At breakfast the next morning, before combat class, Finn drops the news like it’s casual.

  “We’re getting cleared to start taking Contracts,” he says around a mouthful of bread, eyes bright with the kind of excitement that doesn’t bother pretending to be contained.

  Banks nods beside him, calm but clearly pleased. “Official ones.”

  That gets my attention immediately.

  Contracts are the next step. Everyone knows that.

  If you start on the staff young—really young—you begin as an Initiate. That’s where you learn how not to die. Footwork, balance, grip. The basics of staff combat and a handful of survival techniques like Iron Skin or Reactive Guard. Things meant to keep you upright long enough to learn what you’re doing. That phase usually carries you to about level twenty, give or take.

  After that, if you’re good enough, and most people aren’t, you specialize.

  There are dozens of schools across the Sects, each with their own names and philosophies. I won’t get into them. Ours was Adept.

  Not everyone is allowed to be one.

  This isn’t me bragging. Or at least, not much.

  There are students who are smarter than us. Better casters. People who can solve problems we’d never think of. But when it comes to swinging a stick, absorbing punishment, staying on your feet when everything hurts and nothing goes your way, that’s us. Adepts are the elite of the elite in that narrow, brutal sense.

  Getting there wasn’t automatic.

  There were months of tests. Grueling ones. Designed to break weak foundations and expose shortcuts. The kind of evaluations that don’t care how talented you are if you can’t endure. Kai and I were ten when we went through it. Ten years old, sore, exhausted, and stubborn in ways that probably worried the instructors.

  We excelled anyway.

  The Academy noticed. We were admitted as full students younger than almost anyone in recent memory. We’ve been at this for six years now, training nearly every day. We could have pushed levels faster, we both know that, but it would have come at the cost of our base. Shortcuts always do.

  I’d wager you won’t find another pair of sixteen-year-olds with foundations as strong as ours.

  Long before grades mattered, before we understood what “climbing together” would actually mean, Kai and I made a pact. Whatever path we walked, we’d do it side by side. At the time, it was just a promise between kids.

  Now it feels heavier. More real.

  And we wouldn’t change it for anything.

  Back to Contracts.

  They’re essentially quests, but not the kind the System hands out. System quests are… abstract. Impersonal. Contracts are human. Issued by people with problems that need solving. Collect this many materials from that place. Clear out a den of beasts that’s been killing livestock. Escort someone through dangerous territory. A wizard needs thirty kilograms of basilisk eyes and doesn’t care how you get them.

  You get the idea.

  This stage of training pushes you out into the wider world, but with guardrails still in place. Once you reach E Grade and stabilize, you’re eventually allowed to take Contracts regularly. You don’t need to be part of the Academy to do them, anyone can, but reputation matters. A lot.

  I could walk into town tomorrow and take a Contract. But I have no standing there. No name. No trust. The work would be dangerous, underpaid, and probably poorly vetted.

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  Academy Contracts are different.

  They cost more to issue, and they’re usually harder, but the work is screened. The school’s reputation carries weight, and students benefit from that trust. The Academy takes a cut, of course, but that’s fair. Students are expensive to train. They have every reason to want us alive, improving, and coming back.

  Finn is practically vibrating at the thought of it.

  Banks catches my eye and gives a small, knowing look. Not excitement exactly, anticipation.

  I glance at Kai. He’s quiet, thoughtful, already turning the idea over from every angle.

  Contracts mean responsibility. Real consequences. Exposure to the world beyond drills and sparring rings.

  Hopefully by the end of the month, Kai and I will be taking Contracts.

  The thought makes me almost giddy. Almost. There’s a sharp edge to it that keeps the excitement from running away entirely, because Contracts mean E Grade, and E Grade means risking a portal again. That part does not make me giddy. It sits in the back of my mind like a loose stone you keep stepping around instead of picking up.

  We say goodbye to Finn and Banks outside the dining hall. Finn talks about how they’re already arguing over what their first Contract should be, and Banks gently corrects him on what actually counts as an argument. I wish them luck, mean it, and then Kai and I turn toward the training grounds.

  That’s where things get strange.

  Instead of the usual open space and the instructors assigned to staff drills, we find Instructor Jin waiting for us near the edge of the field. Beside him stands another man I recognize only vaguely, older, leaner, posture straight in a way that suggests long familiarity with danger rather than authority.

  Micro-dungeons.

  My confusion must show, because Kai slows beside me at the same time I do. These dungeons are how we leveled from twenty to fifty. Controlled environments. Isolated challenges. The place where skills are tested without breaking bones or killing classmates. We bow automatically as we approach.

  “Good morning, boys,” Jin says. “I trust you remember Instructor Hal.”

  He gestures toward the other man. Hal inclines his head once, eyes sharp and appraising. He looks at us the way a craftsman looks at a tool that’s been dropped and repaired, interested in what still works and what doesn’t.

  “We need to evaluate your current state,” Jin continues, “and compare it against a known baseline. Specifically, your gauntlet run from the beginning of the year. Three months ago.”

  We nod. That part makes sense.

  Our bodies were inactive for nearly a month. Even with careful recovery, there’s no pretending that didn’t cost us. Strength returns, but timing and trust take longer. You can’t will those back.

  The micro-dungeons exist for exactly this reason.

  Sparring and drills are the core of our training. They always have been. Skills matter, but they are secondary. Anyone can swing a staff and activate a skill and be reasonably effective. That’s the floor.

  To master the staff first and then layer skills on top of it, that’s a different level of threat entirely. To then master the skills themselves, knowing when to apply them, when not to, and how to chain them without waste, that’s top-tier Adept territory.

  Kai and I are there.

  Which is why the presence of the dungeon master throws me off.

  Instructor Hal steps forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ll be running four evaluations,” he says. “Not today.”

  That answers my unspoken question.

  “The first,” he continues, “is a movement course. Floating platforms, shifting distance, unstable footing. You’ll navigate it using Lightness and Vaulting Step. With skill. Then without.”

  I wince internally. That one is deceptively brutal. There’s no enemy to blame, no pressure to hide behind. Just timing, balance, and judgment.

  “The second,” Hal says, “is endurance. Continuous waves of enemies for a fixed duration. This tests Lightness, Vaulting Step, and Reactive Guard together. You’ll be punished for inefficiency.”

  Kai’s jaw tightens. Mine does too.

  “The third is traversal. A mountain valley simulation. Narrow ledges, steep drop-offs, inconsistent surfaces. You’ll be required to move, fight, and maintain skill efficacy without compromising footing.”

  I picture it immediately, shallow shelves of stone, empty air beneath, no room for sloppy steps. Fear management disguised as terrain.

  “And the fourth,” Hal finishes, “combines all previous elements. You’ll also be expected to employ Iron Skin and Channeled Impact effectively.”

  He looks at us both now. “Mistakes compound in this one.”

  Jin folds his arms, watching our reactions closely. “You can complete all four in a single day,” he says. “But you won’t.”

  That’s not a challenge. It’s a statement.

  “We’ll split it into two,” he continues. “Performance matters more than speed.”

  I glance at Kai. He meets my eyes, steady and focused. There’s no panic there. No bravado either. Just readiness.

  This isn’t punishment.

  It’s calibration.

  They’re measuring where we are, not against others, but against ourselves. Against who we were before everything went wrong. Against the standard we set when our bodies were whole and our momentum uninterrupted.

  I feel a familiar tightening in my chest. Not fear. Anticipation sharpened by reality.

  Whatever we lost, this is how we find out what’s come back.

  And whatever hasn’t. We’ll adapt.

  Because that’s the lesson now. Not force. Not speed.

  Intent. Persistence. Flow.

  Tomorrow, the dungeons will tell us the truth.