Church Encampment - Outside Academy Walls, Dawn After the Failed Confrontation

The white tents spread like a disease across the valley.

What had started as a modest diplomatic presence two weeks ago had metastasized into something far more ominous. Three hundred tents now, maybe more, arranged in perfect military formation. Supply wagons rolled in daily. Weapon racks gleamed in the morning light. The banners of two dozen Church orders snapped in the wind, each one representing knights who'd sworn their lives to divine service.

And violence, when divine service required it.

Brother Harren stood at the edge of the encampment, watching the Academy's distant walls with the kind of flat expression that came from seeing too many wars. His weathered hands gripped a practice sword, testing its weight, remembering when he'd carried real steel into real battles.

The sound of wood splintering made him turn.

Training dummies. Six of them, reduced to kindling in the pre-dawn darkness. Seraphina moved through the wreckage like a storm given human form, each strike carrying the kind of rage that came from humiliation.

She'd been at it all night. Ever since the guards had dragged her back to camp, screaming threats while Avian Veritas watched with that infuriatingly calm expression.

"Lass," Harren called out. "Ye need rest before the ritual."

"I need to be STRONGER!" Her fist went through another dummy's chest. "He didn't even fight me. Didn't even draw his sword. Just stood there while his bodyguard threw me like—"

She stopped, chest heaving, hands bleeding. The memory clearly burned.

"Aye. Avian Veritas is out of yer league right now. That's why—"

"That's why I'm doing the ritual." She turned to face him, and Harren saw something that made his old warrior's heart ache. Not just rage. Desperation. The kind that made people do stupid, fatal things. "Eighty percent mortality rate. You told me. I don't care."

"Ye should care. Dead don't get revenge."

"Neither do the weak." She walked past him toward the ritual tent, shoulders rigid. "Amara and Roland died because I wasn't strong enough. I won't make that mistake again."

Harren watched her go, muttering under his breath, "They died because they weren't strong enough, not yer fault."

Then he turned to find Archbishop Caldris standing behind him. Of course. The bastard had probably been listening the whole time.

"Quite the performance yesterday," the Archbishop said pleasantly. "Public confrontation, attempted assault on a duke's son, dragged away by guards while screaming death threats. Very... memorable."

"She's young. Made a mistake."

"She made the perfect mistake." Caldris's smile widened. "Now she knows she's outmatched. Now she's desperate enough to risk death for power. Now she'll do anything we ask if it means getting stronger." He gestured toward the ritual tent. "Shall we? The girl's determination deserves witness."

Harren's jaw clenched. "Ye're usin' her."

"I'm providing her what she wants. There's a difference." The Archbishop's tone remained gentle, grandfatherly. "She wants to kill Avian Veritas. We want information about the Academy. Everyone gets what they need."

"And if she dies in the ritual?"

"Then we learn the limits of desperation." He started walking. "But I suspect she'll survive. Rage like hers burns too hot to die easily."

They walked through the camp in silence, past knights performing morning drills, past priests preparing breakfast, past the everyday routines of an army pretending to be a diplomatic presence.

The ritual tent loomed ahead, canvas walls inscribed with silver runes that hurt to look at directly.

"One question," Harren said before they entered. "Yesterday's confrontation. Ye wanted her to fail, didn't ye?"

Caldris paused at the entrance, that warm smile never wavering. "I wanted her to understand the gap between desire and capability. Mission accomplished."

Eighty percent mortality rate. And the bastard called it valuable information.

He followed anyway. Because someone needed to be there when the girl screamed.

Inside the Ritual Tent

Seraphina wasn't the first to attempt the ritual today.

She stood outside the tent with Brother Harren and a dozen other knights, waiting their turn. The canvas walls did nothing to muffle the screaming.

A young man—Willem, one of the newer recruits, maybe nineteen—had volunteered an hour ago. Full of determination and righteous fury about some heretic who'd burned his village. He'd been Fourth Tier, same as her. Wanted Fifth to be strong enough to matter.

The screaming had started ten minutes in.

Now it was dying down. Not because he was succeeding.

"Lass," Harren said quietly. "Ye don't have to watch."

"Yes I do."

The tent flap opened. Two mages emerged, their robes splattered with something dark and wet. Behind them, more mages carried a stretcher.

Willem lay on it. Or what was left of Willem.

His skin had split along every major channel, mana leaking out like blood from a dozen wounds. Not metaphorically—actual glowing energy seeped from the cracks in his flesh, pooling on the stretcher, dripping onto the ground where it hissed and evaporated. His eyes were open, vacant, staring at nothing. His mouth moved soundlessly.

"Mana overflow," one of the mages announced clinically. "Core expansion exceeded channel capacity. Complete spiritual collapse. He'll be dead within the hour."

They carried him past. Willem's hand hung off the side of the stretcher, fingers twitching. Mana continued leaking from his skin like his body was a broken vessel that couldn't hold what it contained.

Several knights turned away. One vomited.

Seraphina watched until they took him into the medical tent. Where he'd die, because there was no fixing that kind of damage.

"That's what happens when ye fail," Harren said softly. "Yer channels can't handle the power surge. Body tears itself apart from the inside. Mana burns through ye like acid. Ye saw what happened to his—"

"I saw." Her voice was steady. "I'm still doing it."

"Lass—"

"Fourth Tier wasn't enough to stop Amara and Roland from dying. It wasn't enough to stand against Avian Veritas." She looked at Harren. "I either get stronger or I die trying. Those are my options."

"There are other ways—"

"Not fast enough." She watched as another mage exited the tent, carrying Willem's blood-soaked restraints. "How long does normal cultivation take to break through from Fourth to Fifth?"

Harren's silence was answer enough. Years. It took years.

"I don't have years." Seraphina walked toward the tent entrance. "Next."

The lead mage appeared, robes still stained from Willem's attempt. "You witnessed the failure?"

"Yes."

"And you still wish to attempt?"

"Yes."

"Foolish. But your choice." The mage stepped aside. "Enter."

Seraphina knelt in the center of a circle carved into the ground with silver, surrounded by five Church mages whose faces she'd never seen. They wore ceremonial robes that hid everything, even their hands, making them look like walking shadows given cloth and purpose.

The silver circle still bore stains from Willem. They hadn't bothered cleaning it.

The tent stank of incense and something else. Something that reminded her of blood left too long in sunlight. And now, underneath it all, the sharp ozone smell of leaked mana.

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Yesterday's humiliation played on repeat in her mind. Avian Veritas standing there, not even bothering to draw his sword. That casual "Prove it" like she was a joke. And then Kai—his fucking bodyguard—throwing her like she was a child throwing a tantrum.

The guards dragging her away while she screamed.

Everyone watching.

Everyone seeing how weak she was.

Never again.

"Are you certain, child?" The lead mage's voice was androgynous, impossible to age or identify. "You just witnessed the consequences of failure. Once we begin, there is no stopping. Your body will either break through to Fifth Tier or break apart trying. Eighty percent of candidates die in the attempt."

"I'm certain." Her voice didn't shake. Wouldn't let it.

Willem's vacant stare flashed in her mind. Mana leaking from split skin like his body was a cracked cup.

Then Amara's face. Roland's last gasping breath. And yesterday—Avian Veritas, black hair and storm-blue eyes, standing there like she was beneath his notice.

She needed to be stronger. Strong enough that next time—because there would be a next time—she could make him bleed before he even realized he should be afraid.

"Very well. Know that Archbishop Caldris warned us you would be... determined." The lead mage raised both hands. The other four mirrored the gesture. "Fourth Tier to Fifth is a significant jump. Your body may not survive the transition."

"Then I'll die trying." She met their hidden gazes. "Better than living weak."

The lead mage paused, then nodded slowly. "Begin."

The silver circle ignited.

Not with fire. With something worse. Pure mana, condensed and weaponized, flowing into the circle like water into a drowning victim's lungs. Seraphina gasped as it hit her, invisible pressure forcing its way into her body through every pore, every breath, every exposed inch of skin.

Her Fourth Tier Aether Core spun faster, trying to process the influx. Not enough. The mana kept coming, building pressure like steam in a sealed pot, looking for any weakness to exploit.

"Control it," the lead mage intoned. "Shape it. Force your core to expand or die trying."

Easy for them to fucking say. They weren't the ones feeling their spiritual channels stretch like old rope under too much weight.

The pressure built. Her core spun faster, drinking mana it couldn't hold, swelling beyond its natural limits. Something cracked—not physically, but spiritually. Like ice breaking in spring thaw, except the ice was her foundation and the thaw was agony.

She bit down on her scream. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

More mana flooded in. The five mages chanted something in a language that hurt to hear, each syllable driving more power into her body. Her core expanded, contracted, expanded again. The spiritual structure of her cultivation base was being forcibly reforged, and every adjustment felt like bone breaking.

"The Fourth Tier barrier approaches," one mage said, clinically detached. "Prepare for breakthrough or death."

Seraphina's hands clenched so hard her nails drew blood. The barrier—she could feel it now. An invisible wall in her cultivation, the natural limit of her Fourth Tier. Most people took years to dissolve it slowly, carefully, letting their foundation strengthen before pushing through.

She had minutes.

The mana pressure increased. Her core slammed against the barrier once. Twice. Three times. Each impact sent shockwaves through her entire spiritual network, pain radiating from her center to her extremities.

Not enough. Still not breaking.

"More," she gasped.

"Child, you'll—"

"MORE!"

The lead mage hesitated, then nodded. The chanting intensified.

The mana became a flood. A tsunami. A fucking avalanche of power with nowhere to go except through her or through the barrier. Seraphina's vision went white at the edges, consciousness flickering as her body tried to shut down rather than endure this.

No. No fucking way. She hadn't survived the Underground just to die in a tent surrounded by faceless mages who didn't even care if she lived.

Amara's voice in her memory: Pain is just weakness leaving.

Roland's last lesson: Never quit. Even if it kills you.

Her core slammed into the barrier one final time.

The barrier shattered.

The scream that tore from her throat was involuntary, primal, the sound of a body being fundamentally rewritten at the spiritual level. Mana flooded through the broken barrier, pouring into spaces that had never held power before. Her core expanded violently, jumping from Fourth to Fifth Tier in a transition that should have been gradual but instead felt like her entire cultivation base was being torn apart and reconstructed in real-time.

Blood poured from her nose. Her ears. The corners of her eyes. Small vessels bursting under the strain of too much power moving too fast through channels that hadn't fully adapted yet.

But she was alive.

Fifth Tier. She could feel it—the increased capacity, the denser mana, the way her aura responded to thought with more precision than before. This was power. Real power. The kind that might actually matter in a fight against someone who'd killed two Church knights like they were annoying insects.

The mages stopped chanting. The silver circle went dark.

Seraphina collapsed forward, catching herself on hands that shook violently. Sweat soaked her clothes. Blood dripped onto the ground, painting the silver carvings red.

"Successful breakthrough," the lead mage announced, bored. "Congratulations, child. You survived."

She wanted to tell them to fuck off. Wanted to scream at them for treating her life like an experiment. But her throat was raw from screaming, and standing up seemed impossible right now, so she settled for breathing and trying not to vomit.

The tent flap opened. Archbishop Caldris entered, Brother Harren right behind him.

"Well done, my dear." The Archbishop's smile was warm, proud, exactly what a grandfather's should be after watching his granddaughter achieve something remarkable. It made her skin crawl. "Fifth Tier at fifteen. Extraordinary. Especially after yesterday's... setback."

The word hung in the air like a blade.

Seraphina's jaw clenched. "I underestimated him."

"You did. Publicly." Caldris produced a handkerchief—because of course he did—and gently wiped blood from her face. "But that's why we're having this conversation. Raw power isn't enough against Avian Veritas. You need strategy. Information. Patience."

Harren moved to her side, offering water. "Easy, lass. Small sips."

She drank. The water tasted like copper.

"How do you feel?" Caldris asked.

"Like shit." Her voice came out hoarse. "But stronger."

"You are stronger. Not just in raw power, but in potential." The Archbishop's smile widened slightly. "The forced breakthrough changes more than your current tier. It rewrites your spiritual foundation. Those who survive the ritual—and you are among the rare few—experience cultivation growth at approximately five times the normal rate."

Seraphina's head snapped up despite the pain. "Five times?"

"Indeed. What would normally take years will take months. Months will become weeks for smaller gains." He tilted his head. "Of course, this assumes you survive long enough to benefit from it. The ritual doesn't just kill during the breakthrough—it leaves the body... fragile. For the next few days, any major exertion could tear your newly expanded channels apart. You'll need to be very, very careful."

"How long?"

"Three days of minimal activity. Then another week of light training before you're fully stable." His tone remained gentle, educational. "But once you're healed? You'll grow at a pace that will terrify anyone who knows what you've done to yourself."

Five times faster. That meant... she could close the gap. Maybe not immediately, but faster than Avian Veritas could pull ahead. If she survived the recovery period.

"Good. Good." He tucked the blood-stained handkerchief away. "Now, let's discuss your revised mission."

"Avian Veritas." She forced herself to sit up straighter. "I'm going to kill him."

"Eventually, yes. But first, you're going to learn everything about him." Caldris folded his hands. "His schedule. Where he trains. Who he talks to. His weaknesses, his habits, his patterns. You're enrolled at the Academy as a student—use that. Watch him. Study him. Become an expert on Avian Veritas before you ever cross blades with him again."

"You want me to spy on him."

"I want you to be prepared. Yesterday proved you're not ready for a direct confrontation." He held up a hand before she could protest. "You have power now. Fifth Tier at your age is remarkable. But power without intelligence is just flailing. Learn your enemy. Then destroy him."

She thought about yesterday. The humiliation. Kai throwing her so easily. Avian's calm, almost bored expression as guards dragged her away.

The Archbishop was right. She hated that he was right, but he was.

"What else?" she asked. "You said revised mission. Killing Avian Veritas is one thing. What's the other?"

"The Academy is preparing for conflict. Dean Valerian isn't a fool—he sees our forces gathering." Caldris's smile never wavered. "While you're watching Avian Veritas, also watch the Academy. Ward locations. Guard rotations. How they're organizing their response."

"So I'm hunting Avian and spying on the Academy."

"You're being thorough." His hand squeezed her shoulder. "Can you do that?"

She thought about Amara and Roland. Both dead because of Avian Veritas.

Yesterday's failure burned in her memory. But now she was stronger. Now she had a plan.

"I can do that," she said.

"Wonderful." He helped her stand, supporting her weight when her legs threatened to give out. "Take today to recover. Tomorrow, you begin. And Seraphina? When you do confront him again—and I know you will—make sure you're actually ready this time. No more public spectacles. No more failures."

She nodded.

"Good girl." He released her, mask of grandfatherly kindness firmly back in place. "Oh, and one more thing. If you discover Avian Veritas is planning something dangerous—something that threatens the Church's mission—you come to me immediately. Not Brother Harren. Not any of the other knights. Me. Directly. Understood?"

"Understood."

He released her, mask of grandfatherly kindness firmly back in place as Brother Harren escorted her to her tent. Only when they were alone did the old knight speak.

"Ye know he's usin' ye."

"I know."

"An' ye don't care."

"I care about killing Avian Veritas." She stumbled, caught herself on Harren's arm. "Everything else is just noise."

He sighed, old and tired and knowing better but powerless to stop it. "Aye. That's what worries me, lass."

They walked in silence to her tent, where a cot and healing supplies waited. Seraphina collapsed onto the thin mattress, every muscle screaming protest.

Fifth Tier. She'd done it. Survived something that killed most candidates and came out stronger.

Tomorrow she'd start gathering intelligence. Watching. Listening. Learning everything about Avian Veritas—his schedule, his training times, his weaknesses. Playing the obedient Church weapon while hunting for the moment to strike.

No more public confrontations. No more rushing in unprepared.

Next time she faced Avian Veritas, she'd be ready.

And he would bleed.

Academy Walls - Mid-Morning

From his office window, Dean Aldrich watched the white tents multiply in the valley below.

"They're not even pretending anymore," Professor Harwick said from the doorway.

"No. They're not." The Dean's expression remained neutral, but his hands clenched behind his back. "Three hundred knights and counting. Supply lines that suggest they're prepared for a siege. Whatever Caldris is planning, it's not diplomacy."

"And the girl? Seraphina? She tried to attack Avian Veritas yesterday."

"I heard. Public confrontation in the main courtyard. Guards had to drag her away while she screamed death threats." The Dean finally turned from the window. "Kai intercepted the attack before it became murder. Quick thinking on his part."

"So she knows who killed her mentors."

"She knows who she thinks killed her mentors. Whether she's correct..." The Dean shrugged. "Avian Veritas is many things, but I doubt he's killing Church knights in underground tunnels without good reason."

"Should we intervene?"

"Between a grief-maddened fifteen-year-old Church operative and Aedric Veritas's son?" The Dean almost smiled. "No. Let them sort it themselves. She's enrolled as a student—she has as much right to be here as anyone. As long as she's not actively murdering people, the Academy stays neutral."

"And when she tries again?"

"Then we'll see what matters more—the Church's mission or her personal vengeance." The Dean returned to his desk. "Either way, it won't be boring."

Professor Harwick left, shaking his head. The Dean returned to his window, watching the white tents spread like infection.

War was coming. Not the open kind with declared sides and honorable combat. The subtle kind, with spies and pressure and manufactured crises.

The Academy had survived five centuries. It would survive this too.

It had to.

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