Branches snapped under their boots like warning shots, and birds screamed overhead in a language that sounded suspiciously like mockery. Every direction looked exactly the same.

  Rian stopped, pulling out the map the instructors had provided—a wide, ink-etched parchment marked with jagged ridges and ominous red circles. He spread it over a mossy log.

  Calen squinted at the ink. “Why are some spots marked with skulls?”

  Rian swallowed hard. “Those are the ‘Dead Zones.’ The places we absolutely cannot go.”

  Ray leaned in, his hand instinctively brushing the hidden bomb under his shirt. “Define ‘cannot.’”

  Rian ran a finger down the parchment. “There are three major zones to avoid. First, the Hollow Thicket. Captain says the trees there are… unstable.”

  “Unstable like they might fall over?” Ray asked.

  Rian hesitated. “…No. Unstable like they might move.”

  Ray immediately crossed it out in his mind. No sentient lumber today.

  “Second is the Mire of Vipers,” Rian continued. “A dark-green bog near the eastern ridge. Venomous swamp beasts. Fast, aggressive, and always hungry.”

  “Goodbye. Never. Not in this lifetime,” Calen muttered, turning pale.

  “And third, the Ravine of Echoes,” Rian tapped a narrow canyon. “This place confuses the senses. The echoes distort your direction. Cadets wander in and don't come out for hours.”

  Ray shuddered. His sense of direction was already a tragedy; he didn't need a canyon helping him get lost.

  Rian folded the map with a grim finality. “So, our route is here. We follow the riverbank valley. It’s steep, but it’s the safest path. If we stay disciplined, we’ll reach Highpass before sundown tomorrow.”

  “Great plan,” Calen nodded vigorously. “Zero death. Minimal crying.”

  Harel sighed, hefting his pack. “Maximal crying.”

  “We’ve been marching long enough,” Rian said a few hours later, wiping a layer of grime from his brow. “Let’s set up camp before the light fails.”

  No one argued. Ray rolled his shoulders, dropped his pack, and immediately began working on his tent. His hands moved with a practiced, rhythmic efficiency—stakes hammered, canvas stretched, lines tied taut.

  He felt… competent. All those miserable weeks spent surviving the wilderness during his early breakthroughs—the foraging, the fumbling with wet rope, the nights spent shivering under rain-soaked branches—were finally paying off. Back on Earth, he couldn’t even fold a fitted sheet. Here? He was a regular woodsman.

  The realization made him pause. He looked up, his breath catching.

  Different sky. Different world. On Earth, the night had been a dull, washed-out orange smear, city lights drowning out the stars. Here, the heavens felt alive. Three moons hung above the canopy: two pale, shimmering twins drifting side by side, and a massive third moon looming behind them like a watchful guardian. The stars blazed with colors he’d never seen—sharp violets, deep ambers, and piercing cyans. It looked like a planetarium on overdrive.

  But as he stared at the impossible moons, a cold, hollow melancholy settled in his chest.

  How was his family doing? He had "died" to get here, which meant back home, there had been a funeral. A casket. A grave with his name on it. He pictured his parents’ faces and felt a sharp pang of guilt. They had already lost Shinji—the golden son, the hero—and now they had lost Kenji, too.

  He tried to take comfort in the fact that Nathan was still there. Nathan was the true successor to Shinji’s legacy, after all. Nathan was the one who could actually fill those shoes.

  I was just the shut-in otaku, Ray thought, his grip tightening on a tent stake. The one who hid in the shadows while everyone else lived.

  In this world, he was learning to build tents and fight for his life, but in the world that mattered, he was just a ghost. A memory of a son who never quite lived up to the name.

  Harel dropped beside the fire pit, rummaging through their bags with the tired resignation of a man defeated by his own supplies, successfully snapping Ray out of his spiral.

  “Okay,” he announced. “I’ve got dried meat, more dried meat, and a generous helping of soup stock.”

  Ray snorted. Harel tossed the leathery strips and stock into a pot of river water and set it over the flame.

  “At least the depression is free,” Calen muttered, sprawling out on a bed of leaves.

  Rian poked the fire with a stick. “Just cook it before the meat starts depressing me, too.”

  Ray sat by the fire, watching the sparks fly up toward the three moons. Aetherion was beautiful, terrifying, and utterly unforgiving. And it belonged to him now—whether he was ready for it or not.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “It’ll taste better once it stops tasting like old rope,” Rian promised, though he didn't sound convinced.

  “At this point,” Calen whispered, staring at the impossible stars, “I’ll eat the rope.”

  Ray chuckled, the warmth of the fire finally beginning to seep into his aching bones.

  The pot had begun to bubble, a soft steam rising into the cooling forest air. Warmth seeped outward, and for a few fleeting minutes, the shadows of the woods didn't seem so threatening. The four boys gathered around the fire—exhausted, scraped, and smelling of river water—watching the stew simmer as if it were a culinary miracle.

  In the quiet crackling of the flames, Ray felt a rare moment of peace. The Crucible would return tomorrow, but tonight? Tonight was just four friends pretending they weren't terrified.

  “How many paces have we taken?” Ray asked, stretching his sore calves.

  Rian checked the tally marks on his map. “By my calculations, fifteen thousand steps. Give or take a few hundred.”

  The boys let out a low whistle of approval. “Well,” Calen grinned, “I'm bragging about that when we get home.”

  “All you did was walk, Calen,” Ray snorted.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Calen replied proudly. “Fifteen thousand sounds like a legendary quest.”

  They ate their thin, watery stew—a masterpiece by their current standards—and pulled sticks for the watch. Harel drew the short one and began his noble suffering, while Ray crawled into his tent and was out cold before his head even hit the bedroll.

  “GET UP—GET UP, YOU GUYS!”

  Harel’s voice cracked with a terror so pure it bypassed Ray's grogginess and went straight to his adrenaline. Ray jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. He rolled out of his tent, tripped over his own feet, and scrambled into the clearing.

  He froze. The campsite was no longer theirs.

  They were surrounded. At least six Bramblebacks lumbered in a slow, tightening circle. Their massive bodies looked like living tree trunks, their bark-plated armor creaking with every heavy step. Thorny vines wrapped around their limbs like pulsing muscles, and when they exhaled, faint green spores puffed from vents along their ribs, shimmering like poisonous snow in the moonlight.

  “TREE BEARS!” Harel pointed with trembling fingers. “We are being hunted by tree bears, Ray!”

  “That can’t be the real name—” Ray started, but a Brambleback slapped the ground, sending a tremor through the campsite that nearly knocked him over.

  Rian was already moving—quiet and terrifyingly awake. “Territorial,” he snapped. “We pitched camp on their feeding ground.”

  One Brambleback rose onto its hind legs and let out a creaking, splintering scream—the sound of an ancient oak being torn apart by a hurricane. Ray’s stomach turned cold.

  “Okay,” he whispered, grabbing his training blade with shaking hands. “So we're fighting—”

  “Bramblebacks!” Rian interrupted. “Blunt force won't work! Aim for the vine joints!”

  Ray’s pulse thundered. He felt his Ash Circuit stir—heat rising under his skin, a familiar thrum of power—and then… it stalled. No smoke. No heat. Nothing. The world seemed to mock his sudden helplessness.

  Behind them, a Brambleback whipped its thorny vine-tail. SHRRK. Ray’s tent split in half like wet paper.

  “MY TENT!” Ray screamed.

  “NOT THE PRIORITY, RAY!” Harel shrieked.

  "MOVE, IDIOT!" Calen screamed.

  The Brambleback’s claw began its descent.

  Rian moved first. He slammed his palms into the dirt, and the ground groaned in response. Two jagged pillars of rock shot upward from the forest floor, catching the massive beast’s paw mid-swing. The stone cracked under the pressure, but it bought them a heartbeat. Rian’s skin was already turning that dull, river-stone grey. "I can't hold it! Harel, clear the air!"

  Harel was vibrating with pure panic, but his hands were moving in fluid, sweeping arcs. He didn't summon a wave—he didn't have the juice for that yet—but the moisture in the humid forest air suddenly condensed. A swirling ring of high-pressure water spiraled around the boys, catching the toxic spores and dragging them down into the mud before they could reach their lungs.

  "I'm doing it! I'm doing it!" Harel squeaked, his eyes bugging out. "I'm—oh gods, it's looking at me!"

  The Brambleback Rian had pinned let out a splintering roar, its thorny vines lashing out.

  "WATCH THE FLANK!" Calen yelled. He didn't run away; he ran around. His feet barely touched the mud, propelled by sharp, erratic gusts of wind. He was a blur of blue and grey, weaving through the underbrush. He swung his training blade, and though the wooden edge was blunt, a focused gust of air extended from the tip, slicing through a thick cluster of thorns that had been about to snare Harel’s ankle.

  Harel threw his arms forward, and the water ring exploded outward in a messy, drenching surge. It wasn't enough to hurt the bark-skinned giants, but the sudden force of the spray made them blink and stagger back an inch.

  The nearest beast stomped forward, spores thickening the air. Ray, driven by a mix of adrenaline and pure shōnen-protagonist delusion, stepped forward and threw his fist out with everything he had.

  煙拳?バリアントストライク！！ ? “ENKEN: BARIANTO SUTORAIKU!!”

  (Smoke Fist Valiant Strike)

  The forest echoed with the shout. Everyone stared at him. Teammates and Bramblebacks alike. The bears stared at him. Blinking, unimpressed. Not a single spark of smoke appeared. Ray stayed frozen, his arm still extended. “…Huh?”

  The beast roared, raising a claw the size of a wagon wheel. Rian saw the disaster coming.

  “RAY’S CAN’T ACTIVATE HIS SIGIL, RUN!!”

  Rian grabbed what he could—Ray’s pack, Harel’s cooking pot—and bolted into the trees. Calen screamed something either heroic or deeply stupid and sprinted after them. Ray stayed frozen for a half-second longer before the reality of the giant paw descending on him finally clicked.

  He turned and ran for his life.

  They tore through the undergrowth, branches whipping their faces and roots snagging their boots. Behind them, the Bramblebacks crashed through the forest like living avalanches.

  “WHY DID YOU SHOUT THE ATTACK NAME?!” Calen yelled, his breath tearing in his throat.

  “I DON’T KNOW—IT WORKED AGAINST ROWEN!”

  “THAT WAS A HUMAN, NOT A TREE BEAR!”

  They ran until their lungs burned and the thunderous crashing faded into the distance. Only then did Rian skid to a stop, gasping for air. “Inventory,” he managed.

  They dumped their salvaged "treasures" into a miserable pile: the map, the compass, Harel’s pot, a single blanket, and the remains of Ray's tent cloth.

  “…We can make one tent?” Ray asked hopefully.

  “Half a tent,” Harel corrected.

  They built it using fallen branches and prayer. What they constructed could not legally be called a tent; it sagged, it leaned, and it seemed to radiate a profound sense of sorrow.

  Ray stared at the "depressed triangle." “…I hate the wild.”

  “This is why people invented houses, Ray,” Harel muttered, patting his shoulder.

  Rian spread the map across his knee. “We’re off-route. We fix it at dawn.”

  Ray flopped under the sad triangle, staring up at the three moons glowing through the tattered fabric. His roommates were already settling in, but Ray remained awake, haunted by the silence of his own power.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” Calen whispered.

  From deep in the forest came a distant, creaking roar.

  “…Probably,” Calen amended.

  They’d survived Night One. But as the forest whispered around them, Ray had a sinking feeling that the Crucible was just getting warmed up.