Kaspars, still sputtering, seemed to notice Milda for the first time. His rage, momentarily diverted, sharpened into a snarl. “The abomination! Get away from him, creature of the fog!” Voldis ignored them both. His internal timer ticked. He had a year, minus a day. This crypt, for all its illicit gains, was a dead end. He needed to be ascending the Black-Spire Athenaeum, not lingering in its forgotten depths. [Echo Log: Disruption detected. Localized temporal anomaly at current coordinates. Divergence from Prime Narrative: 0.01%] The red glyphs flared across his sight. He gave them half a glance. His gaze swept the ancient stones, seeking the familiar tell-tale shimmer of a boundary box, a texture seam – anything. “Don’t you dare ignore me, fiend!” Kaspars bellowed, lunging forward. He wasn't after Voldis’s life yet, not truly. He wanted the ring back, wanted to restore his perceived destiny. The fury in his eyes was a raw, wounded thing. But Voldis had already moved. He shifted his weight, sliding like a shadow against the decaying wall. His fingers danced, not on a physical interface, but on the invisible menu screen etched into his vision. A sequence of quick, precise inputs, buffering keystrokes that forced his character model to clip through the solid rock. He vanished. One moment, a silhouette against the crypt’s darkness; the next, nothing but the fading echoes of Kaspars’s frustrated roar and Milda’s continued, mournful gaze. He landed hard on a narrow ledge high above, the chill wind of Oskol biting at his exposed skin. The Black-Spire Athenaeum loomed overhead, a jagged, impossibly tall fortress of obsidian stone and verdigris-stained bronze. Its base was swallowed by the abyssal fog, its uppermost spires piercing the perpetually bruised sky. This was his starting line, a brutal, vertical climb to salvation. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ozone, a constant hum emanating from the massive runic conduits embedded in the walls. Neophytes, draped in robes of various house colors, hurried through the cavernous halls. Their faces, pale and drawn, carried the same quiet dread: the knowledge that every drop into the abyss was a gamble with their lives. Voldis navigated the labyrinthine corridors with practiced ease, his route optimized. He knew the fastest path to the introductory assessment chambers, the ones where novices proved their mettle before being allowed into the drop cages. And he knew how to skip it. The chamber itself was a circular arena, its floor polished dark stone, a single flickering torch providing the only illumination. Facing the entrance, sword drawn, stood Zemyna. Her posture was rigid, every line of her imperial frame radiating cold pride. Her armor, crafted from glistening beetle chitin, caught the torchlight, and her silver-braided hair, usually pinned in an elaborate coiffure, was pulled back in a severe, martial tail. She was waiting, a predator expecting her prey. “Approach, newcomer,” Zemyna’s voice cut through the air, sharp and clear, honed by generations of aristocratic authority. “Prove your worth before the Great Drop. Only the capable earn their place among the scholars of the academy.” Her blade, named ‘Silvertongue’, hummed with a low, faint vibration. Voldis did not approach. He simply walked past her. His eyes, fixed on an invisible point beyond the arena, paid her no heed. He executed a ‘menu-buffering sprint’, a delicate sequence of opening and closing his system interface at specific frames, allowing him to bypass collision detection with environmental triggers. The system failed to flag him as ‘entering combat’ with Zemyna, thus never initiating the mandatory duel script. [Echo Log: Zone bypass successful. Introductory Rite of Blades – Terminated. Divergence from Prime Narrative: 0.03%] Zemyna froze. Her blade, still poised, began to tremble. Her mouth, opened to deliver a scathing remark, hung agape. The few other pupils lingering to observe the rite exchanged bewildered glances. This was unheard of. No one simply *ignored* the foreign princess. “You…” Her voice was a strangled sound, laced with a venomous disbelief. “You *dare*? Turn back, you insolent fool! Face me, or be expelled from the spires forever!” Voldis kept walking, his steps echoing flatly on the stone. He was already through the far archway, heading for the main lift shaft. Her rage, her humiliation, meant nothing to him. His concern was the ticking clock, the disease gnawing at his bones. He needed experience, needed to level. Her duel was a waste of precious seconds. Zemyna’s face contorted, her pale features flushing a violent crimson. Her grip tightened on Silvertongue until her knuckles turned white. “He ignored me,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low. “He walked away.” The humiliation was a raw, burning brand. But beneath it, a spark ignited, cold and bright. An affront so audacious it transcended mere insult, becoming an enigma. He had not feared her, had not even *seen* her. This was not a defeat; it was an erasure. And the imperial scion, for the first time in her pampered life, found herself consumed by a singular, furious obsession. [Echo Log: Zemyna, The Alderkin Scion – Triggered. Relationship Status: Enraged/Obsessed. Initializing Pursuit Protocols.] The main lift shaft was a dizzying vertical chasm. Massive, creaking elevator cages, supported by thick, rune-etched cables the width of a man's torso, ascended and descended into the swirling abyssal fog. These were the mobile classrooms, the proving grounds. Scholars huddled inside, their faces illuminated by glowing runes on their datapads, poring over ancient texts while lowering into the horror below. The air was frigid, smelling of damp stone and something metallic, like old blood. Voldis stepped into a cage already half-filled. Its metal grating groaned under the weight, the gears above shrieking a protest. The drop was swift, stomach-lurching. The passengers, many of them aristocratic scions of Oskol, affected an air of detached academic interest, but their eyes frequently darted to the swirling mist beyond the cage bars. Then, a shadow fell over Voldis. “You thought you could escape, you gutter-spawn?” Kaspars. His face was a mask of seething fury, his left hand clenching and unclenching, a faint, sickly red glow emanating from his fingertips. The absence of the Band of the Twin Moons was a gaping wound in his ego. He had stalked Voldis through the Athenaeum, his blood-magic-infused senses leading him straight to the lift. He blocked the only exit from Voldis’s corner of the cage. “The ring,” Kaspars hissed, his voice low and guttural, attracting the nervous attention of nearby peers. “Give it back. It is mine by right, by destiny!” Voldis met his gaze, his own eyes devoid of fear, devoid of anything but cold calculation. “It’s equipped,” he said simply, gesturing to his finger with the Band of the Twin Moons. “Can’t drop it now.” A lie, but a plausible one to Kaspars. “Then I’ll take it from your corpse!” Kaspars snarled, his hand erupting with dark, viscous energy. His signature attack: ‘Sanguine Cleave’. In the game, it was an unblockable, unparryable strike, intended to humble overconfident players. It arced swiftly, glowing crimson, directly for Voldis’s chest. But Voldis had played this game hundreds of times. He knew its tells, its animation frames. As Kaspars’s arm began its downward swing, Voldis initiated a quick weapon-swap input – then, immediately, cancelled it. The visual effect of his dagger phasing into existence and vanishing was faint, but the internal engine registered the animation cancel. It momentarily interrupted the attack's ‘unblockable’ flag. With a flick of his wrist, Voldis brought his own gauntleted forearm up, the heavy leather *thudding* against Kaspars’s wrist. The blood-blade, instead of passing through him, was deflected, splashing its red energy harmlessly against the grating of the cage. Kaspars stumbled back, his face a mixture of shock and incandescent rage. “Impossible!” Kaspars gasped, staring at his arm, then at Voldis. No one had ever deflected that strike. It was his birthright, his unique power. “What… what *are* you?” [Echo Log: Kaspars, The Fated Scion – Humiliated. Relationship Status: Enraged/Obsessed. Initializing Retaliation Protocols.] Before Kaspars could recover, a new voice, smooth as polished obsidian, cut through the tension. “Enough, young scions.” High Prelate Jurgis. He stood at the center of the cage, a towering figure in robes the color of fresh ash, his face a network of ancient, benevolent wrinkles. His eyes, however, held a depth that belied his gentle demeanor, like starlight glimpsed through a deep well. He had materialized almost silently, his presence radiating an almost oppressive aura of calm. “Brawling during the drop is strictly forbidden,” Jurgis continued, his gaze falling first on Kaspars, then settling on Voldis. A brief glint of curiosity sparked in his eyes as he studied Voldis, cold and sharp against his skull. Kaspars, despite his fury, immediately bowed his head. “My apologies, High Prelate. This… *individual*… provoked me.” He shot a glare at Voldis. Jurgis merely inclined his head. “The matters of personal slights can be resolved in the dueling pits, not in a classroom dive.” He paused, his gaze still on Voldis. “However, your… unique talent for circumventing established guidelines is not without merit. I have observed you, young one, and find your unorthodox approach… compelling.” He offered a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come to me after your next voyage, Voldis. I possess certain texts, certain forgotten lore in the forbidden archives, that might illuminate your… unconventional path. A private tutelage, if you will.” Voldis felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. Jurgis. The ultimate trap. The one who harvested max-level bodies. The offer was too perfect, too convenient. This was the game’s way of pulling him onto the rails, into the preordained path to his demise. [Echo Log: High Prelate Jurgis – Trap Set. Max-Level Body Harvest Protocol – Active. Divergence from Prime Narrative: 0.05%] He forced a neutral expression. “As the Prelate wills.” Jurgis’s smile widened, a thin, almost predatory curve. “Excellent. We shall have much to discuss.” The cage continued its plummet, the abyss swirling around them. The young aristocrats, now unnerved by the Prelate’s intervention and the sudden, violent display, held their tongues. The cables above them shrieked with the strain, a sound that quickly turned into a high-pitched, tearing groan. [Echo Log: ANOMALY DETECTED. CRITICAL STRUCTURAL FAILURE IMMINENT. EVASION PROCEDURES RECOMMENDED.] A deafening *CRACK* ripped through the air. The cage lurched violently, throwing bodies against the grates. Above them, the massive, rune-etched cables, thick as trees, began to fray, snapping one by one with explosive force. The ground below, the churning abyssal fog, rushed upwards with terrifying speed.

The Lift of the Damned