The academy punished near-death experiences with paperwork.
That should not have surprised me.
Astral Zenith had turned a buried wound into a training ground, a social hierarchy into dorm assignments, and children with expensive surnames into future military assets. Of course its first response to an unauthorized monster escalation was not panic.
Panic was for poor people.
Institutions preferred forms.
Three instructors stood around the sealed entrance to the Abyssal Training Ground by dawn, their black uniforms lined with silver thread and their expressions arranged into professional calm. Six healing aides carried crates of emergency supplies they pretended not to need. Two clerks took statements from students while writing quickly enough to imply the truth had already been chosen.
Team Seven waited behind a waist-high barrier marked with warning sigils.
Aiden Crest stood too straight.
Seraphina Seraphel stood too still.
