With the twelfth Will-Rune finally stabilized within his mind palace, Pierce felt the swirling spiritual energy in his sea of consciousness settle into a perfect, closed loop.

  However, when he attempted to deduce the structural trajectory for a thirteenth rune, he hit an invisible, indestructible wall.

  It was the ceiling of the Common Meditation Technique.

  Like a shackle forged by the ancient order of Arcanists, this fundamental technique—disseminated freely to the masses—allowed civilians to glimpse the glory of magic, yet cruelly barred them from touching the true domain of the elites. Without a High-tier Meditation Technique to unlock new geometric logic, twelve runes represented the absolute limit of a commoner's potential.

  "For ordinary initiates, this is the end of the road. But for me..."

  Pierce summoned the interface of the Eye of Omniscience once more.

  [Task 3: Deep Optimization of Common Meditation Technique. Progress: 18%. Estimated time remaining: 201 days.]

  The optimization time had shortened significantly as his Spirit stat rose, but 200 days was still far too long to be of use in the upcoming trials.

  "I must rely on my current arsenal," Pierce murmured, suppressing the urge to rush. He stood up and walked to the window.

  On the windowsill, a pitch-black crow was preening its feathers. Seeing Pierce approach, Mistfeather let out a low caw, its eyes gleaming with intelligent light.

  Pierce retrieved a Soul-Nurturing Leaf from his pouch. The moment the dried, dark-purple leaf appeared, the crow became agitated, hopping eagerly. Pierce fed it the leaf, watching as the bird swallowed it whole. Visible ripples of shadowy mist began to pulse from Mistfeather's body, its aura growing noticeably denser.

  After nearly a month of feeding, Mistfeather’s strength had risen to a level comparable to a Junior Knight. More importantly, its Mistform ability now lasted longer, and it could share a fragmented visual link with Pierce within a range of 500 meters—a perfect scout for the jungle environment.

  "Eat up. We have a long hunt ahead of us."

  Pierce stroked the bird's cold, sleek feathers, his gaze drifting toward the towering Spire in the distance. The gears of fate were beginning to turn.

  Astral Calendar 14523, December 1.

  The Day of the Trials.

  The morning mist had yet to disperse when the immense white-stone plaza beneath the Spire was already submerged in a sea of people. Over six thousand freshmen initiates had gathered, their robes creating a shifting tide of grey and black.

  The atmosphere was oppressive. The usual chatter and laughter were gone, replaced by the heavy breathing of thousands and the clinking of nervous fingers against potion vials.

  Pierce stood quietly in a corner of the crowd. He wore a standard-issue grey robe, but beneath it, he was armed to the teeth. The Ring of Protection was on his finger, concealed by a simple illusion; the Dimensional Pouch at his waist was stuffed with rations, water, and fifty vials of Brute Strength Potion—his own creations.

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  "Pierce! Over here!"

  A familiar voice cut through the hum. Pierce turned to see Xavier waving at him. The members of the Astra Society were huddled together, forming a small circle of mutual support in this ocean of competitors.

  As Pierce joined them, he noticed that while Xavier looked calm, his hands were clenched tightly into fists. Marcus was wiping sweat from his forehead despite the chill in the air, and Gwen was mutely checking her spell components pouch for the tenth time.

  "Look," Xavier suddenly whispered, tilting his chin toward the northern entrance of the plaza. "The 'Royals' have arrived."

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

  A group of about twenty initiates walked in, separated from the masses by an invisible wall of arrogance and power.

  Leading them was a young man with pale blonde hair, wearing a robe embroidered with silver serpentine patterns—Silas of House Pye. His expression was indifferent, his gaze passing over the surrounding students as if they were livestock. The fluctuations of spiritual power radiating from him were undisguised and suffocating.

  To his left was Ingram of House Innis, flanked by four imposing followers clad in enchanted leather armor.

  But the one who drew the most gazes was the girl walking at the very front.

  She had flowing crimson hair that seemed to burn like fire, and her skin was as pale as porcelain. She wore no armor, only a fitted black robe that accentuated her tall, slender frame. She walked alone, yet the space around her seemed to twist slightly, repelling anyone who tried to get too close.

  Gwendolyn. The monster who had constructed over 12 Will-Runes.

  Pierce narrowed his eyes. The Eye of Omniscience automatically fed him data.

  [Target: Gwendolyn]

  [Estimated Spirit: 42.5 - 45.0]

  [Threat Level: High]

  "Forty-five..." Pierce inhaled sharply. His own Spirit had reached nearly 36, a number he was proud of, but the gap between him and the true apex of the Bloodline Families was still stark.

  Clang—Clang—Clang.

  The deep, resonant bell of the Spire tolled three times, silencing the plaza instantly.

  Above the platform, spatial ripples distorted the air. Three figures stepped out from the void, floating mid-air.

  The leader was an elderly man clad in a purple robe adorned with star charts—Archmage Lysander, the Dean of the First Year.

  His gaze, heavy with the weight of centuries, swept over the six thousand young faces below. His voice was not loud, yet it echoed clearly in every student's ears.

  "The path of Truth is paved with bones. Only the strong may ascend the steps of the Spire."

  "The trial location is Isle of Exile No. 4. It is a primitive island spanning 2,000 square kilometers, inhabited by diverse magical beasts and... certain 'surprises' we have prepared for you."

  Lysander raised a withered hand, and the clouds above the plaza churned.

  "The rules are simple: Survival and Collection."

  "Each of you has been issued a specialized badge. This badge will record your location and your vital signs. It is also your point counter."

  "Scattered across the island are various 'Token Stones'—White Stones are worth 1 point, Black Stones are 10 points, and Blood Stones are 100 points. Additionally, hunting magical beasts and harvesting rare ingredients will grant points based on their value."

  The Dean’s eyes suddenly sharpened, revealing a cold, predatory glint.

  "However, the fastest way to gain points... is to take them from others. Plundering half of a defeated opponent's points is permitted."

  A collective gasp ripped through the crowd.

  "Killing is technically forbidden," Lysander continued, his tone turning icy. "But in the heat of battle, accidents... are inevitable. If you fear death, you may shatter your badge to activate a teleportation shield. Doing so signifies immediate forfeiture and elimination."

  "The trial lasts for seven days. The bottom one thousand will be expelled. The top fifty will be rewarded. And the Champion..."

  He paused, a rare smile touching his lips.

  "...shall gaze upon the Truth."

  "Now, board the ships!"

  With a wave of his hand, the clouds broke apart. Three colossal, whale-shaped metallic airships descended slowly from the sky, their anti-gravity runes humming with a sound that vibrated deep in the chest.

  "Let the culling begin."